Passing Notes

by D. G. Driver

  The bell rang, and I scooped up my bag from the floor and stuffed my new, heavy English textbook into it. The note and my folded up practice page went in my back pocket. I walked to my next class, waiting for the familiar buzz of my phone as Bethany texted me back with some appreciative reply.

  It never came.

  2

  I scanned the hallway for Bethany. I didn’t know her new schedule for the semester, but I remembered her telling me she was going to have a pretty full load of AP classes. If she was headed for Physics or Calculus, she’d be on the other side of campus. I didn’t have any math or science classes left that I had to take to graduate and had no intention of entering those halls again. Too many bad memories, and those teachers were not my friends.

  I took heavy steps through the hallway to American Government class, the silence from her weighing me down. Why was she ignoring me? Had I done something wrong?

  I sat down at an empty desk for second period and plopped my backpack at my feet. Five minutes later I had a new textbook to cram in there with the other one. When I unzipped my bag, I caught a glimpse of a piece of yellowed note paper before it slipped down into the depths of my pack. Certain I’d put the note in my pocket, I gave it a pat to hear the familiar crunch of folded paper. So, what was that in my bag? Had there been a second page, and I missed it?

  I yanked out the Government book and my English textbook, plopping them both on my desk. Then I dug around at the bottom of my backpack for the note. I regretted now not taking the time over Winter Break to clean the bag out like my mom had told me to. So many candy wrappers, crumpled up worksheets, broken pencils and inkless pens lined the bottom of my black backpack that it would be amazing if I found it at all. I thought that because the note was yellow, it might stand out, but a lot of Starburst wrappers are yellow too, and I have a thing for that candy. I picked through the mess as best as possible, but I never saw the elusive paper. I opened my English textbook on my desk and rifled through the pages, and that forced the yellow note to puff out at me from the pages where it had lodged itself.

  “Mr. Dowd,” my government teacher, Mr. Antenore, barked at me. “This is not English class, nor is it time to organize your belongings. Kindly put your things away and open your book to the pages written on the board.”

  “Yes sir,” I said, quickly palming the note and shoving everything else in the basket under my seat. Before I got called out again, I opened my text book. We were supposed to be looking at the Table of Contents page as a class, but personally I was studying another letter written on the same yellow paper in the same pretty cursive as the first one. I pinned the note to my book page with my right thumb and pinned the code key I’d created to the book with my left thumb. Glancing back and forth, I slowly made sense of it.

  Choose your compliments carefully. Some words aren’t for love letters. They come across crude and terse. Some words are only for private moments when you are together. A love letter needs lovely words.

  What on Earth? What did it mean? And what the heck did “crude” and “terse” mean? Who used words like that?

  “Choose your words better, man,” I muttered, “so I can understand you.”

  “What was that, Mr. Dowd?”

  “Nothing, sir,” I said, turning the page with the letter inside and hiding my secret.

  “I should hope not.”

  I tried really hard to concentrate on class. It felt like the note was trying to burn through the pages of the textbook and get in front of my eyes again. I’m sure it was my imagination, but when I put my hand on the left side of the book, it felt hot instead of the way cool, glossy textbook pages are supposed to feel.

  Mostly I found myself wondering what the notes were about. The guy was trying to give romantic advice to someone, but who? I kind of wished I could see the other half of this conversation. Or maybe, since I found them in English class, they were just jotted notes about something they were reading. Was that possible? I didn’t know much about literature. Was there a book about someone learning to write romantic notes? I needed to stop obsessing about it and focus on school. When class was over, I flipped back to the Table of Contents page to look at the note one more time. My cursive cheat sheet was there, but the note was gone. I reached into my back pocket. The other note was gone too.

  I scrambled through my backpack again while all my classmates got up and left the room. The notes had completely disappeared. Mr. Antenore finally came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder. “You’ll be late for 3rd period if you don’t get a move on.”

