THE DIARY OF A MISFIT

OPERATION JULIET

[3] Life is a stormy sea; you either drown or sail. The undoing of every great intent and fall from grace caused by jealousy does not begin with envy; It begins with thinking less of yourself. It begins with the mirror on the wall.

Do you have a girlfriend? was one question that plagued my every waking thought. It was like the apple of Eden revealing an ever-present reality, hidden by sheer ignorance.

My eyes were wide open and I could see it all. In my wild imagination of ruling the school as chants of my names echo down to the principal's office. Two mates looking at each other eyes as I walked to school. The brief blush on the cheeks of a young girl as her crush waves hello. The passionate hug of two lovers before roll call. The whispers between boys and girls all around about interests and happily-ever-afters. Even, the two pigeons sitting together on a wire—not sure why I thought that was romantic.

However, love was in the air, like the cologne of valentine—still five months away.

I had mapped out a list of possible love interests earlier that night. After putting into consideration a lot of factors ranging from the ones that will laugh off, or insult the idea of my proposition to the Misfits that I didn't need for a new reputation. I narrowed my list to none.

I was hopeless!

"Hey, Andrew. It's good to see you again," A soft voice called from behind as I walked up the stairs.

I turned sharply to find my day-one Junior High Crush—the beautiful, Helen Oswalt.

I guess you might have read a few romantic clichés—love at first sight stories. That moment seized by the grace of seeing all in slow motion. Pinks flowers falling from an unseen tree. The wind blowing her hair in a slow seductive way. A ballad playing in the background as she cat-walked to where I stood. And of course, I bravely walking towards her with broad chest and shoulders. My clothes sparkling. My lips quirking in an alpha sexy masculine manner, before uttering in a deep voice. "Hello, beautiful."

No! that was nowhere near my moment.

Mine was more like seeing a ghost in the middle of the night using your toothbrush. My face was frozen, contoured, disfigured by the dance of delight and confusion playing in my head. Honestly, I wasn't sure if what I did was a wave to a friend or a cry for help.

For you to understand my predicament, you have to know who Helen Oswalt was. She was the rookie everyone knew was going to be an all-star in a short while—my expectation was more of the bald-head janitor level. She was beautiful, smart, kind, loved by the teachers and students, a fashionista, envied by none, and the epitome of the Girl of every guy dream—she basically owned the rights to that statement. My chances with her were lesser than a guy staking only on the green in roulette, like one in ten wins.

I was still frozen when a few girls walked towards her, casting a glare at me as they walked past—couldn't blame them; a new uniform wasn't enough to hide the disgust of a Misfit. They all hugged as I turned to walk away with a broad smile—one, not even a thousand looks of disgust could take away.

I had a recount of events to tell my new crew—one that excluded the part of me looking like a raccoon caught in mid-rascality. My class was the first near the staircase and the door went through the back; that is two sliding windows before the door.

In seconds, I was standing in a class of about six to nine people sitting in groups. I hoped to find my crew in my class, but to my shock, they were both out on break—without me. Leaving me to the sudden coldness, and spite of the class.

Dejected, I slumped on my seat, which was a seat away from the board. I had no one I wanted to talk to, so I settled for a world of imagination. All cut short when my eyes fell on a new student reading a book. A girl.

She raised her head briefly and God be praised was she beautiful. Her hair was plaited in thin cornrows. Beneath dark lovely eyes and a straight-edged nose were lips perfectly crafted, pink. I could hear my puberty senses tingling. Sweat lines forming on my forehead. I was praying for a spoonful, and sitting by my side was the whole goddamn pot. She was in the league of Helen. Above all, she knew nothing about my Junior High past.

Five-minute-window—give or take was all I had, before she started to draw the attention of others. Five minutes to leave a notable first impression or risk losing her to the slurs of my Junior High reputation.

Instinctively, I went all Sherlock. Weighing all possible words to leave an enigmatic impression in a good sense. One that will leave her with the question, who is that guy? And a quest for an answer not satisfied by old tales, but by a first-hand experience.

Thinking, planning, and rehearsing was easy. For one, if there was something I was perfect at, it was day-dreaming about things that my introverted nature won't let me do.

I mustered all the courage that could be found in my eleven-year-old soul and staggered to where she sat—yes, stagger not walk boldly; drifting like one experiencing the buzz of weed. Half of me wrestling with the possibility of fooling myself yet again; offering the comfort of loneliness and the logic behind my supposed asexuality.

I wasn't going to listen to my scaredy-cat nature. My quest for school dominance left no room for weakness. It was, talk to the girl I was crushing or nip on raw meat in rollcall, either way, I had to prove to myself I had the guts to be an Alpha male.

"Hello," my lips moved a bit faster than I anticipated; saving me from an awkward walk back. Goddamit, I spouted in my thought. Say something Andrew. Say Something before it gets weird. Do you want to be weird? Talk about her book, My thoughts nimble. "What are you reading?" I asked.

She didn't say a word, her eyes holding my gaze barely—a shy one, I guessed. She closed her book just enough to reveal the cover.

WHY YOU ACT THE WAY YOU DO. Tim LaHaye's book. One, that I spared not a second glance in Junior High III. But, here it was in my dream girl's hand and she was past the middle.

"What is it about?" Pretending to care about the book.

"It is a book about the four kinds of people in the word. The Sanguine, Choleric, Melancholic, and the Phlegmatic. You should read it?"

"Yes, I would." I reiterated, more for lack of words than memorizing. "Yes, I would." I kept mumbling Yes, I would while I thought of my next line. Out of boredom or mere disappointment, she returned back to reading. I knew deep down that I hadn't done enough to earn the ride off to the sunset status.

"What's your name?" I muttered, faintly audible.

Her gaze turned back in my direction. "Daniella Barry," she declared with a thin smile. Dimples forming between those perfect lips. The more I thought of them, the more my arousal grew. I could feel my little friend stretching the fabrics of my underwear—screaming inaudibly, Let me out!

That was my moment of optimization. I don't know how to explain it, but I just knew a second later will be my undoing.

I took a step away from where I stood. My lips quirked to the right side.

"See you later—" I gave a short melodramatic pause. "Daniella."

She gave me the gift of seeing her smile once again. Her eyes holding my breath. I felt the last ounce of control in me diminish. Her lips calling to me; voices asking me to let go and give in.

I turned away and started my ride off to sunset—more or less, my ride out of the class. My five-minute window was up, and boy was I satisfied by what I thought was a cool boy courting a shy beautiful girl—not an obvious scene of a guy running from a boner.

A foot out of the class and I was hit by a poignant realization. I didn't tell her my name. A mistake that set-up my enigma profile perfectly; one that deserved every once gratitude from my pathetic little life.

She was going to be my dirty little secret. That was my plan.

Nothing escapes Andrew Shilling's well-thought plan.