‘I need to talk to you.’ She punched the letters into her cell phone. Send. The message was whipped away; she could never take her words back. She wondered if she did the right thing. Would she really be able to talk to him so soon? Could she trust herself to do that? Could she trust herself to talk calmly, to not scream at him until all the air was gone from her lungs?

Almost immediately, the phone vibrateed, the buzzing sounding unusually loud in the quiet of her bedroom; she was used to texting during Spanish class, when the little silver phone seemed so quiet amidst the chatter of other students. Now, the sound served only to heighten her emotions. She fliped it open. ‘Okay. Meet me at the school?’

She flopped over onto her back and the covers of her bed twisted around her knees. It was almost eleven o’clock at night and there was no way her parents would let her go out to meet him. ‘I can’t leave the house this late. But I can sit on my front porch…’ her thumbs tapped out the words.

It was almost ten minutes later when finally she got a reply. ‘Be there in a few minutes. Which house is yours again?’ She sighed loudly in exasperation. Just one more thing to add to the mental list she had started to compose – things he does that bugged her. He lived just down the street and had been to her house three times before. By this point, he should know where she lived.

‘Fifth house on the right after Pitkin Street,’ she replied, and then slid out of bed. In the darkness she yanked open her dresser drawer and pawed around until she unearthed her favorite black panties. Her pajamas were extremely short boxer shorts – not indecent to wear just in her house, when it was just her family, but short enough she didn’t want to be sitting outside with him without anything underneath.

For a moment she thought about grabbing a bra as well, but she figured it’s dark enough outside and the old tee shirt she had on – one her brother had long outgrown, but it was so soft she stole it for herself – was thick enough you couldn’t see through it. And then there was the little thought that if he saw her breasts showing through he would regret saying what he said earlier. He was a guy, after all.

She felt bad about using her body this way, but she was quickly running out of ideas on how to keep him interested in her… and she knew she had nice figure.

When she got outside, the darkness pressed in on her and the only light was a soft glow emanating from a streetlamp a few houses down. She regretted her choice. She should have grabbed a sweatshirt on her way out.

She spun her cell phone idly in her hands. She knew exactly what she needed to say to him. She would ask him why he told her that he didn’t like her anymore, demand to know what was so wrong with her that he didn’t want her, apologize for getting so many people involved, making their “breakup” so much more complicated. She would scream at him if she needed to. She had done it before, just earlier that night; after he sent her the awful text message saying he ‘lost interest.’ And she could do it again.

She really wanted to hit him. Slap him, maybe. It was childish, she knew, but she wanted to make him hurt as badly as he hurt her. She wanted to take her anger out somewhere, to feel that cold contact of her fist with his face. But she knew she’ll never bring herself to do it. She didn’t have the courage or the bravery to do anything like that.

The cell phone slipped out of her hands and fell into the grass, making a soft plopping noise. She scooped it back up and kept flipping it over and over in her hands. Why wasn’t he there yet? Did he decide that she wasn’t worth it after all; he shouldn’t even bother? She was getting colder by the minute. And she realized you could definitely see through the shirt.

She told herself she’d wait three more seconds for him. Three more before she’d sneak back inside and sprint – quietly, though, she didn’t want to wake her parents – up the stairs to retrieve her sweatshirt.

One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand…

She took one more glance down the street, but still didnt see a thing, especially not the neon orange shirt that she was watching for, the one he was wearing earlier that day, the one she assumed he’ll still have on.

Setting her cell phone down next to a flower pot, she tiptoed back inside. Her gray sweater was the thickest and the most comfortable. Plus it was the one proclaiming that their marching band got sixth place at State that year – maybe it would make him remember how much time they’d have to spend together that summer. Remind him that blowing her off was not a good idea.

While she stared at her face in the full-length mirror next to her sweatshirt hooks, a moment of panic set in. She didn’t have a speck of makeup on. She hurriedly smoothed out her eyebrows and wiped under her eyes in hopes of removing any remaining shadows of eyeliner before another thought occured to her. What if he was out there right now? What if he thought she chickened out and didn’t wait for her? What if…?

She raced back downstairs, the sweatshirt trailing behind her. She barely stuffed her arms in when she arrived back out on the porch.

He was still not there.

Pausing for a minute to finish reaching her hands through the sweatshirt, she almost threw the neck over her head but then changed her mind. Keeping the hood down in front of her could keep her knees warm; plus, if she pulled the thing over her head it had a great possibility of wrecking her hair. And with no makeup on, she would do anything to try to remain at least semi-cute. Even though it was obvious from his texts it was over, she still grasped onto the hope, however desperate, that if she looked beautiful, he’d take her back.

She sat back down and was about to pick up her cell phone – it was something to toy with, something for her hands to do so she wouldn’t bite her nails in nervousness – when she saw the faint outline of her mother’s bright magenta petunias.

She plucked one off of its stem and twirled it around in her fingers. The flower was a much prettier thing to whirl about than the phone. She hoped that he would notice when he came. She kept circling it about in between her fingers, not caring that the sticky juice was running out of it and staining her hands.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him. A moment of relief caught her breath. He pulled through. He came.

But not on his bike, the one they used to joke together about being attached to him because he rode it so often. She didn’t see the reflectors on the wheels spinning and catching the moonlight like she expected. For a moment she was surprised, but then plain fear took over. Everything she thought of to say before was gone in an instant, the instant she saw his smile. She loved that smile so much and hated to admit that every time he flashed a grin it still made her melt.

She kept spinning the flower, but it wasn’t a conscious thought anymore. So nervous she could just liquefy right then and there on her front steps, she couldn’t help but almost crush that poor bloom to death. She sneaked another glance up at him. He was just at the bottom of the path.

“Hi,” he whispered.

XXXXX

Everything you just read is true. This is the true story of everything - well, not everything, as it would be really cluttered that way, and anyways I don't remember it all - I was thinking on the night that a guy I liked and I sort of "broke up." We weren't really going out, you see. Anyways, it's meant to be raw thoughts, which is why it sort of jumps all over the place.

Well, please review! I know this is a little different from my usual stuff, so I'd love to know what people think!