Rigby

Chapter 3

Despite Jacob's placid face staring at me, my mind continued to meander through my lone night at Rigby, as though it were attempting to dissuade me from being hypnotized by the presence before me.

My head had been whirling at Jess' assertion that Joey was in love with me as I settled onto the couch while the boys played video games. I shifted through my memories of Matt and Joey. Matt and I had dated; Joey and I had always been strictly friends, barely that at first.

Matt and I met on the first day of pre-school. Having already been ditched by my parents at daycare for years, I wasn't experiencing the separation anxiety that attacked the other children around me. Instead, I was inspecting the toy selection, quickly ascertaining that the block's corner was the place to be. I was just about to build when I noticed one boy among the mass of crying, clinging children. Still, to this day, I don't know what it was about Matt Mackenzie that struck my interest, but as he stood desperately clasping his mother's leg and blinking back tears from his emerald eyes, I couldn't help but approach him. He was putting in a lot of effort to not turn into a blubbering mess like so many around him, and I respected it. I meandered over in that curious four-year-old way and introduced myself absurdly precociously. I took him by the hand and led him to the blocks where the well of tears eased amongst the conversations of skyscrapers and castles.

That green-eyed boy with shaggy brown hair grew into a tall, gangly teen as I grew into my father's worse nightmare; a blond-haired, blue-eyed, well-endowed teen. At family reunions, I'd endure endless questions about why I wasn't a cheerleader. I knew the assumption that I was a cheerleader wasn't because of my infectiously bubbly personality.

In most respects, I was the exact antithesis of what my appearance would dictate. I almost always wore jeans, t-shirts, and sneakers. I never understood the compulsion to leave my warm, comfortable bed any earlier than needed to slather make-up and fret over which pink blouse was least likely to make me look fat. As for hair styling, my expertise extended only to a ponytail. If there were any lingering questions about my cheerleader qualities, my unfailingly sarcastic mouth quickly swept them away.

It was junior high when things got confusing between Matt and me. Even with my brutal honesty, my looks made me popular with the boys and, therefore, popular with the girls that wanted to be noticed by the boys. Matt, on the other hand, was the definition of awkward. His personality had the distinct air of dork, which I found adorably charming, but others just saw him as a dork. He struggled to move from the dreaded friend zone with girls.

My blooming relationship with Bobby Mahon only made things worse for Matt. Bobby was two years older than me, equally sarcastic, and, best of all, played the drums in a crazy, erratic mix of funk and chaos. My time with Matt decreased, but I'd still try to see him at least once a week outside school. We always quickly fell back into our friendship. We could talk about anything as we ate endless Red Vines while keeping Coca-Cola in business. Week after week, we'd primarily discuss whether any girls liked Matt and how he could get more girls to like him. Unfortunately, his wasn't a name thrown out in the girl's locker room very often.

On the other hand, I'd discuss my budding interest in music, drugs, and booze. My first hit of pot and first beer were both in the safety of Matt's basement. The pot was love at first puff; the beer, we decided, was a gained taste we were determined to get.

I broke up with Bobby in the summer before our freshman year. It was a fight about music that caused our demise. I believe the exact problem was when he called Paul McCartney a has-been. That coupled with the fact that, after eighteen months, I found him boring, stupid, and generally off-putting. No one was more excited than Matt, but when we slipped into our daily routine, I noticed we were no longer a duo but a trio.