Since You Asked...

by Maurene Goo

  My opportunity came during fifth period: World History. Daniel was in my class, and I planned to drop some subtle hints his way.

  Everyone was milling around and talking when I got to class. I looked at the clock. Five minutes. That would be plenty of time.

  Daniel was sitting at his desk, playing some game on his cell phone. Without being too creepy, I walked over to him and kind of hovered.

  “Um. Eh-hem. Hey, Daniel.”

  Without moving his eyes from the cell phone screen, he quietly replied, “Yeah?”

  I sat down at the desk next to his. Poor guy — in a couple minutes I was going to crush his heart.

  “How are things going?” I asked with what I hoped was compassion in my voice.

  This made him look up. Blowing his bangs out of his eyes, he looked at me with what looked like panic. “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing, I mean. What’s up?” I asked, a little less smooth than before. I started getting nervous. Did I want to do this after all? What if I should give him a chance? Or what if it wasn’t him at all?

  Daniel put his phone down and kind of twitched. “Uh, nothing. What’s up with you, Holly?”

  He said my name! Totally thoughtful admirer behavior. Okay, here goes.

  “Oh, nothing. I’m kind of annoyed actually. I think I have like, a stalker or something.” I said this with nonchalance, carefully watching his reaction.

  He furrowed his brow slightly, and then asked with concern, “Really? Is it serious?”

  Hm. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. “Well, I mean, I’m not sure. He keeps leaving me creepy valentines and stuff. Like, poems.”

  This was it. I waited to see something register. Instead he put his hand on my arm and asked, “Are they harassing or threatening in nature?”

  What the! This was not going as planned. “No, they’re not threatening or anything. I mean, don’t you think it’s creepy? Would you ever leave someone a poem without signing your name?”

  This was it. My eyes bore into his. And, aha! He was turning bright red as he took his hand back. “Um, well. I mean …”

  I tried to smile compassionately again. “Daniel. It’s okay, I won’t force you to say it. But yeah, I know all about it.”

  His eyes widened. “You do?”

  “Yes. I mean … duh. I just, I don’t know how to tell you this but —”

  “Does this mean Isabel knows, too?”

  I paused. Excuse me?

  “Isabel? What are you talking about?”

  He clunked his forehead onto the desk dramatically. “Isabel! I know you guys work on the paper together. Does she know I’ve been sending her those anonymous e-mails?”

  “WHAT are you talking about?!”

  “What are you talking about?! Aren’t you here to confront me about my crush on Isabel?”

  My mouth dropped. Oh. Crap.

  “Oh … yeah, of course. Uh …” I trailed off, my face turning red this time.

  He looked at me pleadingly. “Please, please don’t say anything. I was going to tell her at the Valentine’s Day dance. I know she’s a junior, so I don’t have a chance. But maybe?”

  I looked at his hopeful face and felt a lump in my throat. “No, of course not. Don’t worry about it, man. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  Then I ran back to my seat, on the verge of tears for some reason. I felt humiliated and … disappointed?

  The rest of class went by in a mortifying blur, and when the bell rang I booked it out of there with lightning speed. I got to my locker and stood there with my head bent into it, digesting what just happened, when I heard the loud, excited voices of two girls next to me.

  “Oh my God!” one of them squealed. “Guess who just asked me to the Valentine’s Day dance?!”

  “Who-ooh?” the other girl asked with rabid anticipation.

  “Matthew Reynolds!”

  Screeching ensued from both parties.

  I froze, then pulled my face out of my locker nonchalantly and peeked to see who these girls were. Expecting to see some drop-dead gorgeous Amazonian freak from the volleyball team or something, my jaw almost dropped when I saw that it was this girl I really liked — Serena Mishimoto. She was a super talented artist and the teacher’s assistant for David’s art class. She always looked so cool with her choppy, blue-streaked hair and skintight black jeans.

