When It Happens

by Susane Colasanti

“Those guys aren’t smart enough for you,” Laila says.

  “Love isn’t based on intelligence,” Maggie huffs. “It can happen with anyone.”

  “Like who?” Laila demands.

  “Hello!” Maggie yells. “Like Dave!”

  I go, “Whose turn is it?” Because I don’t want to jinx the Dave thing.

  “It’s yours,” Maggie says.

  For this one, you have to time your swing so your ball goes in between the windmill slats. If you don’t, it’s all over. Suddenly it feels really important for me to get this. Like it’s a sign. If my ball gets past the windmill, it means that Dave likes me. If it doesn’t . . .

  I position my golf ball.

  I examine the windmill.

  I think to the universe, Please make it real. Please make it happen.

  I move my golf ball to the right. And I swing.

  It’s a hole in one.

  CHAPTER 2

  first days of falling

  september 1, 9:14 p.m.

  Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life.

  I finish the first set of curls with my thirty-pound free weights. I examine my biceps for signs of bulk. I decide they’re huge. At least, compared to how they used to be. I started lifting on the last day of school in an attempt to improve the situation of my toothpick arms. I need to look good onstage when my band starts playing serious gigs this year. Everyone knows girls want a guy to be cut, with pumped arms and veins popping out, arms that will flex as he lifts himself on top of her. . . .

  But I digress.

  I do three more sets of fifteen reps and examine my arms again. Definite improvement. I do a hundred sit-ups and fifty pushups and saunter into the bathroom like I’m the biggest stud ever. But this facade shatters when I catch an accidental flash of my reflection in the mirror.

  I usually avoid the mirror as much as possible. I somehow developed an insane hope that working out would also improve the condition of my face. I always get zits in the most conspicuous locations, and the fluorescent bulbs in here make me look burnt out like I smoke ten packs a day. Attractive.

  Furious, I get into the shower. I should have called her over the summer. Yeah, right.To hear how loudly she would have laughed at the prospect of such a slacker asking her out? No, the way to go with this is to be friends with her first. Be charming and notice details and give her tons of attention. Girls love that.Then she won’t be able to resist me when we take it to the next level.

  I turn off the water and grab a towel. I’ll finally see her tomorrow. Should I try talking to her right away? Or would that look desperate?

  I need to mellow out.

  Back in my room, I chuck the towel on the floor and pull on boxers. I wonder if she’s into boxers or briefs. Or boxer briefs. Cynthia was a fan of the boxer briefs, but the other girls I’ve hooked up with didn’t seem to have an opinion. Then again, Cynthia was the only one I had sex with. So maybe boxer briefs are a safe bet.

  I peer into my dresser drawer at my ancient underwear. If I were seeing my underwear for the first time, what would I think? It all looks kind of damaged. Do I need to get new underwear? I hate having to ask my mom to buy it for me. Everyone wears underwear, but it’s humiliating to admit this fact to your mother. Even if she does do my laundry.

  Suddenly I have a profound idea. I can buy my own underwear! She doesn’t have to know anything! Why haven’t I thought of this before? I haven’t had my car long enough to realize that I can go around and do this kind of stuff.

  Are relationships always this complicated?

  Technically, Cynthia wasn’t my girlfriend. So I don’t exactly consider what we had a relationship. It was all about sex. We didn’t have much in common except for our mutual lust for each other. Which was fine with me, until I got sick of the emotional void. My friends don’t get it. How I’m a complete anomaly when it comes to girls. I mean, I’ve hooked up with random airhead groupie types. But nothing ever lasted more than a couple months. They were too lacking.

  I know what I’m looking for. Something that feels right. Something real.

  I dig through the pile of Converse in my closet, old guitar equipment that I got at garage sales, and stacks of magazines until I reach the shoe box.The shoe box has all of my most personal stuff in it. I lean back against the wall and open the box. It’s a total rush. I take out my first guitar pick, remembering how it felt to finally know how to use it. There’s an E-string that broke during our first rehearsal in ninth grade. I keep all of my lyrics about girls and sex in here, in a smaller notebook separate from my main notebook. Because my mom has no problem with going through my backpack and looking through my stuff. Even though I’ve told her a million times that an admirable quality of parenthood is the ability to respect your kid’s privacy.

