Locker 312
locker 312
In the beginning, it was okay; sometimes it was even better than okay. We would scrawl little love notes to each other, folded up in that special way with the telltale "FYEO" across the top. I used to pick on you because you couldn't spell, remember? But you never cared. And when you hugged me, you spelled warm and spicy in a way I didn't know boys could smell. All of our friends were happy -- especially mine, because I finally had a boyfriend. Their "dream" for my happiness had at least been fulfilled. Funny, isn't it?
Things quickly either grew old or worse, I'm not sure -- it just wasn't the same anymore. Your touch annoyed me; my nagging became worse even though your spelling improved; my friends only wanted to hear stories about us and never about me. I used to put the notes you wrote me in a tin container on top of my stereo, which played our "first song" and all the songs that made me think of you. But one day I stopped playing the songs and started putting the notes in the trash.
How was I supposed to tell you how I felt? I didn't know how to say any of the things I was feeling. After all, I did tell you I was never much of the touchy-feely or lovey-dovey type of person. Instead I started screening your calls and writing notes less frequently. I even stopped logging into AIM. I began to isolate myself from you the way I used to, back when I was that geek who cared more about the people in the books I read than the person who sat next to me in class. You were some kind of hero, you know? You rescued me from the depths of loser lake. I bet you never thought of that.
One day -- a Friday, actually -- you led me to locker 312. That stupid number is burned into my brain. I remember you said I'm sorry but this--waving your hand as if that's an example of what two people have together--just isn't going to work. I swallowed hard, a lump in my throat suddenly. An okay escaped my lips which felt dry and as cracked as the desert. It was as if someone just punched me in the gut. Where had that come from? It wasn't fair. I was supposed to break up with you. I was the one who threw the notes away and ignored your phone calls! It wasn't supposed to happen that way. No, I was going to walk up to you, all confident and self-assured, and announce I wanted to break up with you. I was going to flip my hair over my shoulder like they do in the movies and do it in front of everybody so they could see that even without you I wasn't a total loser.
But I didn't.
I was miserable afterwards. Was it just the act of being dumped, or was it possible I felt differently than I originally thought? Had I really wanted to break up? I felt so stupid, but even more when a couple of days later I found out you already had a new girlfriend. And she was pretty. Aww fuck it, that's an understandably. She was very, very pretty -- so much prettier than me. My friends were so sympathetic towards me, eager to bash and bad-mouth you and your new girlfriend every chance they got. If they passed you in the hallway they giggled and talk about how ugly the two of you were. If they sat behind you in class, they passed notes about how you were clearly too stupid for a smart girl like me. Even people I hardly knew, or sometimes people I didn't know at all, looked at me differently; they'd see me and smile their head tilted pity smiles. I wanted to punch them.
Well, it doesn't matter anyway, because now I have a new boyfriend. He's alright, I guess, but I wouldn't ever tell you that. He wears Adidas cologne and has calloused fingers from playing the guitar; his spelling is flawless and he burns me CDs that make me think of only him and his dark hair and cold fingers on my cheeks and lips.
Sometimes though, I hear the song we danced to that one time and I stop to think of your simple brown eyes I hear your girlfriend adores. I idealize your soft smile and big, hearty laugh. For a moment, I even miss you. But then I remember that once upon a time you couldn't spell 'surrounded' and when I found out that her locker is number 312, that you were waiting for her that Friday, all I can think is fuck you.
Things quickly either grew old or worse, I'm not sure -- it just wasn't the same anymore. Your touch annoyed me; my nagging became worse even though your spelling improved; my friends only wanted to hear stories about us and never about me. I used to put the notes you wrote me in a tin container on top of my stereo, which played our "first song" and all the songs that made me think of you. But one day I stopped playing the songs and started putting the notes in the trash.
How was I supposed to tell you how I felt? I didn't know how to say any of the things I was feeling. After all, I did tell you I was never much of the touchy-feely or lovey-dovey type of person. Instead I started screening your calls and writing notes less frequently. I even stopped logging into AIM. I began to isolate myself from you the way I used to, back when I was that geek who cared more about the people in the books I read than the person who sat next to me in class. You were some kind of hero, you know? You rescued me from the depths of loser lake. I bet you never thought of that.
One day -- a Friday, actually -- you led me to locker 312. That stupid number is burned into my brain. I remember you said I'm sorry but this--waving your hand as if that's an example of what two people have together--just isn't going to work. I swallowed hard, a lump in my throat suddenly. An okay escaped my lips which felt dry and as cracked as the desert. It was as if someone just punched me in the gut. Where had that come from? It wasn't fair. I was supposed to break up with you. I was the one who threw the notes away and ignored your phone calls! It wasn't supposed to happen that way. No, I was going to walk up to you, all confident and self-assured, and announce I wanted to break up with you. I was going to flip my hair over my shoulder like they do in the movies and do it in front of everybody so they could see that even without you I wasn't a total loser.
But I didn't.
I was miserable afterwards. Was it just the act of being dumped, or was it possible I felt differently than I originally thought? Had I really wanted to break up? I felt so stupid, but even more when a couple of days later I found out you already had a new girlfriend. And she was pretty. Aww fuck it, that's an understandably. She was very, very pretty -- so much prettier than me. My friends were so sympathetic towards me, eager to bash and bad-mouth you and your new girlfriend every chance they got. If they passed you in the hallway they giggled and talk about how ugly the two of you were. If they sat behind you in class, they passed notes about how you were clearly too stupid for a smart girl like me. Even people I hardly knew, or sometimes people I didn't know at all, looked at me differently; they'd see me and smile their head tilted pity smiles. I wanted to punch them.
Well, it doesn't matter anyway, because now I have a new boyfriend. He's alright, I guess, but I wouldn't ever tell you that. He wears Adidas cologne and has calloused fingers from playing the guitar; his spelling is flawless and he burns me CDs that make me think of only him and his dark hair and cold fingers on my cheeks and lips.
Sometimes though, I hear the song we danced to that one time and I stop to think of your simple brown eyes I hear your girlfriend adores. I idealize your soft smile and big, hearty laugh. For a moment, I even miss you. But then I remember that once upon a time you couldn't spell 'surrounded' and when I found out that her locker is number 312, that you were waiting for her that Friday, all I can think is fuck you.
♠ ♠ ♠
just something.