  I apologized, tucked my textbook against my chest, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and got out of there before I did anything else to get on my teacher’s nerves. I practically ran down the hall to Advanced Spanish class. I didn’t find another note in this class, and I thought that was funny. I half expected to find one telling me that French was a more romantic language than Spanish, since all the other notes had a weird way of correlating to my actions. Pleased to not have a scribbled note implying that I was doing something wrong, I was able to relax a little bit. I had fun going over all the words and phrases we learned in Beginning Spanish to see what we remembered. I’m actually pretty good at Spanish, compared to my other academics, and soon I was able to get the notes off my mind.

  Bethany, however, stayed ever present in my thoughts. The day dwindled on with no word from her. Finally, fourth period, one of my R.O.T.C. electives, let out for lunch. I went right to the spot where I’d seen Bethany eating lunch for three and half years, hoping I’d get to officially join her friends as her boyfriend. Only, she wasn’t there. Kat and Lissy shrugged at me and said they didn’t know where she was, but I had a feeling they were lying. They also neglected to invite me to sit down and wait for her.

  I headed over to my old table with the guys who had been my buddies since grade school, almost tripping three times because I was looking around for her and not at where I was going. Finally, I saw her on the stairwell, leaving the cafeteria. For some reason she’d tied a sweatshirt around her waist, completely obscuring that delicious swish of her behind in those skinny jeans.

  I stood up and called her name. Bethany turned and raised a finger at me as if to say, “Just a minute!” I texted her:

  ???

  I watched her pull out her phone. Without looking back at me, she continued up the stairs and out of sight. Her reply:

  Busy now. See you later.

  She had a quality phone and didn’t use text shorthand.

  But what was going on with that reply? See me when? I thought we’d planned on lunches together. We didn’t share any classes. She had debate team after school, and I had my job. Lunch was going to be our only time together. Without that, our relationship wasn’t going to be much more than texts and phone calls. That wasn’t what I wanted at all.

  I sent her a half-hearted: Cant w8

  After I hit send, I read back the texts of the day between her and me. What I’d texted to her did seem really lame now that I looked at it. I was as romantic as a stale fortune cookie. Maybe I shouldn’t have texted the thing about her being sexy in the jeans. It was true. She looks freakin’ amazing in those jeans. But maybe she took it the wrong way. Maybe I’d been too forward or insulted her.

  I thought about that odd note I’d found during American Government. My text to Bethany had been “crude” and “terse”. The note had been telling me that.

  Wait. No. Was that possible?

  My heart began to race and painful chills rain down my arms and legs. Two things had me terrified:

  I might lose Bethany—and—those notes weren’t coincidental. They were meant for me.

  Whoever it was writing the notes had to be someone really stealthy to be able to slip them into strategic places for me to find and then return to make them disappear again. Also, it was someone with a keen interest in my love life and how I was conducting myself.

  My friends at my table were busy with their phones or gaming devices; no on
e was really talking much except to say, “Look at this!” or the occasional cuss. I hadn’t even told any of them about Bethany yet. Even though I’m sure they would cheer me on, none of them had much experience with girls, certainly not enough to give me advice that would be of any value. None of them, as far as I knew, had ever written a love letter or even a poem (that wasn’t required for some English assignment). Plus, none of them were in my classes that morning. Who else would care about the quality of my texts to Bethany?

  The whole thing had a stalker feel to it. That didn’t make a lick of sense to me, though. I’m not the kind of guy that a girl stalks. I shot up over the summer last year, so I’m not as short as I used to be. The five-year war I’d been fighting with pimples was finally coming to an end. Mom keeps saying that my shoulders are broad like my dad’s, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I’ve never thought of myself as one of the good-looking guys, and the fact that Bethany even gave me a chance seemed like a minor miracle. So, who on earth would be interested in me to the point of stalking?