  I turn to a page with the song I wrote for Her. It’s like she’s renting all the real estate in the girl department of my brain. I don’t even know her that well, even though we’ve always gone to school together. After they segregated us in seventh grade based on how smart they thought we all were, I didn’t see her again until we had art together last year. I didn’t have the balls to talk to her until the year was almost over. And then I heard she was going out with Scott, who is a total dweeb, but still. So I never asked her out.

  There’s something about her that’s different from other girls. She’s crazy smart. I dig that. And she’s kind of shy. Not like the other girls I’ve dated who came right up to me and asked me to go home with them when I hardly even knew their name. Talking to those girls is cake. But talking to Sara is impossible. Not only is she smart, but she’s hot. Girls with the beauty-and-brains thing going on are the most intimidating girls in the world.

  What if I get this song ready for Battle of the Bands? I could dedicate it to her. She’ll be so turned on.Then I’ll smile and dazzle her with my eyes. Girls always tell me I have great eyes. But Battle of the Bands isn’t until November. I can’t wait that long.

  I put the notebook back in the shoe box and stash it way back in my closet. I toss some magazines on top of it and cram random shoes against it.

  I get this surge of adrenaline, like I could play for hours. I call this feeling my hot zone. When I’m in the hot zone, I know I can do phenomenal stuff.

  I pick up my guitar and turn the amp down. My parents are probably already asleep. I guess that’s what life is for most people. Marrying someone who seems decent enough, buying a house, having kids, and turning in at ten every night. They consider bridge games with the neighbors and the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler entertaining ways to spend a Saturday night. Why does life have to be that way? I assume my parents were madly in love at some point, but now they just look tired all the time. I don’t want to settle for that.

  I jam on my guitar. The way I feel about Sara right now is the way I always want to feel.

  I’m making it happen. Tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 3

  homeroom survivor

  september 2, 7:49 a.m.

  When Caitlin slams into my backpack running past me and screaming about Aruba, she doesn’t even stop to say sorry. This is the way it’s been between the princesses and the brains since forever.

  I tell myself it’ll all be over in nine months. Nine months, thirteen days, and approximately eight hours. Not that I’m counting.

  Those of us who got here early are penned up in the cafeteria until homeroom. Trying to sit like I could so not be any less concerned that I’m sitting by myself on the first day of senior year is just not working. I lean forward with my elbows on the table. Then I shift back and try to sit straight on the uncomfortable bench. I don’t know where to put my hands to make them appear unconcerned. Laila’s not here yet, and Maggie went to the bathroom. At least I have my sketchbook with me to partially calm me down.

  My sketchbook is actually a combination archive of my artwork and designs, scrapbook of important events, and collection of journal entries. But its main purpose is for me to practice my
architectural sketches, so I can make a portfolio of my work for college applications. I want to be an urban planner, which means double-majoring in architecture and environmental science next year. This will hopefully occur at New York University. Which is not exactly easy to get into. Which is why I’ve been working like a maniac for the past three years. My motivation for kicking academic butt is to escape this middle-of-nowhere New Jersey small town, this realm of nothingness. Living in New York City will be the ultimate existence.

  Anyway, I take my sketchbook everywhere I go. I sketch whatever inspires me. You never know when it will happen.

  I decide that it’s important enough to document my first-day-back thoughts. I turn to the next blank page. I sneak glances at everyone around me. They’re all running around frantically, acting like they care what everyone else did over the summer. I hate myself for caring that no one comes over to my table.

  Not like I expect them to suddenly realize I’m alive. I’m used to being invisible. Why does it still bother me? Why does it even matter if Caitlin & Co. treat me like I don’t exist? I have real friends—two of them—which is more than most people get to have. I’ve been telling myself to get over it for years. And I’ll never achieve inner peace if I don’t. So I need to move on.

