My Journal

-His Plan B-

STORY 7

I shuffled out of class, briskly making my way down the hallway to my locker. Familiar faces are all around me, but my eyes unintentionally scan for that one person in the mess of students. When I finally spot him, I avert my eyes to anything else. There's absolutely no way I could ever give him that kind of credit, no way I could ever let him know of my unresolved feelings. Yards away, feet away. Don't look directly, don't stare. Phew. Made it past him.

"Morgan." Oh, great. Act like you don't care about this conversation enough so that he doesn't think you are some pathetic, desperate, ex-girlfriend. I sigh, and turn around. His eyes glued to mine, he calls me over. "That's fine. You can keep walking." He says, faking that he's offended. That wasn't my intention and he knows it.

"What–no-"

"Why don't you talk to me anymore?"

Not this question for the hundredth time this school year. "You have a girlfriend now...and I thought you don't really care anymore-"

"Who says I stopped caring?" That hit close to home. Memories of last year instantly flood my memory. We were so innocent, so immature. My heart quickens at the false hope that there's still something there, any spark at all. But just as quickly as the excitement came, he began to talk once more, "You know I still like you, right?" He's playing with me. Don't let it get to your head, this is all just a fling to him. Act unfazed. "...as a friend." He finished, flashing that award winning smile and turning on his heel, walking in the opposite direction like nothing even happened.

I stood paralyzed for a moment, long enough to be in some sort of daze. But as I recomposed myself, I walked confidently back to my own locker and retrieved the books I needed for my next tedious class. As the day dragged on I found myself constantly lost in thought. What if I was a year older? What if this was my first year at this school instead of last, would I be the now instead of just old news? What if...what if...what if? This question weighed me down until last period gym class, who I not only shared with my fellow classmates, but him also. After changing out and running to the field with one of my closest friends, I silently hope I end up being picked for his team in whatever game we're playing today. Dodgeball.

We all stand on the court line so our coach can divide us evenly. One boy there, and two girls here, until I finally hear my name called. I walk to his team, ready to win this thing. As the whistle blows I run up to the half court line, risking it all to try and catch something. But instead, he had other plans. Using me as a shield, he hides behind me and talks in my ear. His breath hot against my neck, he says, "I hope you get hit in the face." He smirked.

I give him an offended look, "You're mean." I state, a hint of playfulness strung in my voice. He shakes his head in response and runs off to retrieve a dodgeball that soared over our heads seconds earlier.

Maybe a minute later, he wound up being at my side once more. Focused on trying not to focus on his nearness, a dodgeball, ironically, hits directly at my face. I turned to him and said, "Well your wish came true." I mumbled under my breath. Then he's by my side, his back to the other team.

"Whoa, are you okay?" He asked, concerned but laughing at the same time.

I dismiss it and tell him I'm one hundred percent all right, and then I gasp. A dodgeball, flying across the court and nailing him in the side. He looks into my eyes and says, "I just got hit because I was making sure you were okay, you should be grateful."

As he was walking to the sidelines where the "out" people stood, I sung, smiling, "I do. Thank youuuuu."

Before we knew it class was over. Sweaty and hot, like a herd of animals, clustered together in a crowd-like chaos back to our lockers. The day was over. My eyes scanned the hallway before realizing how foolish I must look. I quickly put my needed books into my bag and turned to walk to the front of the school for pick-up. I don't look back.

"I give you my undivided attention."

"Who said I stopped caring?"

"...as a friend."

"Morgan!"

He has a girlfriend. For goodness sake, he probably has five. Ever since last year and now as this one seemed to have passed like a breath in the cold, I have been his side-quest. His when all else fails. His summer fling.

His Plan-B. And the saddest part is, I still care. And I will always be there. I wish feelings were easier to get over.

Behind the Short Story :

Feelings are something that never really go away. I wrote this in a particular style to make it sound as if it was taken from a teenage girl's diary. All the confusing emotions and the million thoughts that lord over us every single solitary day, all the unresolved feelings for that one person who just always seems to be there no matter what you try to do to get rid of them in your head. Especially as a teenage girl going through liking someone who isn't good for you.