Andrew
“Who the hell is Candi?” He asks, zeroing in on his character as it grinds on the metal part of a half pipe. His concentrated gaze glows in the light from the TV in his room.
“You know who Candi is. She sits next to me in Ferguson’s class.” I say before crunching down on a handful of Cool Ranch Doritos.
“You mean cheerleader Candi?”
“Uhh, yeah. I guess you could call her that. Do you think she would come to the show if I bought her a ticket?”
“Why? Do you like her or something?” “Like" is putting it mildly. I've had a crush on her since freshman year.
“Yeah. I mean, she's alright.” Alright? She's fucking beautiful and cool as hell.
“Dude, isn't she with Zane?” Zane, I fucking hate that guy. He's the captain of practically every sports team we have at this school. His mom must blow everyone in the head of the athletics department because every coach thinks he's some kind of celebrity.
“Nah, man. They broke up. I mean, I think they did…” Candi and Zane were the most toxic couple in our school. The way they were on and off again was enough to make your head spin. I never understood why she always went back to that cheating asshole. He treats her like absolute garbage.
“Yeah, but for how long?”
“Good point.” I sigh before taking a long drink from my can of Surge and set it back down on his wooden nightstand next to his bed.
“I mean, you do you, but I wouldn't get your hopes up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Girls like Candi don't like guys like us. They're popular and conform to everyone around them. They want to be like all the people they see on TV and have no sense of originality in their blue and red pom poms.”
“I don't know. She seems like… I don't know… different.” You didn't see the way she looked at me today.
“Hey man, if you like her, go for it. Just don't be surprised when she rejects you because your pink and black mohawk clashes with her white Abercrombie sweater. Or when she decides to go back to that fuck ass Zane.” He shrugs as he grabs a pizza roll and pops it into his mouth.
“Yeah, forget I asked… fuck!” I watch my character on my side of the split screen miss his kickflip.
“Dude, if you want to do a kickflip, you have to do an ollie first. Then you have to push left and square at the same time… like this. Fuck yeah! I landed it.”
“Nice.”
After a couple more hours of junk food and video games, I pack my bass and my amp in the back seat of my gold Honda and drive the short five minutes it takes to get to my house from Rayne's.
Large snowflakes fall hard on my windshield and stick to the wipers with each loud swipe.
I count the few street lamps I pass until I arrive at my house.
Ten. Each one casts light on the falling snow.
My stomach turns upside down the closer I inch towards my home.
The tread of my tires slides onto the slick driveway of my ranch-style three-bedroom house. Everything inside looks dark, aside from the living room illuminated by the TV. The sigh I let out is routine at this point. I hate it here.
“It's late.” My mother slurs, still holding on to the stem of her crystal wine glass. Smoke from her cigarette travels up to her lips, smeared with dark lipstick.
“It's Friday. I had practice.” My case thuds on the hard floor in front of the storm door.
Watching the way her soul nearly leaves her body makes me laugh quietly to myself.
She sits up in a panic as it slams shut.
Smudged mascara imitates the black coloring from the raccoons in our backyard, and long, corded strands of her mahogany hair stick to her wet cheeks.
She's been crying again, and I don't see any sign of my dad.
“Y-you can't be out dr-driving so late when it's snowing. Y-you could get in a wreck.” Her speech trails off as she sets her glass down on the wooden coffee table. Her skinny body soon follows as she slumps onto the couch.
“It's fine. I was at Rayne's house. He lives in the same neighborhood.”
She goes silent. No motherly rebuttal, and she's already passing out with her head leaning on the red suede headrest. Her waif-like arms are tucked in her body as she lies in somewhat of a fetal position.
“Night, mom.” Her soft snores grow louder under her favorite white throw I threw on top of her slender figure.
My mother doesn't stir when I take the glass to the kitchen and empty the red wine into our full sink.
She'll never realize that she didn't drink the remainder of the bottle when I pour the rest of its contents down the drain.
Her memories will just be dark, bits and pieces of forgetful thoughts of her son snuffing out her lit smokes and getting rid of her old cigarette butts in her clear ashtray.
Another Friday night of mother and son bonding.
