Pamela's manicured fingertips brush across the metallic pin-back button on the pocket flap of her bag. Grinning at her latest pick up, Pamela let's out a humble brag. "I mean, Michael and I were definitely meant to be. He'll figure it out soon enough," jokes Pamela as she playfully bumps up against her friend, Joan.
"Yeah, sure. But while we're waiting for Michael to figure it out, who do you have your eye arm that is within arm's reach?"
The question is simple and yet, it is quite difficult. Pamela's the kind of girl to not have a type. She's dated plenty of guys. She's dated some tall guys, some short guys. One would assume some black and some white but, unfortunately, not too many white men have been interested in her. The ones that have were either embarrassed to be seen with her or intimidated by her intelligence, though the intimidation aspect goes for the flip-side of the race coin too. She's been with jocks and geeks, jerks and freaks. Her preference is to not have a preference. Yet, the person to strike her interest in her most recent times is in a category of his own. He's all of the above. Though he's caught her attention, she is not sure how she feels about him. They share every class together with the exception of lunch. She, loving to keep busy, picked up an extra elective while he, having enough credits to graduate when he was sixteen, decided to take an entire period to leave campus or do whatever he wants.
Not feeling comfortable to address her feelings until she understands them, Pamela ignores the first name that comes to her mind. "Uhm, no?" She and Joan laugh as their friend, Diane, remains focused on not dropping her history project. "You know me. You know that I would have spoken up if I was looking at anyone."
"Well, Prom is six days away. It is never too late to get a date. Who says you guys have to match?"
Diane finally speaks up.
"I don't think I'd want to go to Prom alone," she openly says. Prince, somehow ends up in front of the girls as they walk. His attention is on his conversation as he pays the girls zero mind. "Junior Prom would be fine because nobody really cares about junior year, you can always try again next year. Senior Prom? I cannot imagine not having a date. If I wasn't dating Abraham, Id probably be pretty desperate for a date," Diane admits.
Joan disagrees within her groan.
Still refusing to look up from her project, Diane continues to stand behind her personal opinion. "I mean it. I couldn't go by myself... no offense, Pam."
Pamela half smiles, not taking any offense to the views of her friend. The three continue on into the building and make their ways to their lockers. The propped open doors of classrooms remind students that regardless of how much fun is had on the campus, they are still in attendance to an institute where the main focus is supposed to be education. Pamela and her friends separate as she skips off to her locker. On the exact opposite side at locker 319, her locker being 913, Pamela pulls her books from the top shelf as she shoves her bag into the specific spot made for it within the compartment. Prince grabs his own set of his supplies including two extra notebooks, one full of jokes and pick-up lines to practice for his female companions, the other full of doodles and poetry. Pamela waltz into the room first, Prince follows first. In the first class, his seat is directly in front of her. Eyes scanned the room failing to take note of the way they continuously move motion by motion in perfect sync. Pamela's eyes slowly glance up to face the large wad of hair as she begins to melt in her seat for the first time today. She pulls out her notebook as the instructor begins to speak. Her eyes glued to the lined paper, she finds herself being lost in the flow of her pen.
17 January 1976
Here we are... in first period, Ms. Henry's class. I don't really know what these feelings are. He is so cute! :) He doesn't talk too much in class but, I've seen him around with his friends. I guess I like him. I don't know how to necessarily go about it. I find myself thinking about him when I'm alone, but we don't talk too much. How do you crush on someone that you don't know? That's where my confusion begins.
Could it be that I know more about him than I believe? Or am I maybe out of my damn mind. Prince, he's a different kind of cart. Although I think it's pretty cool, he
The bell rings for the third time within the hour as it cuts her off from finishing her sentence. A look of disbelief settles upon Pamela's face as she examines her own handwriting, realizing that it took her so long to come up with such little information. The more she attempts to vocalize her infatuation with Prince, the more her brain swallows her alive and purposely chews an extra amount of times on the side that is responsible for storing all of her Prince related ponders.
She finds herself in her next class. This would be the first time of the day that Prince is seated behind her. Her last name being Monroe, his being Nelson, she grew used to being placed near him in the sixth grade. He sat behind her and for the first time of the day, he was allowed to admire her in her natural form. His eyes start at the top of her condensed curls as he begins to trail down. Her shoulders on display allow him to momentarily imagine her covered in a sheet following a long night of passion. His eyes quickly fall down the slope of her obliques and down to her hips. Prince is known attention to every detail of her transformation, a transformation that he is proud to have witnessed over the years.
His notebook is flipped to a page featuring a pre-written introduction to his very own Juliet.
My Dearest Pamela,
Only three words and a single comma on the page, Prince struggles with figuring out how to vocalize his feelings in order to spew them onto the paper. He finds himself not staring at Pamela the entire class period for the first time since the school year began. I stead, he stares at his notebook, frying his brain, until the bell rings. Prince rises from his seat, his brain being replaced by a pink of pink goop, sighing with his books in his arms. Their first moment of separation approaching following this class period, the two separately thank the heavens that they are seated completely across the classroom. Pamela, known to step out of her own bubble to show off her outfit by taking a trip to the pencil sharpener, remains seated for the entirety of Mr. Phillips' lecture on the importance of the world's economic breakdown that is predicted to take place in five years.
The urge to look at one another is strong today.
The moment he is given a second to think, he sprints off to the campus' football field. He settles comfortably at the very top of the bleachers as the marching band. Meanwhile, Pamela is sorting through the collection of photographs her fellow yearbook editors brought her way. She crossed paths with his photo taken last month. He sat at the piano in the music groom and he looked absolutely unamused, but in a snarky kind of way. Pamela silently smiles to herself and places it in the pile of photos that she plans to place in the book's final edition.
Prince brings his notebook to his attention, trying to express himself for the second time today... with the help of the marching band's rendition of the Chi-Lite's Are You My Woman. Prince grips his pen a little tighter than before.
You carry the energy of a thousand moons, the radiance of a thousand suns, the poise of a thousand queens, the intelligence of a thousand libraries. With every step you take, you hover directly above the ground like the goddess that you are. Yes, a goddess because only someone immoral has the ability to possess the body you have discovered is your true form.
Prince groans. "Too forward, man." He snaps the book closed and looks around the field as if someone, besides the band, has the ability to hear him.
He picks up his notebook and rises.
The day moves forward with the same rotation of one another staring at the other, completely lost in a fantasy of what could be if only the other would speak up on the confusion. Pamela and Prince make it down to the very last minute anything being said of the day. The clock starts with sixty seconds remaining. Their class is separated in their own corners, giggling about dozens on separate conversations and completely ignoring the talk white substitute woman playing as step in for Sra. Flores. Though it takes him all day, Prince thinks of how to spark Pamela's interest.
Pamela sits gathering her last thoughts of frustration as his feelings spill onto the page. Prince shuts his eyes temporarily, squeezing his own hand as he drops his head. He is charging up his encourage. In a burst of bravery, Prince turns around to face Pamela. "There is nothing wrong with going to the prom by yourself." Her jaw drops and the bell rings. Prince, no longer as confident, grabs his notebook and books it.
He did not have a follow up response prepared.
