I snap a picture of it and message it to Kallie.
This actually overrides the whole “sorry you weren’t nominated” bit. Sean giving me his number means something. Guys don’t go around giving their numbers to girls they want to be friends with. Not guys like him. Nope. A voice and smile like his are not hard up for a study partner with no credentials other than “seat behind you” stalking. If only I was cool enough to wait until Monday to see if he says anything about me not calling him, but I don’t have that type of willpower.
To text or not to text. Texting in a situation like this is usually something I’d avoid since there’s always the chance my words will come off the wrong way and I’ll be in a mess until I construct forty more lines to explain myself. It can be a time suck. Sometimes it’s the chicken shit way to go. So that’s why I might text. I’m worried about my voice quavering on the phone and don’t want Sean to hear my nerves.
I pull the phone to my ear and pretend to call: “Hey Sean, it’s Bree. From class. Hughes, Bree Hughes.” Then I get carried away. “Yes, Bree with dark brown hair and blue-gray eyes. Five foot five and a quarter. I like shows and movies about zombies but serial killer movies freak me out. And you’ve never seen it, but I have a Massachusetts-shaped birthmark on my stomach and some cellulite on my thighs. Language Arts is my favorite class but your neck is very distracting. Sorry, but it’s true. And now you know that, you might as well know that I’ve been passive aggressively stalking you this whole semester …”
Buzzzz. My text alert goes off and I jump, hoping it’s Sean. Oh, wait. He’s the one who gave me his number. I check the screen.
KALLIE VATE.
Call him now! That’s WAY better than Prom Court. But still SORRY u didn’t get in!!!! : ( Thx for nominating me tho LUV U. I’ll call u tmrw!
An out-of-nowhere rock drop feeling assaults me, from the top to the bottom of my gut. My best friend feels sorry for me, too. Ugh. And, as usual, she’s hanging with Todd tonight. Weekends are so much easier when your best friend is single or you have your own boyfriend. Chip was the last guy I dated. And since that turned out so shitty, I haven’t been actively searching for a replacement. Just dreaming of one. If I can step it up a notch, maybe Sean could be the next guy.
It’s probably time to follow Kallie’s advice and call him before I overthink myself right into Monday. Sean’s number stares back at me as I suck in a deep breath while reciting his digits in my head. I tap them into my phone and then do a half-dancy jumping jack to get myself into “operation call hot guy” mode. It rings twice and I hope for voicemail while my nerves kick harder. Fourth ring and yes. Voicemail.
“It’s Sean—say something important or funny.” BEEEEEP.
His deep drawl followed by a superfast beep throws me off and I almost hang up. But I can’t. I have to leave a message or he might wait for me to call back. Or he won’t see my missed call. Or he might not know it was me and think I’m some salesperson trying to sell printer ink or pet insurance.
“Hi Sean, this is Bree. From Language Arts and um, Bree Hughes, so I was calling since my notes, um, because you have my—” And then I do something beyond stupid. I’m so nervous that I decide to re-do my message and hope to God his phone has that option like most voicemails do. So, I tap the star button key but nothing happens. Just air. I hit the pound sign. Still nothing. Oh Shit. I can’t hang up because that would be totally lame, so out of desperation I drop the phone then pick it back up. The cat clock on my wall grins at me like I’m a total idiot. “Omigod I’m so sorry, my cat just jumped in my lap and knocked the phone out of my hand. Sorry! Anyways, as I was saying it’s Bree from Language Arts and you have my notes so if—”
BEEEEEP. An automated robot lady says “Thank you” and hangs up on me.
I press pound and star again, but nothing. My heart punches my chest. I am horrified.
I throw my iPhone. “Screw you robot lady.” It lands with a thud on my shaggy blue carpet. For crap sake, I can’t call back. Two messages would sound pathetic. Defeated, I pick the phone back up and send a text.
Hey Sean its Bree Hughes from Lang Arts If u need to, u can have my notes til Mon or I can get whenever
I press Send right away so I don’t overthink and mess this one up too. Before I can conjure up a story of how I became the proud owner of a nonexistent cat, my mom breezes through my door, asking if I want to go out for dinner instead of pizza, the usual end of the week meal. My face contorts as I worry about looking uncool hanging with my mom on a Friday night.