The night sky looks almost menacing when I peer out of my kitchen window. Hot, soapy suds cover my hands in a sink full of dirty dishes. Images from today flood my mind as I scrub the stubborn leftover spaghetti still stuck on our white porcelain plates.
“I don't think we've met before…” No, not really, but I've been taking glimpses of you since I noticed you in Mrs. Lyle’s class on the first day of school in the ninth grade.
“Nice to officially meet you, Andrew.” Something about the way she said my name has my hair standing on end. I want to talk to her more. I need to. Her voice is like a song I can't get out of my head.
I replay her smile in my mind, and I memorize the way the corners of her mouth move into her blushing cheeks.
I wonder what they would feel like on mine.
How would her lip gloss taste after she kissed me, or when I ran my tongue over her sensitive skin?
Stop, Andrew. You sound like a fucking creep.
You're lucky she talked to you at all. She would never kiss a guy like you.
I shake away the fantasy as the hot water washes away the soapy suds from my forearms. One by one, I dry each dish and piece of silverware, still thinking of the melody of her saying my name.
“Nice to meet you, too, Andrew.” Her imaginary voice fades with the sound of the dirty dish water going down the drain.
My bedroom is in the back of the house. The onyx paint covering the walls makes it dim even with the overhead light on.
I've pinned and taped posters of old horror movies and flyers from past gigs and bands I continuously play on my iPod in random spots above my full-sized bed.
My unmade charcoal grey bedding catches my backpack as it falls off my shoulder.
It sits up, open, while tossing my boots into my closet.
Now that I'm home with nothing to do, my computer calls my name.
Adrenaline buzzes under my skin as I sit in front of my computer in my bedroom.
The bright light from my monitor hits my face, spotlighting me in my dark room.
Like a fucking lurker, I scroll through my MySpace feed and search for Candi’s profile.
I bounce my knee anxiously as I type her name into the search bar. Candi Hart.
I tried my best at avoiding adding her to my Friends List years ago, back when she caught my eye in class. To put it bluntly, I don't do well with rejection, and let's be honest, I'm not the type of guy she goes for. Or at least that's what I thought before today in history class.
I've always known she had no idea who I was, but a part of me hoped she would look my way, just once.
Since then, I'd occasionally stalk her public page as if it would tell me anything about her life.
My heart beats like a drum in my chest with every new picture she adds to her profile.
Little does she know, I don't need MySpace to tell me what I already know.
Pathetically, I've noticed her in the halls, in class, and when she slides into Zane’s passenger seat of his red and white convertible Sebring after school.
The rare times she isn't attached to her jock of a boyfriend, she's walking in her pack of cheerleader clones.
They're all the same, but she stands out like a black rose in a bouquet of red petals.
“You can't be like all of the rest of them. There's no fucking way.”
I continue to sit anxiously in my computer chair as my computer mouse hovers over the “Add Friend” button like it's a repelling magnet.
The slick white surface grows damp in my clammy hands, and my nerves make me feel like I'm vibrating.
“Come on, just add her. Don't be a fucking pussy.” What if she rejects me?
The agonizing question is so loud, I can't think straight.
“Damn it, Andrew, just do it!” With one click, my whole eighteen years play before my eyes.
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit! I just sent the hottest girl in my class a friend request.” I laugh out loud in disbelief.
“I actually fucking did it!” Then it hits me.
I've sent the hottest girl in school a friend request on MySpace.
“What the hell did I just do?” I hold my head in my hands, peeking through the open spaces in my fingers as I scan over my friends list.
The pictures of my fellow online friends are in a sea of leather, black concert tees, vibrant colored hair, and facial piercings. Candi’s cheerleading uniform will stick out like the spikes on my dog collar choker.
“She's going to see all of my friends and look the other way. How could I have been so fucking stupid?!” My eyes stay glued to my screen. Specifically, the tiny envelope in the corner. The longer I stare at my notifications, the more I’m going to make myself crazy.
“I should just cancel the request, right?
There's no way she'll accept mine.” My hands are shaking as I reluctantly move my mouse to the little icon, but something stops me.
My “friends” are up by one. “Wait… What?
