gusting

          I walk in and I see him, him.  That tall boy with a fair face and a voice like golden trumpets, but something seems different – taller, tanner, maybe a bit more mature…

          And with a new hair cut.  I liked your old one better, you had more hair.  But tanned skin makes you look more ripe,  like a late summer fruit so sweet and seasoned and ready to fall off that you can’t help but pick it.  How many growth spurts do guys have?  I thought you grew a lot already last summer; if only I could too.  It must be something you ate, I’m sure of it.

          I try to squeeze by to the seat behind you; your back is facing me.  You’re very close, but will you notice me?  Do you care?

 Oh, lunch is good today – pasta salad with extra onions.

          I know I’m just another girl, but I hope I might be special… or not.  Why did I just think that?  I gave myself chicken skin, or goose bumps.  I can’t believe I just thought that.  It’s almost as if I’m in a romance novel,  not that I’ve ever read one, but maybe this is what it’s like.  No, romance novels are very passionate and intense, with lots of dramatic irony, I’m sure, just to keep the ladies happy and squealing.  Which means I’ll never actually know if I’m ever in such a situation because the main characters aren’t supposed to know. That’s a predicament.  I like to fancy that I’m the author and the people around me are the players in the game.  Now that sounds egotistical, shame on myself! 

          I glance at the clock behind me – 11:45 –  and just happen to see over your shoulder;  you only have a small cafeteria burger and fries.  How can you survive on that and still be so tall, slim and –  ahem  –  well toned?  Do extra nutrients somehow appear in your bloodstream?  Incomprehensible.  Seriously, what do you eat and do at home?

          Actually, wouldn’t it be cool if I could read yours, and everyone else’s  mind and know exactly what’s happening in the world around me and move events in any way I fancy?  I’d be like Charles Xavier from X-men, the all-knowing ‘Professor X’.  Wait, then that means I could – if I had enough courage and desire to – read your mind and find out what you’re actually feeling.  That’s scary.  I could find all your secrets and hidden memories without you ever knowing…  What are  you thinking?  You’re very close to a magical creature in my world.  Even with mind reading, I don’t think I’ll ever understand.

          Despite all that, I would like to be a ‘mutant’ – maybe something like having eagle wings,  though it must be sad for Rogue who can’t touch anyone, not even the guy she likes.  Boo hoo, I would feel more sorry for her if only she didn’t act so pathetic and ‘damsel-in-distress-like’ all the time.

          I heard that the reason you don’t like someone is because they’re very similar to you, in your bad points.  But I don’t believe I’m a ‘damsel in distress’.  That’s too dramatic.  Maybe  the mysterious girl.

          You laugh at one of the countless stupid jokes boys make.  You gently brush past me and hit my shoulder.  “Sorry,” you say absentmindedly and continue with your friends.

          “That’s ok,” I say, but you’re not listening, you’re already laughing again and kicking up a fit of nonsense elsewhere.  It seems like the girls and guys I ‘know’ don’t really mingle.  I think media and the upbringing of this generation are to blame.  Teachers and t.v.  talk on and on about relationships and boys and girls and puberty.  Asian parents find it a little more awkward to touch on those things.  Why can’t we just be friends?  Why can’t we be together without any weird feelings?  Maybe I should move into the country, where kids don’t worry about dressing particularly fancy and putting on makeup.

          You start to spit out a swear storm.  Kind of loud, don’t you think?

          I don’t understand how I saw some charm in you just a few moments ago.  Isn’t the impulsive feeling a fog that covers rational reasoning?  I should wear that shirt that says: ‘I can think clearly now.  The boyfriend’s gone.’  Not that you’re anything close to a ‘boyfriend’.

          F-Bomb.

          Ugh.

…but he’s still a boy.  I move to sit farther away from the noise and ruckus, where I can – maybe – think in peace without getting distracted.  The boy sneaks a quick awkward side glace as I pass by.