  I did not know this was Matthew’s type. Although she looked like a model herself, Serena wasn’t exactly a girl who fit into his group of douchebaggery friends. And who knew that she would be the type to squeal when a boy asked her out?

  Then I realized that Serena and her friend were laughing. And not in a nice way.

  “God, so what did you tell him?”

  Serena scrunched up her nose. “I mean, what could I say? I was all, ‘Ummm, I have plans that night.’” They both started cracking up and walked away.

  Well, what do you know? Matthew Reynolds doesn’t get everything he wants. Why did I feel so bad for him? Valentine’s Day was proving to undermine the best of us.

  * * *

  After school the next day, Valentine’s Day, David and I were sitting on the front steps of the school. He tossed a box of Sweethearts to me. I caught them with an “ewww” before I ripped into the box and read a lavender one that said “You wish.” I snickered and tossed one to him that said “No.”

  While silently munching on the chalky candy, I thought about the three valentines sitting in my locker. The last one was delivered this morning:

  Would I ever find out who it was? I snuck a glance at David, who was stretched out with his feet propped up on his skateboard — apparently without a care in the world.

  Liz and Carrie walked up to us, each carrying a red rose. David and I recoiled at the sight of them.

  “The hell are you guys carrying?” I asked, scooting away from them.

  Liz pointed the offensive rose toward my face. “These are our Valentine’s gifts to our Valentines — you two!”

  David got up to run away from Carrie’s rose and she chased after him, smacking his butt with it every so often.

  I took the rose from Liz. “Well, although I am morally opposed to this sorta thing, thanks.”

  She sat down next to me. “So, any more clues?” she asked in a low voice.

  I watched Carrie and David take turns batting each other with their rose — petals flying everywhere. “Nope. And in all honesty, I don’t even want to know anymore. Whoever it is doesn’t seem to be ready to reveal himself anyway.” I looked at Liz in her cute Valentine’s Day outfit: hot-pink shorts paired with a gray-and-white polka-dot cotton shirt. “What about you? Did you figure out if you’re going to the dance tonight?”

  Liz smiled slyly. “I decided to throw someone a bone.”

  “Who?”

  “David’s friend Steve.”

  “Pardon?”

  Liz laughed. “I know, I know. But I actually thought about what you guys said. I can’t be this picky. Plus, he’s sweet. And … I want to wear a new dress, damn it!”

  I smiled. “Well, I think that’s nice. But, you know, just don’t wear heels. Ha!” She hit me on the arm.

  Carrie and David ran back up to us, both out of breath with red rose petals stuck in their hair. I started laughing. “Who needs Valentines with you weirdos around?”

  My boyfriend, Chad (hey, boo!), brought a dozen long-stemmed roses and apple cider in champagne glasses to my cheerleading meet to wish me luck. It was soooo romantic. Then we totally made out.

  — CHARLOTTA M., SENIOR

  This really hot waitress gave me a free root beer one time. It was hot.

  — ROBBIE B., SOPHOMORE

  After the curtains fell on my final night of playing Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, Mercutio grabbed me and kissed me. Right in front of my boyfriend, the Apothecary.

  — MILLIE L., FRESHMAN

  I had a secret admirer send me e-mails, then show up at the dance with daisies — my favorite. We’re going ou
t now.

  — ANONYMOUS, JUNIOR

  I’ve never had a talent.

  You know how some kids at the age of four can win competitions doing triple backflips and splits on a beam four inches wide? Or how about three blond-haired brothers all under the age of twelve who can play instruments freakishly well and therefore gather legions of prepubescent female fans? (I mean, how in the world did the Hanson brothers re-create Beatlemania in the ’90s? Seriously.)

  Well, clearly, I am not one of these mutants.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about talent lately because of our upcoming spring Battle of the Bands competition here at Bay High. We’ve got some choice contenders this year — quite an eclectic mix. I always thought Battle of the Bands meant a competition between, you know, groups of kids who play instruments and stuff. But no, apparently the word “band” also encompasses the following:

  Five girls wearing fishnet stockings requiring POLES onstage to do a rendition of a song by some girl group with the unfortunate name of The Pussycat Dolls. Need I say more?

