Biggie (17 page)

Chapter 31

Chipotle

Many of my online girlfriends have up and vanished. Over the past fourteen days, I have sent messages to the 121 girls in my black binder and only twenty-six responded. There are still some good ones in that bunch. Micheala from Chicago is missing a hand, yet she's hilarious. Two nights ago, we had a joke-telling contest that lasted over an hour. I didn't even look up any jokes up on the Internet, didn't have to. I've memorized dozens of the jokes I told Kyle.

Danica from Florida ran away from home and lives with nine other girls in a five-bedroom house. Okay, I know she's full of it, but who cares. We talked last night about one of the girls at her house being a lesbian and did a pros-cons list on whether Danica, a self-proclaimed bisexual, should make a move. That was fantastical.

While I'm getting my online groove back, seeing Annabelle and Killer or Kyle and Michelle flirt in the hallways makes me feel alone. I find myself texting with Courtney at least once a day, and the conversations always drift to Killer and Jenna.

For the most part, I'm Annabelle free. No more staring at her juggling textbooks at her locker or twirling her hair with a pen. I never check her Twitter page or look for her car at Molly's when I drive by. Even last Sunday when I heard she and Killer broke up, I resisted the urge to stop into Molly's and see her. Kyle's right. She'll never be my girl.

I tell myself to not ask about Jenna when Courtney messages me because I know it's really an Annabelle question. When I ask about Jenna and Killer going out, I'm really getting affirmation that he's left Annabelle. I need to be strong and erase Annabelle from my thoughts, especially when chatting with Courtney. She's wonderful and the only girl who doesn't call me Biggie. I don't know why she calls me Henry. Courtney hears the guys call me Biggie, and I have never told her the nickname bothers me, so I wouldn't blame her if she joined the crowd. But she hasn't. I guess she just knows, maybe because she used to be a bigger girl too.

Courtney has been a big help in the last couple of weeks. Since I quit the team, I've gone underground. No chatting at school. No jokes at the locker. No driving the guys around on weekends. Seeing Kyle or Killer or Jet makes me think about the Finch baseball bag in my closet. They keep telling me that Coach would take me back as long as I agree to certain punishments. Every sales pitch increases the guilt, thick as a mudslide that continues to surge below my skin. I carry my family's disappointment around inside me in the same way I carry around my beating heart or pumping lungs.

At school, I'm more and more hiding in the back. At home, I creep up the stairs and tightly shut my bedroom door. I can't look at Laser. He said he wouldn't push me and he hasn't, but I'm positive that Coach Phillips's alleged willingness to bring me back has 100 percent to do with Laser.

I know I let him down. Worse of all, Maddux doesn't even come up and play video games with me anymore. I let him down the most. I just couldn't perfect the “Wiffle ball.”

Today was the final day of school and everyone got out at noon to go to Des Moines for the second day of the Principal Park Kickoff Classic, and as I lie on my bed, the Yellow Jackets—including Kyle, Killer, and Jet—are preparing to play Council Bluffs High School in Friday night's semifinals. Last night, Killer tossed a gem. He allowed only one run over nine innings. Finch and Rapids South played thirteen innings, almost two full high-school games, before the Yellow Jackets' lone senior, Curt Aargo, hit a game-winning two-run double in the bottom of the thirteenth. Finch won 4–2. All last night, I kept picturing Annabelle cheering Killer on, probably in some new low-cut shirt that says, “I love Killer,” in big letters spread across her boobs. Hell, Jenna's probably there too.

I could have gone to the game with my family, but it would only remind me of my yearlong quest that ended in a complete failure.

By the time I get home from school, my house is, for a second straight night, empty. For most of my life, all alone was my favorite status. It's when I excelled. It's when I was at my best. Whether it was studying for a big test, chatting online, playing video games, or reading a book, I loved being alone. No one bothered me. No one made fun of me. No one got in my way.

My bedroom seems smaller than before. There used to be so much room to pace back and forth as I tried to create perfect responses. I could twirl my chair like a toddler's spinning top and my size fourteen feet wouldn't bump any furniture. After chatting all night with girls online, the early-morning stroll from bed to bathroom felt like a mile-long desert march. Now, it seems like a prison.

