by Lara Chapman
Mom stops stroking my head and tweaks my nose, something she used to do when I was little. When I was five, I loved it. But I’ve long since forbade her—or anyone else for that matter—from touching IT.
I swat at her hand. “You know I hate that.”
“Lighten up, Sarah. There’s so much more to you than your nose. For someone who’s hell-bent on keeping her God-given nose, you sure do blame it for a lot of your problems.”
I shoot up from my supine position and face her. “I do not.”
“You do it every day,” she says. “And, trust me, I get it. I’ve been there, too, remember?”
Instead of speaking, I narrow my eyes and shake my head.
“At some point, you’ve got to accept who you are, honey. And, believe it or not, that nose does not define you. That’s all I’m saying.”
“That’s pretty big talk coming from someone who had a nose job. Not to mention the gazillion times you’ve tried to talk me into getting one of my own.”
Mom grabs my hands, holds them tight between hers. “Because I see you holding back, purposely making choices based on your nose and not what you really want.”
My eyes burn and I blink hard to clear them. “You don’t have a clue what I really want,” I say, then take the stairs to my room two at a time.
I’m still wide awake in bed at two in the morning, completely unable to shut down my racing mind. How could Mom even suggest that I talk to Rock about this? She is seriously deluded if she thinks I’m going to confide a shred of what I’m feeling with him.
I look at the text Kristen sent earlier in the night.
Saw that sizzling kiss. Details!
Sizzling? Is that what it had looked like from Rock’s truck? I hadn’t bothered replying.
My phone chirps in my hand, startling me.
No way. She can’t be serious.
I pull the covers over my head, willing my phone to magically short out. But, of course, it doesn’t.
It chirps again.
If I don’t answer her, she’ll call next and I definitely don’t want to talk to her.
I stretch my arm to the nightstand, I feel around for my phone, grab it, and drag it under the covers with me. I push the trackball and see she’s left me two texts, just as I thought.
Facebook. Now. BTW, what did you mean in your last message to Rock when you wrote there were bigger things on my face to notice than my eyes? Are you trying to tell me something?
Every square inch of my tired body freezes in place, with the exception of my heart, which is banging around in my chest like the Mexican jumping beans Mom brought back from a business trip last year. My mind races back to the message I’d typed the last time I was on Facebook. I said something about eyes being the first thing I noticed, then …
Oh no.
NO!
I don’t have to open the Facebook message to remember that I’d written something about people noticing my nose before my eyes. Damn it! I can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake. I’ve never actually hyperventilated, but I’m pretty sure this is what it feels like. Shaking, I sit up and hang my head between my legs like I’ve seen done on TV. As stupid as it looks, it actually works.
It takes me a good five minutes to breathe normally and by the time I do, I’m totally pissed. Honestly, I’m as mad at Kristen as I am at myself. How could I let her convince me to do this? Why did I believe we could ever get away with such a string of lies?
Still, it was ultimately my choice to take the bait.
I have to deal with this. Now.
I shoot her back a quick text to let her know I’ll check Facebook. Turning on the lamp next to my bed, I grab the laptop from my desk and boot it up. The entire four minutes it takes my computer to come to life, I question my own sanity. I mean, I’ve always been the levelheaded, forward-thinking one.
I log on to Facebook and click on Kristen’s in-box. Rock’s profile picture grabs my attention. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to face his reply or my own part in this twisted lovers’ triangle, but instead of clicking on the in-box, I click his picture and pull up his photo albums. The sourness in my stomach tells me I’m wrong to invade his privacy like this. He hasn’t friended me on Facebook and doesn’t necessarily want me dragging through his personal pictures.
Regardless, I shamelessly open the first of two albums. It’s simply titled “Me.”
My heart stills as I scan the photographs. The first shows Rock holding the keys to a car, I’m guessing his truck. He definitely looks a couple of years younger than he is now, but that same anything-goes smile is on his face. I click to see the next picture and it’s him on a rock wall ringing the bell at the top. The other pictures are more of the same, but each one tells me something new about him. He loves trying new things, and he’s always wearing that same smile, the same spark in his eyes that grabbed my attention the first time I saw him.
I open the second album titled “My Family.” There are only four pictures here, but they are all so remarkable, I look through them twice. Rock and his look-alike father fishing in a boat, all suntan and smiles. Rock and his petite mother cooking in the kitchen, him holding the whisk above her head, just out of reach, and her laughing. And a picture of Rock and two girls who are equally drop-dead gorgeous. They look so much alike I think they might be twins. They all have the same eyes, so I know it has to be his sisters. How did I not know he had sisters? Does Kristen know? The last picture is of Rock and a woman who looks to be his grandmother. He towers over her small, gray head, hugging her close and smiling like he’s the luckiest guy on earth.
I sit and stare at the screen, wishing I had never gotten involved with this whole Facebook mess. I mean, not only do I have to “talk” to Rock as Kristen, now I’m learning so much about him that I admire and adore that it’s hard to separate what I’m writing from what I’m feeling. What the hell was I thinking when I agreed to this?