  But I can’t.

  Plus, how can I survive another year of the same expectations and stress? And if I see Joe Zedepski drop his calculator one more time I swear I will lose it. Just put your calculator in the middle of your desk instead of right at the edge where you know it’ll fall off. How hard is that?

  I try to visualize my future life. The place where everything feels right and good things always happen and I can be the person I want to be. I imagine my ideal, completely confident self in a pink bubble, floating into space, letting the universe make it happen.

  But my visualization skills are working at less than maximum efficiency today. Because it’s time for homeroom. And first impressions are everything.

  I’m a nervous wreck.

  I peek into the room, pretending to be waiting for someone. At least Dave’s not in here. But a lot of his friends are, like Caitlin and Alex. If I manage to come off as cool, or at least as someone with a sense of style, it’ll get back to him. Then maybe he’ll ask me out. But if I act like a dork in any way, he’ll know about it by third period. This is a small school, and word gets around fast. This school is way too small for anyone to even think they can keep anything to themselves.

  I walk in with shaky legs. I find a seat. I pretend to look for something in my bag.

  “Okay, people!” Ms. Picoult yells. “Your schedules are ready! Come on up!”

  Ten seconds later, her desk is completely surrounded by kids complaining that their schedules are messed up and demanding to see a guidance counselor. Ms. Picoult yells that no one is to enter the guidance office until their lunch period. Chaos ensues. Snarly seniors rant that the people who program classes have no skills.

  I move to the front of the room. My schedule is the only one left on her desk. I pick it up, expecting the worse. Miraculously, it looks okay.

  But of course there’s a problem. It’s the curse of first-period gym. I’ve had gym first period every year. I’ve tried to get out of it before, and there’s no way. They just tell you that all the other classes are full and this is the way it is and there’s nothing you can do about it. So now I get to experience the thrilling sensation of sitting around in my sweaty underwear all day for a whole other year. Fun times.

  I sit down to fill out the seventy-three forms we have to do. Caitlin’s sitting next to me, filling out her forms and talking to her posse. After a few minutes, she suddenly turns around and stares at my kneesocks. I only tried on a million outfits last night before I decided on these retro kneesocks and my new denim skirt and my favorite sky-blue T-shirt.

  I go, “Hey.”

  Caitlin looks right through me like I’m not even there. Then she turns back to her friends. One of them laughs.

  I raise my hand to go to the bathroom.

  In the hall, some seniors are huddled together, clearly too cool for the mundane intricacies of homeroom. I’m about to walk right by them. But then I notice Dave is one of them.

  I freeze.

  Should I go up to him and say hi? Or just walk by and wave? If I don’t do something now, I probably won’t see him for the rest of the day. And I can’t stand not knowing if he likes me. But look at what just happened with Caitlin. She obviously thinks I’m lacking. Now if I go up to Dave, it could be catastrophic.

  I’m still debating what to do when Dave and his group walk down the hall, away from me. He never even saw me standing there.

  My life is over, and it’s not even first period yet.

  CHAPTER 4

  cafeteria survivor

  september 2, 6th period

  If the sign in the cafeteria that says WELCOME BACK! were being honest, it wouldn’t say that. It would say SUCKS TO BE YOU!

  Everyone in the cafeteria is so fake. Especially the girls. They’re all kissing and hugging other girls they annihilated behind their backs last year. It’s all so ridiculous. As if we couldn’t wait to get away from each other last June. But it’s not entirely their fault. They’ve been programmed by society to believe that if you’re popular and pretty and perky you’ll lead a fulfilling life. Don’t they know it’s always the geeks that turn out to be the most successful later on?

  I’m still hesitating by the door. If Mike and Josh didn’t have this lunch period, I’d definitely bail for Subway. Well, maybe it is entertaining to watch them play Cafeteria Survivor as if a million bucks were actually at stake.