No fucking way. It couldn't be her… She wouldn't have accepted me so fast…”
To my surprise, she proves me wrong. So very, very wrong.
One more person in my collection of electronic friends, only this one isn't someone I've never met before who lives across the country or who wears mesh shirts and a million plastic bracelets on their wrists.
It's her. It's Candi. “Shit. What the hell do I do?
New message. My notification lights up red again, and my anxiety doubles. “There's no way she wants to talk to me…” Curiosity gets the best of me, and I click on the tiny “1” that won't go away, no matter how much I think I'm hallucinating.
Hey. It's the first message from the girl I've watched from afar for almost four years. I've been waiting for this moment since I laid my eyes on her… but what the hell am I supposed to say? My mind goes blank, I feel like my heart is about to slide out of my throat.
Wassup? How fucking original, dumbass.
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
nmu?
Nothing much. You? It's a little underwhelming, but what else should I expect for a first-time message? It's not as if she's going to tell me she's been waiting for this moment for years, or how exciting it is to talk to me.
Misfit_Bassist:
Same. Just chillin.
The girl of your dreams just sent you a message, and that's all you want to say? Come on… think.
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
Wow. Look at us. Two seniors that are doing nothing on a Friday night.
Misfit_Bassist:
Haha. Yeah… Wait… What? You're one of the most popular girls in our class, and you're doing nothing on a Friday night? It seems… unbelievable.
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
I could say the same thing about you. You don't have a show or something?
A show? Does she know I'm in a band?
Misfit_Bassist:
Haha. No, I just finished band practice. Wait… How did you know I was in a band?
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
Just a lucky guess. You draw in history almost every day. I just guessed they were band names… I liked the one from today. Blood Red something… in really cool graffiti lettering.
Misfit_Bassist:
Blood Red Serenade. That's the name of my band.
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
Oh, ok :) Cool name! What do you play?
Misfit_Bassist:
Guess ;)
Is this really my sad attempt at flirting?
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
Haha, okay. Umm… drummer?
She can't be serious? Do I look like I would play the drums?
Misfit_Bassist:
Seriously? Haha, no, try again.
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
JK. I'm going to have to say… The bass…
Misfit_Bassist:
Second guess… Not bad.
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
Yeah… I can just read people. That, and your username kind of gives you away.
Misfit_Bassist:
*Note to self: change my username so I can be more mysterious to pretty girls.
What the hell was that?
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
You think I'm pretty? Whoa, calm down. If you keep telling me all of your secrets, your plan to be mysterious won't work…
Misfit_Bassist:
Oh damn. You're right. I'll have to try harder next time we talk, lol
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
Don't try too hard…
Misfit_Bassist:
Oh, and why is that?
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
I have my reasons…
Misfit_Bassist:
Now look who's being mysterious…
Candi and I talk for hours, but it only seems like minutes.
Most people would say it's idle conversation, unimportant little facts you say to get to know someone.
To me, they're like little details that will be engraved on the steel trap of my mind.
Her favorite color, for instance, is pink.
No surprise there. What she reaches for in the cooler section of Speedway: a Strawberry Banana SoBe.
Finally, maybe the most important fact of the day: what she orders from Taco Bell.
A Mexican Pizza with Sierra Mist and cinnamon twists.
We get the same things. That can't be a normal coincidence.
Candi asked her share of questions. What is my favorite subject in school: history, of course. What I like to do for fun: play my bass and video games. If I have any brothers or sisters: No. It's just me and the ‘rents. Lucky for her, I didn't go into how bad they suck.
With a grin stretched from ear to ear, I stare at the screen and wait for another one of her addicting messages. I wait with anticipation to see what else she could say. Will it be another question or another one of her funny and quick-witted remarks?
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
Shit! Andrew, it's 4 in the morning!
Oh. I know where this is going. If she were in front of me instead of behind her computer screen, she would see the disappointment in my face.
Misfit_Bassist:
Oh damn. I guess it is.
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
I g2g. I have practice in the morning.
Misfit_Bassist:
Yeah, I probably should go too…
XoXo:Candi:XoXo:
ttyl, Andrew
Misfit_Bassist:
Night, Candi