A Social Experiment

I. The Biggest "Oops"

If there is anything I hate more than English class, it was projects. Now, the average person would argue that "group projects are the literal hell of our Earth," but I beg to differ. I should confess that I am the stereotypical, good-for-nothing, lazy quarter of a group project who does absolutely nothing. I have no shame on that fact, but it cuts deep when a project goes solo.
As a senior in high school, you'd expect that I would learn some form of responsibility, right? Wrong! If an essay is due in two millenniums, you'd bet my ass I'm doing it the night before. That's my nature, I can't really change that.

That's probably why my worst subject is English. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm great at the math stuff and the sciences and what-not, but English is my mortal enemy. Maybe it's the lack of effort to ever read. Maybe it's my inability to show any interest in the most random symbols in literature. I don't know. I don't care. It's all just words to me. I couldn't care less what the green light or the hunting cap or the burning book symbolized. I don't care if the writer chose to write in a stream of consciousness or in romantic verses - words! I hate it. I despise it.

Call me a typical, lazy teen. I can take it. It's not like English is going to help me find some job or some strong man to whisk me away to paradise (not that I needed one, but you get the idea). I could become an accountant and spend the remainder of my youth writing jumbles of numbers until all I see is ones and twos carved in my retinas. Or I could be a mad scientist and figure out the cure to laziness.

And how relevant a topic laziness can be sometimes.

Now before I could ramble on and on about nothing, I want you to picture this: a lone girl, sitting at her desk, typing away a comment on some 90s music video that no one will ever notice except her. She has no worries or care for the world. The world could be plummeting into a void and she would still wonder if her commas were in the right position – how ironic. But then, suddenly, realization hits.

"Oh... crap."

There was a neon pink paper laid out perfectly on my desk, waiting months for me to take even the smallest glance. With a hesitant hand, I picked it up and read it out loud:

ENGLISH FINAL (due December 22)
• Find a person who you find the most interesting.
• Without telling them about your project, try to decipher their life. The goal is to not be an interviewer, but a good friend.
•Write a 10,000-word "novel" detailing your experience (3rd person preferred).
• REMEMBER, THIS IS SIXTY PERCENT OF YOUR GRADE. NO SUBMISSIONS WILL EQUAL AN AUTOMATIC 0.

"Sixty percent!"

It sucks as it is having a borderline D. I didn't want to upset the gods of education any further, and by gods, I mean my parents who just happened to be the greatest literature enthusiasts of our time. You think they will celebrate the fact that I only had three weeks to finish this? Well, you're an idiot if you agreed.

I remember staring at "SIXTY PERCENT" for three hundred hours. It came to a point where my dried-out eyes had to fake-cry to wake me up. I kept thinking about the chances of me getting a good grade. They were pretty low. First, I would have to find someone interesting. That, alone, is ridiculous considering that the most likable person I know happens to be continents away and out of the internet's reach. If you must know, it was my journalist brother.

B-list journalist and travel-extraordinaire - blogger by night, Mr. Oscar D. Banks, or "De-Banker," as few called him, was my only favored relative out of the thousands of Banks that I can't even recall anymore. I guess age does that to you. Anyways, he took up a job in South Africa for some stupid research about gold mining. He tends to like leaving our two-bedroom, one-bathroom, more-of-cabin-than-a-house house. I wonder why. Point is, he won't be back until after Christmas. That is bad news for everyone.

There's only one option for me: make a new friend. Lord knows all my current friends will tease the shit out of my existence for doing something as stupid as this. Instead, my stranger will have to be smart, kind, and totally not a bore, but also preferably normal. I could meet them at a party or some club.

"Or..."

I took a quick peek at my phone. What are the odds that I had all the solutions at my disposal? And that, in cruel reality, was a boy called Damian, previously known by all the girls at Bluemill elementary as the hottest eleven-year-old that has ever graced the gum-ridden concrete of our time. I may be exaggerating on that part, but you get it.

But how could he – a former, god-like child – possibly be relevant in any of this? Well, rumor has it, he's back in town. It's been nearly seven years since he moved from Los Angeles to Seattle, but from what I've heard, he's been spotted in the administrative office at our high school. And, he's grown a couple feet since then. You could say this is a win-win for both of us. He has to finish this project as well. Everybody has to do it, and more likely than not, we are the only ones without partners.

Was it creepy that I still kept his number from back then? Don't assume that poor Damian gave me his number willingly – ha! Rather, t was a little something called "I thought he had a crush on me so I insisted that this poor child hand me his digits." Whether or not he felt the same, only one thing could confirm that.

"Don't look at me like that." I brushed off the lingering eyes of my judgmental, and probably deaf, cat. "He will have to accept. There's no other way."

I am not the type of person to feel shy about these kinds of things. The only real problem was that no one ever accepts my feelings, genuine or not. They just tell me that I wasn't their type or that they just see me as a really great friend or how that was the most surprising confession they have ever heard in their entire existence. If you couldn't tell by now, I have never dated in my life. It's not like that's a bad thing, but it stings when my head plays back all those rejections. But hey, here's another shot to romance, ladies.

With two hands, I took my iPhone, fingers parallel to my cringing eyes, and poked "call" on his contact.

And that was the moment, before I realized it, that all hell will break loose.