  RULES OF CAFETERIA SURVIVOR 1. Always look like you know what you’re doing. Everything you do is intentional. Even if your tray tips over and you spill your entire lunch all over yourself, remember: You meant to do that.

  2. Always look like you’re having the best time. If you’re sitting with people you hate because there’s no one else to sit with, act like you like them. Anything is better than sitting alone.

  3. Always try to sit with other people, even if you’re hovering at the end of a table. However, if you are forced to sit by yourself due to severe ostracism, read something and sigh a lot. This will create a mysterious aura about you, one that sends out the message: My life is so extremely hectic that I really need to break away from civilization right now. Please do not disturb.Thanks so much.

  4. Always complain about the food. Do this even if you like it. Note: An exception can be made for pizza that actually looks and tastes like pizza. But only if the crust is not soggy.

  5. Do not, under any circumstances, get voted off the island.

  I think the last rule sums up the basic difference between them and me. I don’t care if I get voted off the island.

  Emerging from the line, I scan the tables to scope out the best location for people-watching. It’s one of my hobbies. Seeing how people interact, imagining how they’re feeling, sometimes overhearing bits of conversation . . . it always gives me ideas for lyrics.

  I head toward the far windows. I put my tray down on an empty table. When Mike and Josh get here, the main thing we have to discuss is recording our demo. We’ve been working all summer to save up for studio time. Also, we need to decide what we’re playing for Battle of the Bands.

  I sit down and contemplate the fries.

  "Hey, Tobey!” a girly voice screeches at me.

  I look up to see an enormous pair of breasts bouncing my way.They’re attached to Cynthia. I haven’t talked to her since last April. That’s when she gave me this ultimatum that she had to be my girlfriend or else. And I said I wasn’t looking for a relationship. But the truth is, I didn’t want to get serious with her.

  “Hey, Cynthia,” I say to be polite. But I want her to go away. I’m in such a different place now. It’s crazy that I ever wanted her, even if it was just a physical thing.

  She puts her hands on the table and leans over.You can totally
see down her low-cut tank top.

  I guess it isn’t that crazy.

  “What’s up?” she says.

  “Chillin’.”

  “Yeah, so . . . some of us are getting together at Zack’s tonight. His parents are still in Barbados.” Cynthia inches across the table so her face is right in front of mine.“In the mood to party?”

  “Not so much,” I say. “Sorry.”

  Her smile instantaneously dissolves. I feel a twinge of guilt for making her feel bad. But I was pretty clear about things before.

  “Oh,” she says. “Whatever.”

  There’s a second of regret when she walks away and I get a look at her ass in those jeans. I remember what her ass looks like out of those jeans. But then I remember Sara. And how Cynthia can make me feel great, but only for a few hours.

  Josh comes racing up to the table. “Tobey! What up? Long time no see!”

  He saw me three days ago.

  Josh smacks his tray down and grabs my arm. “Whoa, dude! You’re, like, huge! You been working out?”

  Josh is a bit of a spaz. It’s one of his best qualities.

  “Ha,” I say.

  “Dude! You are so not going to believe what happened to me yesterday! I was down the shore at my brother’s place and you know how . . .”

  And his stories are endless.

  I’m still letting him ramble on when Mike arrives.

  “Hey, man,” Mike says.

  “Hey.”

  Mike is my best friend. He’s into everything I am. Music, writing poetry and lyrics, playing backgammon and chess, brainy chicks. We also like the same old-school bands like The Cure and R.E.M. We mostly have the same musical influences. Josh digs our style, so he kind of goes along with whatever we do.

  Suddenly Josh yells, “Senior year, men! We rule the school! Par-tay!” Then he proceeds to bounce up and down on the bench.

  All the drastic bouncing makes Mike spill Coke on his shirt. It’s like there always has to be some kind of conflict between them. Josh is this total spontaneous, wild drummer type. His personality tends to contradict Mike’s, who’s constantly planning and analyzing everything. And I’m like the sensitive, introspective one. Together, we make one killer band.