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After class ended, one of the girls from the back of the room who had called out to her at the beginning of class approached Bridgette before I had the chance, my notebook still laid out over the desk with my abbreviated notes hastily scribbled over the pages—later, at home, I would organize them in a separate notebook, color coded—and I wasn't sure if it looked better for me to linger around in the classroom until she was free or to wait outside in the hall, act casually when she stepped out. I didn't want to look desperate to talk to her, but I kind of was.
She was the first one here to offer me a smile, even if it was tight and a little awkward, but it was more than Dylan gave me earlier, and Noel didn't even recognize me. It felt like a window I needed to slip through, quick before it closed, and then I was back out in the hallway, slowly taking textbooks out of my locker because there wasn't anyone for me to talk to.
Then the teacher started glancing over at me from behind his desk, like he was about to ask me if I had any questions for him, and I would either have to make something up on the spot or say that I didn't, and make it incredibly obvious to everyone in the room that I wanted to talk to Bridgette, who in the midst of discussing the whirlwind success of her debut album. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, the girl's laughter echoing behind me, and I felt a pang of jealousy that I wasn't the one she was joking with.
I hung around the water fountain for a moment, anxiously glancing at the doorframe of the classroom and the other students around in case any of them were angrily staring at me with empty water bottles in their hands. After a moment, and after I had to step out of the way of the fountain for a senior I recognized from one of my earlier classes, I spotted her walking out and into the hallway, alone.
Her backpack was gripped in her hand instead of over her shoulder, her other hand waving to a girl at her locker, and she was headed in the opposite direction so I had to speed up to catch her, my shoes squeaking against the tiles. Then, as she started to turn her head, I slowed down and tried to relax my facial muscles, look casual, like I hadn't been waiting outside for three minutes to talk to her. I didn't want to look too eager, wondering if that might have been where I went wrong with Dylan. It was where I went wrong the first time we met.
"Bridgette, hey," I said, smiling as her stride slowed somewhat, grayish blue eyes taking me in, and it was then that I realized I didn't know what to say next. I wanted to congratulate her on her album, tell her that I memorized all the lyrics, listened to the seventh track whenever I felt the most misunderstood. But those were things fans said, not friends. Not someone who knew them and knew them well, and I thought I did. Or, at least, I used to. "Your hair is so pretty."
I nearly bumped into someone's shoulder as I realized that telling her that her hair was pretty wasn't exactly much better than complementing her album. Last time I saw her, face to face, it was a shade of golden blonde, one I was so jealous of because it reminded me of Aurora's in Sleeping Beauty, when the animation styled changed into a deepened, still painting after she had pricked her finger and left to her eternal slumber in a castle tower. Now it looked more like her hair throughout the rest of the film, a pale shade of cool blond, styled with loose waves.