It's actually funny, but when I used to sit alone in my room, it was never quiet. There was the click of keys or the hiss of a fan. I trained my ears to hear female voices when girls typed messages. If anything, it was loud.

Now, it's quiet. Too quiet. I'm so alone … and hungry.

There's healthy food in the fridge, but now that I'm not playing baseball, turkey sandwiches on wheat bread sound like rubber inside two sheets of sandpaper. I could go to Molly's or the convenience store, but I feel like taking a drive. Maybe I'll try out that Mexican food place Courtney likes. A long drive with booming rock music sounds refreshing.

A couple weeks ago, I texted her about Chipotle and never got a response. Since then, we've texted back and forth a few times about various things, yet she's never brought up that first text message I sent. Nor have I for that matter. For someone who is so perfect at getting girls online to fall for him, I'm horrendous in person. I strike out when I don't swing, like with Annabelle, and I strike out when I do, like with Courtney.

I guess I can't say I struck out with Courtney; she just hasn't responded yet. For all I know she never saw the message. I mean she has a thousand followers on Twitter; maybe she gets hundreds of text messages every day.

I pick up my phone to text her again about getting burritos, but my fingers just linger away from the keyboard. They know that if I text her, and she says, “No,” I won't leave this bedroom. And I need to get the hell out of here before I start banging my head against the wall. I slip the phone in my pocket and pick up my keys.

Showing up at Courtney's house unannounced sounds like a great idea until I see her green Cavalier parked in the driveway. I decide to park a block away and role-play our eventual discussion. Forty-two minutes later, I'm still sitting in my truck and watching the clock tick toward 6 p.m. An hour is almost gone, and I must have given myself a hundred ineffective pep talks.

I start my truck and like an eighty-year-old Sunday driver, I coast up her street. Tapping the gas and sliding my fingers up and down the wheel, I pull behind the Cavalier.

I consider honking or calling or backing up and going home, but those ideas are annoying, weird, and cowardly. Good or bad, it's too quiet living life all alone. I'm seventeen years old; it's time for me to have a girlfriend.

The truck door creaks as I open it. Normally, I hop out like a gymnast finishing a dismount, but today, I slide down. I use the same formula to get out of my truck that I use to put on jeans: one leg at a time.

Once the rubber soles of my shoes settle on the walk, there is no going back. Surely, someone has peeked out a window or heard my truck turn off. Everyone in that house knows I'm here.

As I reach for the bell, the front door opens. Some kid, likely Courtney's eleven-year-old freckled brother, checks me out.

“You the cowboy?” he asks.

“Um, what?” I answer, wondering if my red Nike T-shirt and tan shorts make me look like a cowboy.

“Are you the cowboy that is taking my sister out tonight?”

I really, really wish I would have called now. As I drove into Waverly, I felt spontaneous and impulsive. I thought for sure Courtney would love my spur-of-the-moment action. Plus, I wanted to put my life in the hands of fate. If I drove over here and she wasn't home, maybe God doesn't want us together. Her car sitting in the driveway looks like a big, old billboard sign saying, “She loves you. Come ask her out.”

But now I'm stuck. I'm the guy who showed up unannounced while she was getting ready for her date with a cowboy.

“No, I'm not a cowboy,” I tell the shaggy-haired little boy.

“Henry.” Courtney appears from the side of the house.

“Henry,” the boy says. “That's a dumb name.”

“Hayden! Shut the door!” Courtney commands. “What are doing here?” she asks.

Head tilted slightly, Courtney stands near her green and very unreliable car wearing a black, baggy University of Iowa football shirt and tiny, tight white shorts, which cover about as much of her legs as her pale blue flip-flops cover her feet.

“I didn't know about the cowboy,” I admit.

As she starts to laugh, a gust of wind blows her dark bangs away from her brown eyes.

“I really thought I could talk you into getting some Chipotle,” I say as I watch her flip the hair out of her eyes. “I thought you would be impressed that I remembered you saying that you like their food.”

