three in the morning « jack gilinsky

2. everybody has a type.

DIANA

Pulling the petals off of Daisy's while the Omaha sun basked down on Bianca and myself, I let out a sigh, my eyes scanning across the black tarmac court, a faint smile on my face at the sight of Elijah bouncing a basket ball in his hands while talking to one of the seniors about god knows what. I couldn't help but feel my heart skip a beat as he waved in my direction before turning his attention back to the conversation he was investing his attention in, the sharp pain that shot up my side at the touch of Bianca nudging her elbow into me to gain my interest.

“You've been ignoring me for the past five minutes.” she blinked at me, a frown on her face; “I asked you has he been calling you lately?” she lowered her voice as several girls from our gym class skipped past us, knowing if they even heard his name being muttered they would stop and slide themselves into our conversation.

I am yet to understand the fascination with Jack Gilinsky. Aside from the way his hair falls when he hasn't bothered styling it, and how when he laughs the dimples a mere inch away from his plump lips seem to become deeper, the way he can pull off the simplest of looks – you know, sweatpants, plain shirt, a zip up hooded jacket and a beanie with such ease there is nothing all that...oh my goodness about him.

Except maybe his eyebrows.

He has the most beautiful eyebrows I have ever laid my own eyes upon. And he knows for sure that his eyebrows are what captivates everybody. But other than that, he strikes me as the average eighteen year old boy who thinks he is rebelling against the man, the sort of guy who could probably be ridiculously clever if he didn't start smoking weed when he was fifteen which has now left him barely even book smart.

He doesn't stand out from the crowd, at least not to me anyway.

Yet sometimes I think that is his plan in life, to be just like the rest of his peers, to dumb himself down for the acceptance of others, to restrict his opportunities in life because being smart isn't as accepted in this generation as being an idiot who skips class and smokes weed is. He isn't an idiot though, sometimes when he calls me he is actually verging on clever. He confuses me, I don't know why the entire tenth grade adores the ground he walks on and treat him as if he is some sort of fallen angel from heaven.

“Hm.” I nodded, the sun almost blinding me as I looked up; “He always calls me, I thought we have been over this.” I shrugged, knowing that the only other person who doesn't understand Jack Gilinsky as much as I don't understand him is my best friend, Bianca Butera.

But that might have something to do with the fact last summer in Red Reef park she accidentally dripped ice cream on his black shirt that was on the grass gathering dust as he pranced around the field topless playing soccer with his friends, and when he found out that his shirt was apparently ruined for the rest of eternity, he purposely aimed the football at her face , kicking it with so much force that as it hit her, she knocked backwards, and ended up in hospital at 9PM with a broken nose.

He rung me that night, apologizing to me because he almost got me, and I have never told Bianca about it, because she was the one who should have been told sorry not me.

“But why do you still answer his calls?” she groaned, playing with the ends of her hair, furling her eyebrows as she laid back on the grass, tanning her pale legs during our Lunch break.

Biting the inside of my lips, I mumbled; “I don't know.” my eyes staring up at the blue sky above me; “He's not as bad as you think.” I don't know why I defend him, it's like a cycle with Bianca and I.

“He broke my nose.” she reminded me of something that I will never be able to forget, even if I tried.

“Yeah but, he can't break my nose through the phone so I guess I don't have to worry about that happening to me.” I remarked, still removing the petals of numerous flowers around me.