  Or was it one of those girls like Sadie Jones, who bought all the same clothes as Bethany and tried to imitate her all the time? Girls like her creeped me out. I could believe someone like her would send me weird notes like this to get in the middle of what was going on between Bethany and me.

  I almost convinced myself of that and found myself scanning the cafeteria for Sadie to see where she was sitting when another thought hit me. Nether Sadie, nor anyone else for that matter, would have been able to read the texts I sent Bethany. I had been in the back of the room when I sent them, and odds were Bethany didn’t even have her phone out, let alone on, during class. No one could have known what I wrote, and therefore no one could tell me that I wrote the notes badly.

  Everyone else in the cafeteria was busy talking, eating, and cutting up with their friends. No one was looking at me as far I could tell. But I felt like there were eyes on me. Right over my shoulder. The feeling actually made my shoulder tingle, like when someone is too close, and I shrugged uncomfortably.

  I couldn’t eat. I threw my lunch away and headed to my next class where I barely concentrated on the P.E. soccer game. All I could think about were those creepy letters and my stupid cell phone, wondering if I get a new message from either of them. I checked everything when I got back to the locker room before I dressed. Not so much as an emoticon from Bethany and no new notes. No 6th period this final semester of school had seemed awesome when I made my schedule, but Bethany did have a full load, so I wouldn’t get to say “hey” or anything to her before heading out to the parking lot. All I could do was hope we’d talk on the phone later that night.

  3

  After school I went straight to work. Hours passed slowly as I roller-skated from car to car with burgers and shakes recalling the late night right before Christmas when Bethany showed up by herself just before closing.

  I didn’t know it was her at first, because I didn’t know that she drove a little, used Prius. All I knew was that whoever drove in at a quarter to midnight turned off her motor and all the lights. That was not normal for people who stopped in the evenings, especially so close to us locking up. My manager, Miguel, told me to let the driver know we were about to close but to be careful, just in case it was a set up for a robbery. Cautiously, I skated toward the car, kind of expecting the worst. I steeled myself for some kind of assault, reminding myself that I was going to be a soldier soon and could handle it.

  Then this beautiful pale arm reached out of the open window, her pointer finger aiming for the call button and not quite reaching it. It looked like a petal dropping from a flower, so delicate and graceful. I stopped, halfway between the store and the car, frozen at the sight and suddenly unsure of what to do. I peeked back over my shoulder at Miguel who was inside the hub using both arms to wave me onward. I couldn’t hear him, but I could read his lips shouting “Go!”

  I moved forward again, coming up to the side of the car just before she stretched far enough. She was leaning pretty far out the window; her entire arm to her shoulder was out. I could see her lovely brunette hair, and then I knew who she was. The girl I’d had a crush on since 7th grade.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Oh.” It was a quiet sound. I’d startled but not scared her. And I think she was a touch embarrassed, for she quickly lowered her face and let her curls hide it. That move wasn’t fast enough to prevent me from seeing the mascara smeared down her cheeks.

  “Um, we’re about to close. Can I get you something?”

  “I just want a chocolate shake and fries. Is it too late for that?”

  “No. I’ll get right on it.”

  “Oh, and Mark?” She raised her head. I caught my breath, amazed that she said my name. I mean, I knew she knew who I was, but she didn’t have to acknowledge me. She was Bethany Rivers, one of the smartest, most beautiful girls in school. I was a dumb guy working in fast food. We didn’t exactly hang in the same circles.

  “Yes?”

  “Could you bring me a couple napkins?”

  I gave her my best sympathetic smile and said, “Sure.”

  I dashed back to the hub and got her shake and fries myself, along with a stack of napkins and a cup of water. I was back to her window in a flash.

  “That was fast,” she said, taking her food. “It’s usually slower here.”

  “Well, you’ve never had me serve you before.”

  “No,” she said, offering a weak smile. “I guess being here at closing helps too, huh?”

  “Yeah, a little.” I refused to take her money and told her it was on me. “You look like you could use a treat.”

  “Thanks. That’s really sweet of you.”

