The Summer Obsession

I’m a stereotypical teen, I’ll admit it. The moment I reached the sanctity of my spring green tinted room I found it absolutely necessary to slam the door, blast therapeutic words accompanied with catchy beats from the depths of my outdated speakers, and whip out the small, black, rectangular object that at times was my only connection to the outside world. If that wasn’t predictable enough for a sixteen year old girl to do, then perhaps the fact that I plopped down on my bed and sighed overdramatically into the fabric of my pastel pink pillowcase certainly should have taken the cake. Before I had the chance to slide my piece of shit phone open in preparation to text-rant to a few close friends it appeared that somebody else was about as bitchin’ and psychic as Charles Xavier, or at the very least they had perfect timing.

We’ll find another way to dance. We’ll find another way to dance. If you get the chance, you must dance, dance, dance—

It was almost distasteful how the sounds of Find a new way to dance by Young Love suddenly crashed in contrast with the soulful sounds of I miss you by Jamestown Story that had been blaring uncharacteristically loud in the background for a few minutes now.

“Shit,” I breathed, hastily taking action in order to silence the message tone. It’s not that I didn’t like the song, obviously, since I had set it as my text ringtone in the first place. However, I was totally sure that the combination of two loud, very different songs would ruin my days without headache streak.

‘Hey. (;’ At the deep, detailed message that was so powerful and moving I just about cried – note the sarcasm there – I couldn’t help but scoff.

‘Ohaii there, Granty-poo~.’ I retorted obnoxiously back. Normally to a generic greeting like the one I just received I wouldn’t have bothered to reply, and could you really blame me? Conversations that people start off in a boring manner are generally ones that will end the exact same way, generally. Yet, because this was Grant Abbot, I knew that anything boring, tedious, or drab would totally not be the case. Actually, Grants in general are pretty thrilling breed. I mean, have you seen Ghost Hunters? I fucking love that show.

We’ll find another way to dance. We’ll find another way to—

God, ringtones are really annoying when you think about it, and even a decent song when used as one can become torture to the eardrums. However, I really can’t bring myself to switch my phone to silent or vibrate. With silent you miss the text, with vibrate, well, .it makes me feel like some sort of lame hooker.

‘You know, you could probably come up with a pet-name that’s a little more unique than that. . .but, I still love you.’

Whereas the criticism over what I choose to call my supposed, brand new (or at least brand new by a few miniscule months, anyway) best friend seemed as if it sought to put a dent in my already deeply dinted and carelessly deflated ego, the words “I still love you,” when taken out of context and applied in a romantic sense made it incredibly worth the newfound emotional pain.

‘Aubrey, did you spontaneously combust or something?’ was the next message I received after roughly seven minutes of unlived fantasies and butterfly raves at the pit of my bloated stomach.

I suddenly looked like an idiot, or at least I felt like one. It would probably have only been common courtesy to reply to him before spiraling off into a mental land of desperation and school girl crushes.

‘Yes, Grant, since I’m secretly the Human Torch and all. And hey, even if it makes me a tad flaming, I love you, too. ♥’ Send.

If you couldn’t tell by the punny jokes and the not-so-subtle attempts at flirting with the poor boy, I’m in lovelike. I’m not ashamed to admit that either, well, at least not to myself. If anyone else knew though, rather than awing about my feelings for Grant, they’d probably be disappointed with the fact that I’m not more wrapped up in the fact that my sister just recently passed away for no apparent reason. Don’t get me wrong, I’m even more concerned with crying myself to sleep at night about that than I am about counting the colors in Grant’s eyes or eye-raping his soft pink lips. It’s just that even if he may think I act a bit salty towards him, he’s been the only one as of lately that actually knows I exist – that remembers my name.

‘Hey, folks. This is Grant Abbot with your local forecast. It seems as if today in Aubreytown there’s a chance of bitch with a constant cover of bitter sarcasm!’

Even if sometimes I wish that dick monger didn’t know it.

‘There’s a reason you don’t get laid, motherfuckuh. :)’

After sending my reply, complete with a smiley face for added bite, I exhaled slowly once more into my poor pillowcase. I’m sure I’ve sighed into it so many times that it knows exactly what I’ve had to eat every single day since the moment mom purchased it along with matching comforter and sheets. Yuck.

‘I’m sure Kimmy would fuck me if I forwarded that to her, she hates you.’

What Grant had to say was ultimately awful and disgusting, but it’s true. Kimberly Reagan was a slut. Oh, and she totally wanted to see some unsuspecting bus driver pull a Mean Girls on me and run me over. Yeah, she loathes my very existence that much, man.

‘I’m sure Kim would fuck the whole school if they sent that to her—oh, wait, she already has!’

I’m 100% sure that Grant could sense the malice behind my tone, even if my malevolent words were written, uh, typed rather than spoken.

Goddamn Kimberly Reagan.

‘You and I both know she’s too shallow and ugly to get sex. :p Speaking of which, your house – later?’

At Grant’s latest message I couldn’t help but burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and not just because he more or less insinuated that the Grant and Aubrey smushing was to be held later on in my humble abode.

It was true that Kim was about as attractive as I am, if not more, which isn’t really saying much, but regardless of that very fact. . .

Grant still couldn’t help but to like her.