My phone chirps again.
Done yet?
I put the phone on the bed beside my laptop, knowing I’m totally screwed. If I don’t write Rock back for Kristen, and she attempts to write him back herself, he’ll immediately know something’s going on. If I do write Rock, then I’m continuing this ridiculous scam.
But I’m in way too deep to back out now. It goes against everything inside me, but I do what I have to. I open the Facebook message from Rock and read reluctantly.
The eyes are my first attention-getter, too. Your blue eyes were the first thing I noticed about you. There’s something about a person’s eyes, isn’t there? Like I can tell you love to have fun and love to laugh; you just have that certain mischievous spark. Take care of those babies; they’re phenomenal. I’ve racked my brain but I can’t figure out what you mean when you say there are “bigger things” on your face to notice than your eyes. There isn’t one centimeter of you that isn’t exactly the way it should be. Trust me, I’ve studied your face enough to know.
I stop reading and close my eyes. The thought of Rock studying Kristen’s gorgeous features sends a shot of ice through my heart. I can’t imagine anyone—especially Rock—studying my features and deciding I’ve reached perfection. Those kinds of moments are exclusively reserved for the likes of Kristen. But there’s absolutely no reason to let myself go there. Then I’ll just be pissed and depressed. I force myself to read on.
What song makes me happy when I hear it? Great question … My parents listen to a lot of R & B and jazz, so I grew up listening to music most people don’t particularly love. But one song that always makes me sing along and smile is one I’m sure you’ll know. “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” by Barry White. Did you notice me humming it tonight? It makes me think of you and that always makes me happy.
My turn.
What would be the title of your biography?
I read the question with a smile. What better way to get down to the heart of a person? My mind circles the question. What would be the title of my biography? Honker? Umm �
� Bigger Than Life? And then it hits me. The title for my biography is so obvious I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. Some Kind of Cyrano.
Then I remember I’m answering for Kristen. And hers comes to me easily.
True Blue. I really try to be loyal and I hope that when I’m gone, people remember me as faithful and reliable. So you pair “True” with “Blue” (for my eyes), and there you have it.
I looked through your pictures and
I stop midsentence. Maybe Kristen actually knows about the sisters. Maybe she’s already talked to him about his Facebook pictures. I go back and delete the last sentence. Better play it safe. Instead I ask my next question.
I definitely want your answer to the biography question, too. So send that!
But my new question is this … “If you were forced to give up everything you own in exchange for one thing, what would that be?”
About that weird comment last time … I wrote that post right after I discovered the beginning of a zit. You know how that is … you’re sure it’s going to be the size of Everest once it erupts. But I totally whipped it into submission.
Thanks for a great night.
Love, Kristen
I quickly scan what I wrote, careful to make sure there are no traces of me in the message. So what if the excuse is pretty lame? It’s the best I can do at two o’clock in the morning. If Kristen wants an answer that sounds better than that, she’ll just have to write it herself.
I click Send, ready to end this farce and force myself to sleep. Maybe a plan to graciously end this disaster will come to me during the night.
Maybe.
By the time I make it to the cafeteria on Monday, I’ve done a fine job of evading Kristen and Rock. I arrived just as journalism and lit started and was the first one out the door, eliminating any chance of chitchat. The last thing I need is a bunch of questions about how I feel about Jay.
But there’s positively no escaping them at lunch.
“You okay?” Kristen asks when I finally make my way to our table. “You were awfully quiet this weekend.”
I nod, thinking how busy I’d been Friday night being her on Facebook. “Yeah, I had a ton of homework.”
“So …,” Kristen says with a sly smile, the very one I’ve been avoiding all day. “What’d you think?”
There’s no way I’m making this easy for her so I totally play dumb. “About what?”
“You can’t be serious,” she says, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Jay, that’s what.”
I shrug. “He’s nice. We already knew that, though, right? It’s not like that was my first time to meet him.”
“You know exactly what I mean, Sarah Burke. Do not start playing games with me.”
Rock is watching me intently, setting my stomach to doing flips.
“What do you want me to say, Kristen?” I ask. “That I’m head over heels in love with him?”
“Are you?” Rock asks.
“Not hardly,” I mumble. “I had fun. The play was phenomenal and you know how I feel about P.F. Chang’s.”
Kristen slaps her hands on the table, fed up with my vague answers. “Are y’all going out again?”
“Geez,” I say, looking around to make sure no one else heard her. “Calm down, already. He asked if I wanted to go out next weekend, but I never really answered him.”
“Omigod! That’s awesome, Sarah!” Kristen squirms in her seat, doing her own little happy dance.
Alone.
She doesn’t bother to notice that I’m not even fractionally as happy about it as she is.
“Are you going to say yes?” Rock asks, halting Kristen’s celebration.
“Of course she’s going to say yes,” Kristen argues, then looks to me. “You are going to say yes, aren’t you?”
