Bad For You

seven

"So he gave you his number?"

"Yes."

"And you finally followed him on Instagram?"

"Uh huh."

"And he followed you back?"

"Yep."

"Then you accidentally liked a photo from one hundred and thirty eight weeks ago?"

"Unfortunately."

"But you haven't texted him?"

"No."

"Girl," Hannah sighs. "What is wrong with you?"

"I don't know," I groan. "You know I don't own a single pair of jeans."

Hannah looks at me strangely. "What?"

"It's true. I don't own any denim. None. Nada. Zilch."

"That has absolutely nothing to do with what we're talking about right now."

"Yes it does. It's sad. Like me."

"Oh my gosh," Hannah rolls her eyes. "He literally gave you his number and said, I quote, 'text me whenever.' That means he's interested."

"Maybe he was just being nice."

"No, or he would've given you something impersonal, like his Snapchat. Then again, he doesn't really strike me as the snap type. Oh, but I bet he has a tumblr. All the artsy hipster types do."

I pick up a grape, rolling it between my index and thumb before popping it into my mouth. Hannah eyes my lunch, which consists of cherry tomatoes, grapes, blueberries, hummus, pita, turkey and cheese roll ups, and dark chocolate chips.

"Your lunch is pitiful."

"Thanks."

Hannah shakes her head. "It's been four days since you hung out. Text him."

"Okay," I relent. "I'll text him."

"Tonight."

"Yeah, yeah."

"I'm serious."

"I will!"

"Good," Hannah smiles, satisfied. "Oh, and your jean problem is an easy to fix. There's this thrift store I go to and it has the cutest clothes. We'll find you some denim for sure. We can go tomorrow."

I vaguely wonder how my mother will react when I come home wearing jeans, then decide I don't care.

It's not that big of a deal.

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and we throw away our trash before packing up and heading off to class.

___

That night I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. After awhile I glance at the digital clock on my nightstand.

One AM.

I blow out a breath and look back up at the ceiling, closing my eyes. Time passes. When I open my eyes and check the time again, only thirty minutes have gone by.

What. The. Fuck.

"Damnit," I mutter. Sliding my phone out from underneath my pillow I unlock it, the bright screen illuminating my face and causing me to squint. Once I turn my brightness down I check my notifications. There's a text from Hannah sent three hours ago.