  A duo sitting on stools playing spoons. Spoons.

  Four freshmen who cumulatively weigh four hundred pounds doing a Dr. Dre medley.

  In light of this competition, I’ve been thinking about where talent comes from. Are people actually born with these innate abilities or have they been beaten down enough by their parents and instructors so that they have no choice but to be good?

  If you and I were forced to do flips off a vault every day of our lives, wouldn’t we all be good at it?

  Don’t get me wrong. I understand that there’s a huge difference between people who are really good at worthless things like baseball and people like Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

  As someone who’s never devoted more than one week to any activity in her life (minus being a reading nerd), I’m pretty appreciative of anyone who has abilities. So I’m excited to see what unfolds at the Battle of the Bands this year. Yes, I’m even excited for the spoons people.

  See you all there. Oh, yes, and not to be biased or anything but … GO RAW MEAT DEMONS!

  RMD-4-LIFE,

  How I get myself into these predicaments, I don’t know.

  “You! New girl! You need to extend your legs! Don’t bend your knees!”

  Yes, that loud Russian-accented voice was talking to me. Me, the new girl.

  I spun around to glare at Liz. She made an apologetic face and continued her tendus. I was seriously going to throttle her after class.

  Ballet is on my Top Ten Nightmares List. Other items include wearing a thong, skydiving, touching a snake, and eating rabbit.

  “Did I say thanks for coming already?” Liz whispered loudly to me.

  “Yes. But that means nothing. I can’t believe you actually convinced me to do this!” I hissed.

  The class was terrifying. The teacher, Ms. Petrov, was this sinewy older woman who could touch the back of her head with the tips of her toes. There were fifteen other girls in the class who all wore leotards and tights and were stretching all seriously when Liz and I came in.

  Liz was a walking American Apparel ad in her hot-pink leggings and ripped tank top. I was wearing yoga pants and an old PE T-shirt. We felt awesome.

  But at least Liz knew what she was doing, somewhat. I felt like I was thrown into a laboratory full of scientists trying to find a cure for cancer and they were all looking at me like, “What? You don’t know how to do science like us?”

  “You … owe … me … your life!” I whispered to Liz between gasps for air. My arms were flailing at the bar and I was trying to mimic everyone’s leg movements. This was one of the most difficult things I had ever tried to do in my life. Who the hell invented ballet? This was just torture disguised as art.

  After suffering for forty minutes at the bar, we transitioned into floor exercises. What I like to call Humiliations: Part Two. This involved everyone doing spins across the room. One by one. I watched with sweaty palms as all the girls extended their arms and flittered in neat little spins across the room in a perfectly straight line.

  I was next, before Liz, who nudged my terrified, stiff body with an “It’s not that hard!”

  Those four words echoed mockingly through my head as I spun into the walls, into the teacher, and into the bar. A couple girls giggled but I was so dizzy I couldn’t tell who they were. I wanted to throw up and I had to lean against the wall to steady myself. It took all my willpower to not walk out of there. My only consolation was that I knew I would never have to step foot in this hellhole again.

  “And now, ladies, we will work on some choreography for the last portion of class. Please stretch while I go over the one-minute routine you will all be learning for this month.”

  Routine?

  Um.

  I saw my life flash before my eyes. I was supposed to DANCE now? I knew it was dumb, but for some reason I assumed that ballet classes were all about standing in front of a mirror doing pliés. And that was hard enough.

  I eyed the door leading out of the studio and contemplated making an escape. It wasn’t that far from where I was. Maybe if I slipped out while everyone was stretching, no one would notice….

  Then I felt a hard jab in my shoulder. Liz shook her head and mouthed, “No way.”

  “There is no way that I’m going to actually dance,” I whispered furiously as we sat on the floor pretending to stretch.

  Liz looked aghast. “What?! What did you think ballet was?”

