Drumbeats into My Heart

43. Seth's Discovery

I wait at my laptop, clicking around and stupidly trying to figure out how to say "I think you're pretty" in Klingon. I think it might be a futile effort, though. Do Klingons compliment people that way? Do they even have a word for pretty?

So many pointless thoughts. I'm too wired to sleep because I really want to know what she thinks of the song I just dedicated to her. It says so much about how I feel. Is she going to respond with another smiley face? I'll be crushed if she does.

Ding. New email message!

With eager fingers I open it, hungry eyes devouring.

I lvd it. Tnak yo.

Is that it? I rub my eyes and read it again. Tnak yo? Thank you?

I frown. No wonder she was so hesitant to give out her email address. Are these typos? Is she just a bad typist?

I scratch my head in thought. Maybe she was in a rush. But wouldn't she correct the typos after proofreading? Okay, maybe not everyone manically proofreads their emails like I do, but still. It's just five words. This is pretty bad.

I'm making too big a deal of this. This is what I do. I obsess over dumb little things until they are no longer little things in my mind. I need to stop.

I close the email and shut off my laptop.

Everything is fine. She said she loved it and thanked me for it. Sort of.

Tnak yo.

Why can't I let this go? Am I that desperate for compliments that I was hoping for an email full of gushing about how great my dedication was? Could that be what I'm disappointed with? That I got five misspelled words instead of an eloquent love letter?

Get a grip, Seth. She's not an overeager super-nerd like you.

I push away from my desk and try to shake off the weird feelings.

I need to get some sleep. My brain is probably being reactive or overtired or something. Yeah. Sleep is a good idea.

In the morning, I avoid looking at Jordi's email again. I don't want to set off another chain of crazy thoughts about what it all means. She said she loved it, and that's good enough for me.

I get to the tutoring center where I have an early appointment. It's a boy named Tim, and it's his first time there. He's struggling in his English Lit class, and he wants help figuring out his essay.

He pulls out his orange notebook, which I notice has numerous pages unevenly ripped out, like maybe out of frustration. He turns to a page covered in handwriting as well as several scratched-out words and sentences.

"I don't know if this makes any sense," he says, sliding his notebook over to me. "I mean, I understand the assignment, and I know what I want to say, but I don't if I'm actually saying it."

"All right, let's see what we've got." I start reading the page. I get about partway through the first paragraph and start again. There are so many spelling errors it's distracting.

"It's a mess, isn't it?" Tim exhales and props his chin forlornly onto one hand. "Mrs. Martinez says I just need to slow down, and maybe make a diagram first of what I want to say."

I pause in my reading. "Mrs. Martinez?" The name sounds familiar.

"Yeah, I'm in special ed. Go ahead and laugh. Everyone else does."

I frown at him, displeased by the idea of anyone laughing at someone who is struggling. "Who laughs at you?"

His gloomy face clears a little as he lifts his head off his hand. "Well, uh, no one specifically."