  “Hey look, we’re going to shut down the lights and everything, so...”

  “I’ll head out in a minute,” she said. “I promise.”

  I went back to help clean up and close the joint. Five minutes later I came back out to find she was still there, car still off, lights still out. The whole lot was dark now. I had left my skates inside, and now I just walked up to her. “You okay?”

  “Not really. No.”

  I saw that she’d cleaned up her face, but her cheeks were still ruddy. “Do you need me to call someone?”

  “No. All my friends are at the party still, and I just need to go home. My mom’ll ask me a million questions if I get home earlier than I said, so is it okay if I just sit here a little longer?”

  “I guess so.”

  I saw Miguel and my other two co-workers walking to their cars in the grocery store parking lot. The store was closed, too. Everything was dark.

  “I kind of don’t feel right leaving you here like this,” I told her. “It’s not safe.”

  “Do you want to sit with me?”

  Did I? I couldn’t believe she even asked me. Before I could answer, she unlocked the doors to her car and nodded her head toward the passenger seat. I saw her slide her purse to the floor. I jogged around the car and got in. The car smelled like her perfume, and I saw that she was wearing a pretty Christmas dress of red and white velvet. A large purple stain marred the front of it. I tried not to look too long, because it was her chest area and I didn’t want to seem rude.

  “I know, I’m a mess,” she said, wiping at her dress with a napkin. “It’s wine. I got a glass of wine tossed at me. Can you believe it? My mom’s going to be so pissed. This was her dress.”

  “Who in the world would throw wine at you?” The idea that someone could be angry with her just didn’t compute.

  “Lance.”

  Her boyfriend. I’d known him my whole life, too. We played roller hockey together as boys and used to be friends. About five years ago, when my grandmother moved into my house, our finances got really tight, and my parents cut out all my extra-curricular stuff. That included being on the roller hockey team. Lance kept on playing with the other guys, and they never acted like they missed me. Now they play ice hockey together on the school
team. I could’ve been in his crowd, but I’m not. I think I’m okay with that—most days.

  Bethany told me about how Lance got really drunk at the Christmas party. She’d been holding a glass of wine to make it look like she was drinking but not actually drinking any of it. She said she hated it when she was at parties and people made fun of her for not getting drunk, so she got in the habit of always holding a drink to keep the teasing at bay. Lance knew her trick, though, and he started giving her a really hard time about it. He tried to force her to put the glass to her mouth and wound up dumping all of it on her. She told him he was a jerk and broke up with him in front of everyone at the party and then left. None of her friends followed her. Her girlfriends, Lissy and Kat, even texted her to say that she was over-reacting and should come back to the party.

  Bethany then told me all about how she was tired of dating “dolts” and wanted someone “eloquent” like “Darcy.” I didn’t know those words or who she was talking about. I was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about someone like me, though. I mostly just listened to her, letting her do all the talking. Her voice was musical, and I understood why she did so well in those speech-making classes she took.

  She shared her thoughts with me for over an hour that night until she said it was time for her to go home so her mom didn’t worry about her. Right before I got out of the car she leaned over and kissed me. For real. On the lips. I thought she’d pull back and say something about being sorry and how she shouldn’t have done that, but she didn’t. Bethany Rivers let me kiss her back. Gently. But taking my time.

  She drove me over to my car and thanked me for being so nice. Then she waited until I got in my car and turned it on before driving away.

  Over the two-week Winter Break, we mostly communicated through texts and emails. She teased me constantly about my spelling and grammar. We went out once, to see a movie based on some Young Adult novel she’d read. I liked it all right, but she spent most of the time on the ride home telling me about all the parts of the book that were missing. I have to admit she made me feel kind of dumb for enjoying a movie with so many holes in the plot, but she was so expressive about it all that it was mostly just fun watching her go on and on about it. When I dropped her off at her house, she ran inside, got her copy of the book and brought it back out to me.