I shrug again. “I don’t know. I think maybe Jay and I make better friends than a couple.”
“That’s absurd,” Kristen scoffs.
“If it’s how she feels …,” Rock says with the smallest hint of a grin to me, like we both know the same secret.
“Before you do anything or say anything to Jay, you need to really think it through. Maybe another date is all you need to make that connection. The love connection.” She wiggles her eyebrows in a totally ridiculous way that makes me want to laugh.
“Maybe,” I concede, knowing she’s wrong.
Dead wrong.
“So we’ll see,” she says, satisfied I haven’t totally given up on Jay.
“We’ll see,” I lie.
I’m not proud of it, but by eight that evening, the curiosity kills me and I shamelessly peek in on Kristen’s Facebook. Just to see if he’s responded to her—well, actually my—message. It’s wrong and only serves to further torture me, but I can’t stop myself. I’m definitely on what Mom would call a “slippery slope.”
I look through her home page and see the usual people and quizzes filling the screen, save one. I’m simultaneously satisfied and disappointed when I see Rock hasn’t replied. I log out of Kristen’s Facebook account and log in to mine. It’s noticeably less busy than Kristen’s but I do have something she doesn’t.
A message.
Okay, it’s not really a message. But it’s something. It’s a friend request. From Rock.
Despite the fact it took him so long to friend me, I click Confirm.
To further torment myself, I sit and wait, thinking maybe … just maybe … he’ll be waiting for me to reply like he was when Kristen confirmed him.
Knowing I can’t very well sit in front of the computer until—and IF—he sends me a message, I leave the laptop and busy myself by picking up Ringo’s toys off the floor and dropping them into the little white basket sitting on the hanging swing.
I open my phone, check to make sure the ringer’s on and that I haven’t missed any messages from Mom or Kristen, then put it back on the nightstand.
After what seems like an eternity, I go back to my laptop and refresh my Facebook page to see if there are any new messages. I don’t know what I expect him to say other than “Hi” and “Thanks for sharing your scorching-hot BFF with me.”
But I check it anyway.
And there’s nothing.
Not even so much as a “Thanks for friending me.”
What did I expect? It’s exactly what I deserve.
Later that week, I walk into Jacobi’s room seconds before the bell rings, something he thoroughly disapproves of. When I give him a quick apologetic smile, he scowls, leaving me to shuffle off to my desk like a scolded dog.
Rock gives me a small grin before I drop into my seat. “Cutting it close, aren’t you?”
I nod, knowing I don’t have a decent answer. I mean, it’s not like I can just come right out and say “Well, you know, I’m totally avoiding you because I’m shamelessly in love with you.”
Jacobi saves me from humiliating myself with his booming voice. “You should have read chapters ten through thirteen last night. Does anyone have a question or a comment about what you read?”
Normally, I’d throw out a comment, but I’m not exactly at the top of my game these days.
The room remains silent, no one willing to be first to step out and offer their thoughts. Thankfully, Jacobi doesn’t push it—like he so often does—and moves on.
“Well, then, this assignment should be a snap. Let’s begin by returning to our partners from last week. This week you’ll be dissecting a quote from the novel and comparing it to real-life situations. You are expected to show me exactly how that quote applies to your life today. Right here in these halls, or at home, or at work. I assure you every single quote I’m assigning has modern-day applications. So no excuses.”
I turn my desk around so that it’s face-to-face with Rock’s. Despite the effort I’ve put into ignoring him all day, I can’t stop myself from smiling. Just seeing his face makes me happy. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Jacobi drops the quote on the desk in front of me.
“Want me to
read it aloud?” I ask.
Rock nods. “Go for it.”
I pull the paper closer to me and read our assigned quote from The Scarlet Letter.
“Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart! Else it may be their miserable fortune … when some mightier touch than their own may have awakened all her sensibilities, to be reproached even for the calm content, the marble image of happiness, which they will have imposed upon her as the warm reality.”
When I finish reading, I look up to find Rock’s eyes on mine.
Nervous and unsure of what to say, I start rambling. “It’s a biggie this time, that’s for sure. I mean, it sounds pretty easy to understand, we just need to figure out how we can apply it to real life today. I mean, not today today, but ‘today.’ ” I end with the finger quotes when I say the last “today,” making me inwardly cringe. I seriously hate myself.
Instead of laughing at me, Rock puts his hand on mine, setting off a series of firecrackers in my chest. Now this is the kind of spark I was talking about.
“Let’s just start with the quote,” he says, then abruptly removes his hand. The warmth falls away with his hand, but the electricity continues to jump beneath my skin. “Can you read the first sentence again?”
I quickly put my eyes back on the paper and read the sentence, willing myself to read slowly, like a sane person. “Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart!”
Rock clears his throat before speaking. “He’s saying you shouldn’t want the hand of a woman—marriage—unless you have her passion as well. I guess that really applied to the era Hawthorne was writing about. These days, most people only marry because they want to. At least in America, arranged marriages are a thing of the past.”