We Could Be Dreamers

6

Time slips by a bit too quickly for my liking. 

The annoying thing about working on a school project with the girl I like is that we don't really have a reason to talk about anything other than the school project. The hours just kind of fold into one another, a sticky molasses blur of Virginia Woolf and gossip neither of us really care about and midterms stress. 

Brooke's room is irritatingly quiet as the three of us read over the essay. Brooke printed out copies so we'd have something to highlight, and now there's a mess of papers all over the place. And while Brooke and Jason seem perfectly happy tangled together, my butt's half off the mattress and kind of starting to hurt. 

I really wish I could think of something to say to her. Sam's always been good at finding ways to start conversations. She notices the little things about people—a unique phone case or a pretty piece of jewelry or a graphic T-shirt—and finds some way of turning it into a whole conversation. I'm not like Sam, though. 

So I just let the time pass me by. 

Until Jason's phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and swears under his breath, glancing at Brooke first, and then me. 

"I gotta go," he says apologetically. "Soccer practice. Sorry." 

Brooke pulls away from Jason and hugs her knees to her chest. "No problem," she replies, smiling at me. "I think we've got this from here." 

And I swear to god I just melt. 

Jason makes his way out of Brooke's room, and then it's just the two of us. 

Alone. 

In her room. 

On her bed.

Which is something that I am absolutely, acutely aware of. 

But I do my best to shove the thoughts aside, because I'm here for a school project and because Brooke barely knows me and because I don't want to be a creep. I'm sure Brooke's plenty used to gross, annoying guys by now. I'd really rather not be associated with them. 

Brooke trails her pencil absently along the corner of her page. She's pretty obviously bored. She's humming something under her breath—Sweater Weather, I think, but I'm not quite sure. 

"So. Um." 

I make the split-second decision to say something. Try and break up some of this weird awkward tension. Only now that I've started talking, I realize that I have no clue what I want to say. And now Brooke's looking up at me, a small grin tugging at her lips and a twinkle in her eye. 

"Do you... like English?" 

I hate myself I hate myself I hate myself I hate myself—

"Uh..." Brooke shrugs indifferently. "It's okay, I guess. Like I said before, I'm not great at it. What about you?"

And goddamnit, god fucking damnit, Jason's in my head now. With his stupid irritating hotness and his irresistible smile and Brooke's probably madly in love with him by now and this is all pointless anyways. 

"It's okay," I echo, staring down at my copy of the essay and avoiding Brooke's gaze. 

"Cool." She goes back to writing notes in the margins of the page. 

And we don't really say much for the rest of the day.