She flips the stubborn bangs away from her eyes again and then motions me off the stoop and down to the driveway.

“You do get bonus points for remembering that, but I also have to take some away because you didn't do your homework.”

“What?”

“There's no Chipotle here,” she informs me. “The closest one is in Iowa City.”

“You said you loved it.”

“I do,” she says. “My family goes to a lot of University of Iowa stuff. When we are there, we almost always go to Chipotle.”

“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “Do you really have a date? Your brother said you're going out with a cowboy.”

“Yeah, I do,” she says.

“Okay,” I say. “Well, lesson learned. I should've called. I'll go.”

“He won't be here for an hour,” she says. “Do you want to take a walk?”

I shrug my shoulders and look at the driver's door of my truck.

“Henry, do you want to talk to me or not?”

After walking in mostly silence for two blocks, Courtney detours into a park and plops down on a swing.

I follow and pick the swing next to her. While we are two blocks away, I can still see an image that I know is my truck. Feeling awkward, stupid, and out-of-place, I just want to climb into it and drive. I need to go somewhere other than here, other than home. It's too quiet there. Hell, maybe I'll drive to Iowa City and get a burrito.

“You know, Henry, it's really immature of you to be mad at me right now,” she says. “You didn't call or anything.”

“I'm not mad,” I say.

“You've said like three words.”

“You're not talking either,” I reply.

She flips herself off the swing and lands in a foot-made dirt hole. “If you're going to be a jerk, I'm going home.”

Her untucked T-shirt covers her butt as she walks away. My mind's blank, and although my mouth hangs open, nothing comes out. A long, deep breath, a few blinks, and then, “Don't go out with him!”

She flips around, now probably twenty to thirty feet from me.

“Just call him and say you can't go!” I keep talking.

“He'll be here in an hour,” she says. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

As she waits for an answer to a question I have no intention of answering, I shrug off the swing and jog up to the sidewalk. Our yelling has caught the attention of the rest of the park's population, and I don't feel like putting on another show with another pissed-off girl.

“Just because we talk every night doesn't make us boyfriend and girlfriend,” she says for only me to hear. “Henry, you have no idea how long ago I gave up on you,” she says. “It was months ago when I stopped wondering if you would ask me out or randomly show up at my door.”

“Why?”

“That night at Perkins, I really thought you were nice, so I invited you to my party,” she says. “You and your friends came, and then you just ignored me. Then, you start texting me, but it's just friends stuff, nothing serious.”

“I don't understand what you're saying,” I interject.

“I guess I'm saying you're not going to make me feel guilty for telling you no.”

As things go further downhill, my thoughts become scattered as I stare into her green eyes. All I want to do is to put my sweaty palms on her cheeks and pull her lips to mine. Hold her tight and just kiss her. Allow my hands to fall through her hair. With 90 percent of my brain fantasizing about the taste of her lips and cheek and neck, my responses shorten.

“I like you,” is all I can muster with the remaining 10 percent.

Her head falls as those three words paint a pinkish hue on her cheeks.

“More than Annabelle?” Her head rises for an answer.

“Annabelle? We're through,” I say, actually believing it too.

“Because she's dating Brian?” she asks.

“They broke up, and that's not even it. I was done before that. Brian was cheating on her and she didn't even care,” I say. “And because she doesn't like me. Whatever. But I'm done, Courtney. I promise if you go out with me tonight, I will be the best boyfriend. I will be so much better for you than this cowboy guy.”

“Henry, I have to be honest with you,” she says. “If you're asking me to pick, I will pick him. He's taking me horseback riding, and he's even bringing me a cowboy hat. And it's more than that. My date—he saw me at Dairy Queen a couple of weeks ago, and he walked past like four girls to talk to me. And in less than ten seconds, he asked me out. The way he looks at me I know he thinks I'm hot. When I look at you, all I can think about is how much you like what's-her-face.”

“I meant it. Annabelle and I are done.”

“Okay, maybe if things go poorly tonight, we can go out another night,” she offers. “I'm not going to forget about you. We're late-night texting buddies.”