How to Love Claire Mason

Everywhere

Just because I don't feel anymore doesn't mean the thought of him doesn't hurt me still. It's inevitable, completely unavoidable.

One day, he was absent from school. And for that one day, my hands didn't tremble in English, I never once tasted the slightest bit of bile in my throat, and my chest never tightened with the stinging pain of feeling like I was losing him all over again. For that one day, I had almost no stress. For that one day, nothing hurt.

Then the next day he was back and the trembling, the bile, the pain, all came back with him. He doesn't know what he does to me. Everything, even the simplest things, get to me. Everything says him, has him written all over it, everything whispers him; assaulting my ears and stabbing me in the chest, knocking the wind out of me. Remnants, memories, and things to remind me of him are everywhere.

The school is adorned with hundreds of baby blue butcher paper posters advertising in painted white letters written by preppy student council kids the "WINTER SNOW BALL-IT'LL BE SNOW MUCH FUN!" The signs taunt me from all sides; they're all around me, closing in.

.

All it means to me is: another dance he would have taken me to. Another dance I'll be left out of. Another lost oppurtunity to wear a pretty dress and curl my hair and glue fake eyelashes to my own stubby ones and feel like a princess that he would call beautiful. Another chance at a sweet goodnight kiss taken away from me.

I thought high school was for the boys, the dances, the gossip about those dances, and so called "study" sessions with the cute guy you call your "crush" but everyone knows you'll be dating the following week anyway. Not for tears, screaming matches, and being the only girl without a date to any dance. I guess the joke's on me. I shouldn't have assumed.

On Thanksgiving my Uncle Derek brought out his old acoustic Fender, as he always does, and began to strum as we all say around the fireplace. He's got a new song to play for us every year. It's a wonder his memory works well enough to never let him repeat a song. Not that he's that old really, but still, he never fails to mix it up. I love music a lot, especially the sweet coffee shop acoustic kind of songs, though I'll never admit to it. I could see my Uncle in a coffee shop, strumming away on a stool and crooning some cheesy little love song. He's got the right look for it: tall and thin with a tasteful stubble beard and deep brown eyes. He's got a good taste in music too, which makes him automatically my favorite person to be around during the holidays. We even share albums sometimes.

This year, like any year, I tried to make an educated guess about his song choice. I was really hoping for "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind. We all sat around, waiting for the big moment of truth. He likes to make a big show of revealing the song; taking comically big breaths while strumming to warm up. He hyperextended his arm before getting into the song, getting really showy with it. I waited for those first few precious notes to try to guess the song, crossing my fingers for "Jumper". But the notes did not fit. Still, they were all too, sickeningly familiar. It was his favorite song. The one we both had in our heads the day we met. The last one we listened to while sharing earbuds for the last time.

My uncle grinned, a wide pearly white grin, knowing I knew the song. But by the time he opened his mouth to announce with glee the name of the band, I was deaf. Everything became white noise as my stomach tightened and twisted and the world began to turn. The fire blurred before my eyes and I got up abruptly. I drifted over the smooth hardwood flooring as if in a trance, and locked myself in my grandparent's pristine guest bathroom. The lights were brighter than I remembered, everything was so bright. My head was spinning. I needed to vomit.

Somehow, I managed to open the lid with shaking fingers and empty my meager Thanksgivng dinner into the toilet my grandmother must have spent an agonizing half hour scrubbing like she always does for company. I prayed no one would hear my retching, not wanting to to sicken anyone else with the unpleasant sound.

Luckily, my family knows me well enough that they left me alone. I stayed there, on the cold tile floor, until it was time to go home.

In math class one day, the boy that is dating the pretty, tiny, athletic blond that sits next to me strolled into the classroom in the middle of a lecture. I have it seventh period, so he must have just gotten out of sixth and was done for the day. The teacher, instead of objecting his presence, smiled a knowing smile I didn't know her tired, creased, cranky looking face was capable of.

"Make it quick Justin," she warned, but there was no hostility in her tone.

The boy swiftly crossed the room to the girl's seat, kissed her cheek and dropped a pack of cards onto her desk. I looked on in awe, and envy. The girl didn't so much as smile slightly as she picked up the deck and read the box. "Thanks," she said curtly, then the boy grinned at the teacher before walking out as quickly as he'd come.

Curious, I craned my neck as inconspicuously as possible to see what was written on the pack of cards.

In neat, precise handwriting uncharacteristic of a dude, it read "52 Things I Love About You".

My first thought was of how ungrateful the girl had seemed. I would drop dead if someone gave me anything remotely as sweet and romantic as that. I've never been with the cutesy romantic type that did everything to make me feel special. I guess I don't deserve that kind of love. But, if I had it, I'd sure as hell say more than thanks. I'd be ecstatic if someone loved one fucking thing about me.

My second thought was to wonder why he had given it to her. It certainly wasn't there anniversary; I knew that for a fact. I had witnessed the guy ask her out with a chocolate dipped fruit bouquet a few days before, the minute before math started. It seems that their whole love story was going to play out before me. They're a constant reminder of what keeps slipping through my fingers, of how I can't keep anyone, or rather how no one can stand to keep me.

He would have never done anything like that. Still, the sting of jealousy I felt put him, yet again, into my thoughts. What could have been? I mused over this for the rest of the period, then began to write.

He finds his way into everything. I can't escape him. I can only hope my reactions to each episode will be low-key. I don't think I can stand to repeat the Thanksgiving scene each time the songs come on the radio. Most days, I don't even have enough food in me to vomit.