The Truth About Books and Boys

six

six

Last year, when I was a sophomore, Sam was a freshman. He happened to be one of those mathematical-and-scientific-genius freshmen, so he was put into Advanced Sophomore Chemistry and Advanced Sophomore Algebra II. I happened to be in both of these advanced classes, because despite my gravitation towards linguistics, I wasn’t completely incompetent in those other areas. (By the end of the year, we—meaning my parents, teacher, and I—discovered that Advanced Sophomore Algebra II wasn’t the place for Emily Albert, so we decided that I needed to stick to History and English). So, Sam and I were in two classes together. I didn’t really know whom he was, because he always sat towards the back, not daring to say a word in a room full of intimidatingly brilliant sophomores.

But then around December (when I got my first 32% on a test), our math teacher gave us assigned seats for an assortment of reasons. Our math room didn’t have desks like the majority of the other classrooms, but rather tables equipped for four. For the first part of the term, I had sat towards the front of the room with Felicity, who understood everything, but barely said a word. After the assignment of seats, however, I sat at the back of the room with Sam and two other kids who could do the work, but would’ve rather been playing basketball or smoking pot. Since these other two kids were the unsociable type, I latched on to Sam, because he was a harmless freshman. On his face was the faint presence of acne and these GIANT metal-rimmed glasses (not the cool type like Oliver had). He was also SUPER awkward, but so was I, so I didn’t mind.

For the first week, I wasn’t too happy with my new assigned seat. I liked being near Felicity because she was familiar and safe and these two kids and Sam were strangers. Though, as the days wore on, I realized that maybe this was a positive. Whenever I had a question that I was too afraid to ask, Sam would whisper the answer to me before I even verbalized it. He was really smart. And he also happened to be a spectacular explainer, so even though I was partially lost the entire time, Sam helped me through it. He had a mind made for math, and solving functions was practically second nature to him.

Sam would help me during class, and we would occasionally meet outside of class to review (Sam didn’t need the review, but I did) before a big test. We weren’t friends, but we were definitely friendly. I liked Sam. Despite all of his awkwardness and acne, he was beyond bright and likable.

Then February rolled around. It was towards the beginning of the month, not even close to Valentine’s Day, when Sam paused one of our study sessions to ask me something.

“Uh, Emily,” he said, his voice all nerves, “would you—would you—would you like to, um, be, um, my—my girl—girlfriend?”

I replayed his question in my mind, sans the pauses and stuttering. My eyes bulged, and twinge of guilt hurtled through me like a bullet. There was no nice way to answer. Except for the affirmative, but I couldn’t do that, so I was left breaking poor little Sam’s heart as delicately as I could: “I’m really sorry, Sam”—his face dropped—“but I don’t think this is the time for me to enter into a relationship.” I tried my hardest to divert it away from being about him, but after those words were uttered, nothing was the same with Sam ever again.

In class, he didn’t explain things to me anymore. When I asked a question, he would merely grunt or growl. We never had study sessions anymore. Every time he looked at me, it was with malice—I was the girl who rejected him. And honestly, I didn’t think that any of this behavior was fair in the slightest. Yes, I played the bad guy—girl—in the situation, but I was forced into the role. I couldn’t have said yes because I didn’t like Sam like that, but after a tiny little bit of rejection from Emily Albert, suddenly I was villianized. Because boys—no matter how old or young or weird or cool—couldn’t handle rejection. The girl who turned them down was dubbed a “bitch,” and they were in the right, because they were guys. That wasn’t fair. Just because Sam was a defenseless freshman didn’t make him a victim of the Great Emily Albert. He was just another guy who was told no and couldn’t deal with it.