  Before I could answer, Ms. Petrov clapped her hands. “Okay, ladies, let’s get up and come to attention please!”

  My chance to escape had passed. Panic rose in every inch of my body. I looked at Liz pleadingly. She tried to smile with forced encouragement. “Holly, it’ll be fine. It’s only like twenty minutes of your life.” Nothing she could say would placate me.

  “Let’s go over the opening steps. The dance starts on the fourth count — one, two, three, and four.” On the fourth count, Ms. Petrov swept her arms to the right and her feet moved with her. “So a balancé to the right, then one count, then on the second, we go into our glissade.” She danced these two small movements — basically a sweep to the right, and then a little side jump to the left — and I was completely entranced.

  Openmouthed, I watched her go through the entire routine — sweeping turns, hops, skips, and stretches. Each move was so graceful, so natural, so lovely. This wasn’t anything like watching our dance team as they shook their butts and gyrated to outdated hip-hop music.

  I was so entranced that I didn’t even mind having to dance myself. It was definitely one hot, ugly mess — with me forgetting every step the second it was over. I couldn’t keep up at all. How everyone else remembered the steps within seconds I don’t know! Even Liz seemed to go into Weird Robot Dancer mode.

  “New girl, don’t forget to keep your arms in second!” Ms. Petrov called out to me.

  Okay, how useless was that to say? Keep my arms in second? I could barely pay attention to what my feet were doing, let alone what the F my arms were supposed to do! But it was sort of nice to see that she actually paid attention to me. I’m sure it was because I looked like a duck flailing its wings among a sea of beautiful swans.

  Also, you know what? There was something awesome about dancing to classical music being played on a piano by an old man in the corner of the ballet studio. While I myself sucked royally, every once in a while I caught a glimpse of the girls around me dancing in perfect unison, and it was all very pretty.

  And then before you knew it, Ms. Petrov swept her arms up and presented a little bow to our class. “Thank you, mademoiselles. Lovely class. I’ll see you all next week!”

  Everyone bowed to her in return (I just stood there looking confused) and then skipped off to grab their belongings.

  “See, you survived!” Liz exclaimed after chugging water from her Sigg bottle.

  “Um, barely,” I replied.

  “Well, either way, thanks for coming with me. Not sure yet if I’m
going to stick with it.”

  “You should. I could tell it was all coming back to you.”

  “Yeah, right! Well, you honestly weren’t that bad either.”

  I let out a snort of laughter. “I think it got better once the actual dancing started. That was kind of fun.”

  Liz raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really? You think there’s a chance you’ll come back next week?”

  Before I could answer, we got caught in a traffic jam of girls trying to leave the studio. From one group of bunheads walking in front of us, I heard a girl say, “I think people who haven’t danced before really shouldn’t be in this class. I mean, I know it’s beginner and all, but it’s like, embarrassing. That one girl was so hilariously bad.” The girls next to her laughed.

  It was like being transported back to elementary school. I felt that insta-gut-punch and had to blink a few times.

  I looked at Liz instinctively. Her mouth opened to say something, anger flashing across her face, but I just shook my head adamantly. She ignored me and shoved her way between the girls, causing a few of them to trip.

  “OOPS, that was embarrassing,” Liz said with sarcasm oozing.

  My hands flew up to my mouth to muffle my laughter and I skipped off after her.

  The noise was making my brain hurt.

  No, it wasn’t the banging drums by Oliver, who sat behind his drum set like Animal from The Muppet Show: flailing skinny arms, open mouth, and bouncing red curls as he smashed his drumsticks in unadulterated joy.

  Nor was it the off-tune strumming from Karen’s bass guitar. She played from behind a curtain of black hair, and her movements were so subtle that her lanky frame almost blended in with the background.

  No, the noise that was making my brain hurt on a warm Sunday afternoon, just hours after my humiliating morning of ballet, was that of my two best friends, Carrie and David, fighting. Loudly.