"You're… breaking up with me?"
I couldn't even believe those words came out of my mouth. If I had a single brain cell functioning properly, it would have said "Um, yes you idiot. That's usually what he means when he says I don't think this is working out." Alas, I had gone into panic mode. And apparently, that meant my brain went into shut down mode.
I admit, I might have had a vision of throwing a fork into his forehead. (Don't even try to judge me right now, because you know you would have wanted to do the same.) But there was that whole 'brain not functioning' thing going on, so launching utensils was a little out of the question.
Hyperventilating. Oh my gosh. I'm hyperventilating.
My heart rolled over in my chest like a floundering bowling ball and I couldn't feel my fingers and all I could hear was some old lady who had had one too many cackling in the background.
Good gumdrops. I'm about to have a panic attack.
"Are you alright?"
I could see him. John was there. He was speaking but the words didn't register. (Again, if I could find that one hopeful brain cell, it would take control and yell something like "No you idiot. You're dumping me in the middle of a beach side restaurant on our six month anniversary.") He was blurring. Turning into some weird cartoony blob that spun like a psychedelic nightmare.
Maybe that was the lack of oxygen…
Probably. Because right about then I passed out.
And I know, you're thinking 'What a drama queen. People get dumped all the time. It's nothing to pass out over.' True. Very true. But, I have to defend some kind of illusion of dignity, so let me give you a little back story...
Once upon a time, there was a very unfortunate ninth grader (if you haven't figured it out, said ninth grader is me, Tatum Catmint) with frizzy blond curls and a painfully calamitous wardrobe of pull-overs, holey jeans, and wire rimmed coke-bottle glasses. It would seem said ninth grader was hopeless—completely in the dark, with no one to guide her to a more stylish future (seeing as her closest friends—well, friend—were equally as misguided).
It would seem that way.
Until this little ninth grader's much more sophisticated, socially gifted older sister came home from the far away land of the University of Texas to teach her the mysterious ways of the popular.
"Tatum," the elder sister began, pulling up a bucket from her well of wisdom. "You're a tragedy."
She put the tragic ninth grader in front of a magical device known as The Mirror, and the younger sister had an epiphany.
The elder guided her as she transformed her cursed closet, found a product to turn her straw frizziness into gold ringlets, and granted her the magical objects known as contacts. The elder even conjured up the patience and determination to train her in the ultimate popular art: Cheerleading. And the younger sister dauntlessly rescued her childhood best friend, who accepted (though perhaps not as eagerly) the knowledge that would lead them out of obscurity.
Okay, so now that you have the epically long back story, you're probably like 'What the heck did that have to do with anything?' Don't worry. I'm getting there; let me have my rant.
The un-tragedy portion happened very quickly—I stopped being a hot mess and made the cheer team and suddenly people didn't look through me anymore. They had a vague, semi-positive feeling about me. But I was still just Tatum Catmint for the majority of my sophomore year.
That is, until I caught the attention of a certain baseball player, just before summer: John Hastings—teenage heartthrob, envy of every girl at Pacific North High School. I happened to be his assigned partner for the last chemistry lab of the year. It was like fate. Like the universe was trying to speak to me, and it was saying "Tatum! This is an opportunity you moron! Don't screw it up!"
See, like every other girl at school, I harbored a crush on John Hastings. On top of that, in spite of my new found popularity, I didn't interact with the male population very much. So when he noticed my existence, my crush exploded into an infatuation. What can I say? I was smitten. Smitten.
He kissed me on a study date and bam. Together. It was like going from a middle-class peasant to a queen. People I didn't even know would stop me to gush about how adorable we were as a couple. My cheer friends couldn't stop telling me how fabulous a pair we made.
Harlie (my converted childhood bestie) hated him.
But that was only because she thought he was an obnoxious, conceited jock. And I mean, I guess he kind of was. But she didn't know him like I did. When it was just me and him, he was amazing. The perfect gentleman—pretty much the closest thing you could get to Prince Charming in this reality. I'm talking paying for dinner, opening doors, the whole shebang. That's right. I said shebang.
It didn't hurt that he had those warm chocolaty brown eyes that sparkled when he laughed; and that smile that could melt a glacier.
However, that was not the smile I awoke to when I regained consciousness.
His chiseled face was inches from mine, slowly coming into focus with this cute little concerned furrow in his brow.
"John," I said, not even attempting to sit up. "I had the most awful dream that you were dumping me in the middle of a restaurant. I must be dehydrated or—"
I glanced around him. A circle of waiters with black vests and bow ties loomed over me, fanning me (like that would honestly do anything). They shared relieved sighs as I regained consciousness. I was lying on a cold wood floor with a cream colored table cloth tangled around the teal suede prostitute heels I thought would be just so alluring for tonight.
It wasn't a dream. That really just happened.
An EMT burst through the double doors wielding an oxygen mask and matching tank. Apparently, some concerned spectator took it upon themselves to call for a medic.
Why couldn't I have just stayed unconscious?
A/N: So... this is my first story with fictionpress. I'm a little bit nervous, so please be kind.