3 - Samantha
Saturday morning, I’mhome alone and perfectly content. The night before was a rough one. It wasn’t pleasant by far, so I definitely made a good choice by staying home from the game. My stomach had me in the bathroom several more times. Roxy debated whether or not it would be ok to leave me. But knowing that I cannot stand it when my life interrupts someone else’s, I find that she’s already at work when I get up this morning. Roxy is technically my grandma, but she doesn’t like the label grandma. She doesn’t think of herself in that way, and frankly, neither do I. She owns a local beauty salon and is always finding new ways to reinvent herself and remain youthful. She’s a lot of fun.
After a quick bite to eat, I go into my dark room and begin developing some rolls of film I have waiting. The old-fashioned way to develop pictures is fun. I like it best, but I also have a digital camera and printing system at my disposal. It was one of the Christmas presents I received from Stella. I see more of the FedEx guy than my mom, but that’s fine. She’s always on location somewhere and I’m glad her assistant Meredith has good taste.
I have several pictures hanging to dry when I hear the front door. I secure the last one in place, pull the black curtain across and go through the door of the dark room, careful not to allow any outside light in. The door bell sounds again.
“Coming!” I yell, baffled about who would be here. Cyn isn’t usually up this early. Besides that, she knows where we hide the spare key. When I reach the door, I’m shocked when I peek through the curtain. It’s Phillip. For the first time this morning, my stomach flips and I actually begin to get nervous.
“Hey Phillip,” I greet him, still set back with confusion by him being here.
Looking up at his impossible dimples, I stand there frozen for a half second. His chocolate brown hair isn’t as styled as it usually is on a school day. It looks even better. From where I’m standing, I can detect his cologne. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it’s a mix of something both sweet and woodsy.
“Hey Samantha. You busy?”
“No, not really.” I step out onto the porch, closing the door behind me. “Are you looking for Cynthia? She’s not here.”
“No, I’m not looking for my sister. I know she’s still sleeping,” he points toward his house with a nod. “I’m here for you actually.”
It’s then that I suddenly become aware of my appearance. My very relaxed, cut-off sweats, t-shirt and bare feet appearance. My stomach flips again. This time I’m not sure it’s butterflies. I place one hand on my stomach for comfort and sit on the porch swing. “What do you need?”
Phillip sits next to me. “I think I mixed up our biology notebooks. I opened it up to do some homework and saw your handwriting. Sorry.” He hands me a blue notebook that a moment ago I never noticed.
Yep, queasy now. I hate this, I think to myself.
“It’s ok, let me check my bag for yours. I didn’t tackle homework yet.” I stand up, shake out my free hand and go inside for a brief moment. I can’t help shaking my hand. It’s what I do when I’m nervous. I saw Julia Roberts do it once in one of her movies and didn’t feel as insecure about it anymore...until now.
Sure enough, to my surprise, the blue biology notebook in my bag has Phillip’s handwriting in it. I snatch it up and quickly go back outside. “It would appear I’m holding your notebook hostage.” I politely smile, but really, I’m thinking of how nice he looks sitting on my porch swing.
Phillip was always good looking, but he most certainly did not look like this junior year. Last year he was tall and muscular just like an athlete should be. But I’m not sure what happened over the summer. Whether it was the extra football camp his dad sent him to, or his hormones kicked into overdrive. But my God, he’s filled out and so hot now.
“Here ya go.” My stomach flips again and I can’t help making a face.
“It was my fault, no biggie.” Phillip pauses after taking back his notebook, as if searching for something else to say. I can’t think of anything to break the silence either. But then my stomach does a final flip and causes my hand to fly to my mouth.
My eyes are wide with embarrassment of horrific proportions. “Be right back.” I run into the house leaving the front door wide open.
Phillip must be worried because I hear him calling my name. I’m not finished heaving into the toilet, so I can’t answer right away. “Samantha, are you ok?” he yells again, this time nervousness tinges his voice.
Why did this have to happen?“Give me a second.” I try to rinse my mouth with water from the faucet and splash a little on my face too before opening the door.
Phillip stands there, tense, with his eyebrows creased with worry.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I apologize. I cross the room to my bag and dig out my breath mints and pop a few in my mouth. “Can we try again?” I ask, motioning to the front door. Phillip hesitates and I can’t blame him. “I’m not contagious, I promise.” I try to smile, but I still feel a little shaky from my puking episode. Not to mention riddled with embarrassment. Extending my hand, I point to the front porch and begin to follow Phillip out. We saunter as far as the doorway where I stop, hesitating to close the door. “Thanks for bringing my notebook over.”
“It’s no problem. Umm...” Phillip’s eyebrows are still stitched together. “What’s going on, Samantha?” he demands. “My sister says you’re sensitive to food, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? I saw you leave biology like this yesterday and again at lunch. You left the cafeteria in the same warp speed to the bathroom as you did just now.” His dark brown eyes gleam in search of answers, and for some unknown reason I feel compelled to give them to him, but I can’t.
My heart begins thumping so hard my chest barely contains it. I can hear it, deep in my ears. Suddenly I’m hot all over, nervous, like when you see a police car in your rear-view mirror. I’ve done nothing wrong, but he’s calling my bluff.
“You’re right, Phillip. I am sick,” I reluctantly admit. A large lump clogs my throat. I can barely breathe.
I recognize his expression from the hallway at school yesterday. He had the same look on his face then as he does now. Compassion. Taking a sharp breath in, I try to maintain my composure. I’m about to throw up again and yet I’m torn with appreciation of his genuine concern.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No, but thanks for bringing my notebook over,” I say just before taking a half step back.
“Are you sure, Samantha?
He takes a step in my direction and I reflexively jump back. “I’m sure,” I say, fighting back a tear. “I should be ok. The doctor says so at least. Besides, it’s hardly something you can fix.” And I shut the door.