Spectrum: A Collection

I. If You Only Knew

The clock in their cramped classroom struck 11:20. There were ten minutes left before Humanities class starts, and as those minutes ticked away she made her decision: she would confess to him.

It was the result of school-is-ending paranoia. March arrived so quickly that she panicked over the great possibility of not seeing him so often as she does now. When they first became classmates during the first semester, that was coincidence. When they became classmates yet again for the second semester, she knew that it was not coincidence this time—it’s luck. And that luck is probably running out by now, because the odds of their being classmates again next school year was…well, it wasn’t in her favor.

11:30. Hypothetically their professor should be starting class already, but Ma’am always chooses to be late. He arrived, though, and took the seat next to her.

“Hey,” he greeted. How could she not like him, with his carefully messy hair and clichéd-but-otherwise-beautiful hazel eyes?

“Hey.”

“Ma’am isn’t here yet?”

“Nope.” And they made small talk, about what happened to them in their earlier classes and what exams they were having for the week and what food they want for lunch. Anything but.

She tried. “Listen—”

Then their professor arrived, as if on cue. Of course. She sighed in relief, but she was still nervous because of her pending task. For the next few minutes she can never sit still without fidgeting her pen or swaying her feet.

“Seriously,” he said as he took the pen she was tapping noisily. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry—”

“You don’t look okay. You’re sweating a little, and you actually look kind of pale.”

“That’s because you took my pen. I’m vulnerable without my pen.”

He looked partly weirded out and partly amused, but handed back her pen all the same. “Just don’t make that tapping noise again. It’s driving me crazy.”

You’re driving me crazy. “Okay.”

The one-and-a-half hour period was excruciating. Her eyes flitted from the beige walls, to the chalk writings their professor made on the blackboard, to her attentive classmates, to him. She was thinking of what to say, and every time she came up with something she would trash it and think of something more casual. She didn’t want him to think she was too serious. Things like that creep the hell out of guys. She didn’t realize, though, that the more she thought about it the more she made it of a big deal.

But what bothered her most isn’t what she was going to say; it was what he would say after. They’ve been good friends for almost a year, but still, she wanted more than that. If friendship was the foundation of love, then she was in good anchorage with him.

After several minutes of daydreaming, worrying and deep thinking, their Humanities class was over. She slowly packed her things up while everyone else noisily headed for the door. It didn’t matter; he always waited for her.

They were the last to leave the room, and they even let their professor out first. The narrow, dimly lighted corridor—the bat cave, as they call it—was slowly emptying.

This is it.

“Josh?”

“Yeah?”

This really is it. “Don’t freak out.”

“Uh.. should I?”

She breathed heavily and said it. It was actually longer than she planned, because she blubbered and missed the point twice. For her sake, please don't ask what she said here, word for word... the poor girl's been through enough. Let's just say she was blushing tomato red after her confession.

He looked at her stupidly and said, “So in short… you… like me?”

She wanted to dissolve. Apparently she wasn’t eloquent enough. “Uh, yeah. I like you a lot.”

“Kate…” He looked pained. “I’m sorry. But I’m taken.”

Can you hear her heart breaking? CRAAAAACK. “But you told me you don’t have a girlfriend!”

Now his face looked quite as red as hers. “I don’t,” he smiled, “but I do have a boyfriend.”