⋆ l o n e l y d i n n e r s & a w k w a r d l a b s ⋆
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tacenda (n.) things better left unsaid; matters better to be passed over in silence
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AFTER THE GAME, I sit in the car with Nora, trying to tune out her fangirling about how hot Jordan is and how he easily lead our team to victory, looking through the pictures I had captured. The majority were of him, of his harsh green eyes and sharp jawline, of his broad shoulders and lean, angular body. Even my heart had skipped a beat as I watched him play, radiating sheer fury out on the field. Most of the pictures were of him scowling or in deep concentration, some with his dark hair falling over his eyes.
God, I am becoming just like the rest of the girls at my school.
When I am finished deleting all blurry photos, I begin the drive home.
"How come you never go to any afterparties, Andy?", Nora asks, and I give her a sidelong glance. I want to let the truth spill out onto my lips, like the rushing of a waterfall over a cliff's edge. Because no one wants me there. Because I'm too boring, too plain, too average. Have you seen how few friends I have? Actually, I don't even have one. I'm nothing special. But instead, I just purse my lips and say, "I don't like parties," even though I'm actually dying to go to one.
Compared to the rest of the girls at school, the ones so pretty it physically hurts to be near them, and the ones so smart it makes you feel worthless, I am nothing. I have no special attributes, no witty nature, and no above average intelligence. There is nothing about me that captivates anyone, or makes anyone want to be my friend. If Nora knew how desperately I wanted someone to care about, to gossip with, and to feel at home with, she'd probably take off running. So I put on a standoffish facade, to cover up how lonely I am, and so far no one has ever guessed.
I'm better off blending into the background, being the charcoal smudge on the background of the canvas that only serves to highlight the main colors.
After I drop Nora home, I walk into my own empty house, my parents gone, as usual. I eat dinner in silence, closing my eyes to imagine what it would be like to talk to someone at the table, to laugh and feel welcome. It's been so long, I can't even imagine it properly anymore.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The weekend passes by in a blur, and on Monday, aside from the usual praises from Mr. Conway about the photos from Friday, no one talks to me until lunch, where I finally start becoming used to Nora's constant chatter.
I wave goodbye to her at the end of lunch, but my smile fades as I make my way to chemistry. I have been dreading this since the teacher told us we were doing a lab together today. I enter the classroom, tuning out the scattered conversation throughout the classroom, dragging my feet to my lab station in the back. I sit down and rest my chin on my hand. I wish I could be normal enough not to fear social interaction.
A second after the bell rings, Jordan saunters into the class, and he is immediately met with multiple praises and greetings about Friday's game. However, he just ignores them and remains straight-faced, striding past them. He wears adidas sweatpants, white sneakers, and a graphic tee, which accentuates his toned chest and muscular biceps. I notice a small, silver hoop dangling from one ear, which makes him appear even hotter, if that's even possible. He casually slides onto the lab stool, his strong, musky scent wrapping around me like a hug.
As the teacher drones on about the lab instructions, I feel panic rising within me, anxiety bubbling up in my throat like a fizzy soda. When she finally finishes and motions for us to begin, I take a deep breath and turn to Jordan. When he makes no move to grab the dropper filled with some bright blue chemical, I sigh and pick it up, carefully measuring out three drops into the well plate.
"Um, d-do you want to do the next one?", I stutter. I'm so pathetic. He stares at me for a second, opening then closing his mouth, holding back his words. He silently takes the dropper from my hand, our skin grazing lightly, sending electric tingles up my arm. My awkward nature mixes into the air between us, and we finish the lab in silence, taking cues from each other.
"Do you want me to do the post-lab worksheet?", I manage to squeak out afterward since we only need one.
"Nah, I'll do it, Bumble," he says, his smooth, deep voice running over my skin.
"Hey, that's not my name," I say immediately, "and what does that even mean?".
"You know, since you're always bumbling around, tripping over things, and running into people. Relax, it suits you, Andy," he smirks, leaning back against the wall. For a few seconds, I am rendered speechless by the fact that he knows my name. Nobody ever knows my name.
"How do you know my name?". He chuckles lightly at this.
"Well, I had to know the name of the person who took those photos of me for the article," he shrugs, and my mouth falls open. The only people that are ever publicly acknowledged in our school in relation to the newspaper are the writers. No one pays attention to who took the photos, or how much effort went into editing them.
I realize that while I was sitting there awestruck, Jordan had hunched over the post lab, his broad shoulders flexing with every motion of the pencil. I can't help but watch as he fills it out.
"I can feel you staring, Bumble," he says and I can hear the smug tone seeping into his voice. I turn my head away so fast I hear my neck crack, face in flames.
"Can you call me my name please?", I ask, annoyed.
After a few seconds, he sits upright and says, "Nah, I like bumble better. Maybe even bumblebee." Before I can protest, he slides the worksheet filled with his surprisingly neat handwriting over to me.
"It's done," he shrugs after I stare at him wide-eyed. I had it in my head that he was just another meathead jock who only knew how to fuck girls and mess with their emotions. I look it over and it is all perfectly done, to my astonishment. I stand up and turn it in to the teacher. Since we are the first ones done, I sit back down and work on my homework in silence for the rest of the period.
This time, when the bell rings, Jordan smoothly slides out of his seat and turns to me.
"Don't trip on anything on the way out, Bumble." And with a wink, he's gone.
Gods.
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