One: Corina
Silence hangs like an awkward brown coat, floating in the car ominously. I study Jesse from the corner of my eye. His face is concentrated and serious as he drives me home.
Sighing to myself, I fidget with the seat belt across my chest. It's not like this awkwardness is new. It was present throughout our entire date, making an appearance in between of polite talking.
This so wasn't like me.
Jesse isn't a bad guy. He doesn't even look bad. With jet black hair and piercing black eyes, high cheekbones and full red lips, he's easily the most handsome guy I've ever rested my eyes on.
He just isn't my type... I think.
"We're here," he announces, pulling up outside what he thinks is my house.
Wordlessly, we climb out of his black Jaguar and Jesse, being the perfect gentleman that he is, walks me to the front door.
I smile politely. "Thanks for the dinner, Jesse," my conscience makes me say, "It was really wonderful."
He flashes me a heart-stopping smile - except, it doesn't make my heart stop. Not in the least.
I drag in a breath. So this is it, huh? My heart is nagging me but I know I have to do it.
So what if there is no spark, no connection between us? Everyone knows that only happens in movies, books and fairytales.
I fake a grin. "Hey Jesse?" I ask, tilting my head to my right and taking in his cute features, illuminated by the twilight so that he looked like a ghost.
A very hot ghost...
"Hey Corina?" he imitates, tilting his head too. I'm overwhelmed by a sudden urge to slap him, for some reason.
"I know this is fast," I murmur instead, "but will you be my boyfriend?"
One date.
It takes one date with a boy to make me realize how socially retarded I am. I can't even make conversation with a boy without utterly humiliating myself. Talk about lame.
And ever since my very first, very awkward and very humiliating date, I have been desperate for a boyfriend who’ll teach me the strings.
‘Desperate’ being the understatement of the century.
The only person who had laughed on our date was Jesse, who found every awkward thing I said funny. He even went as far as slapping his knee in laughter – every single time. Although I had this gut feeling he was laughing at me, and not with me.
I don't blame him. If I were him, I would be laughing at myself too.
Aren't there some habits buried deep in the instincts of an eighteen-year-old? Like the habit to make simple conversation with a guy?
Or the ability to smoothly ask a guy to be my boyfriend?
"Corina, you're a cool girl," Jesse’s eyes are dull now, "but you're just not my type."
Well I'm glad we got that out of the way.
"So is that a no, yes, or maybe?" I ask, bagging the prize for Most Stupid Question Asked spot-on.
"A no," he confirms, plastering a smile on his face. I can almost imagine the upward tilt of his lips taunting me silently, laughing cheekily at my bad luck.
"Oh, okay," I laugh awkwardly, "I'm gonna go empty a glass of cold water on my head now. Goodnight Jesse."
Really? No, I mean seriously: really? So maybe I do plan on doing just that, but did I honestly have to clue him in?
Maybe I should just choke down some poison while I'm at it.
Jesse bursts out laughing, leaning over to slap his knee. Woah, totally didn't see that one coming.
On second thought, maybe I'll have him choke down poison while I sink into the chilly embrace of ice cream.
"Night, Corina," he finally says, tears streaming down his eyes. So much for being painfully honest - this guy is a jerk through and through.
Getting into his glamorous car and closing the door with a final click, I watch silently as Jesse drives away, waving until his car is no more in the driveway.
"Stupid, inconsiderate animal," I mutter, pulling open the brown oak door. Not quite to my surprise, what feels like a sack of potatoes is suddenly chucked at me.
“Tom!” I exclaim, glaring playfully at Jerome, my pathetic excuse of a best friend. “What on earth?”
"Well, someone doesn’t handle rejection well,” he remarks, stepping away from me and laughing openly.
I smile, leaning over to switch on the lights. “Thought you’d be sleeping,” I lie. This is Jerome; if I’m out on a date, no way he’d grab a wink of sleep.
“Nope,” he returns the grin, walking into the living room as I follow behind. “I was waiting up for you. How did it go?”
I all but fall down onto his brown couch, scowling at him. “How do you think it went, Tom?”
“Awful,” he answers, winking at me as he sits cross-legged on the floor in front of me. “How did he react?”
“I’m apparently not his type,” I say sullenly, rolling my eyes, “He even found it funny.”
“Because you told him you’re going to torture yourself,” Jerome states, laughing at my expression. “You did, didn’t you?”
“You know me too well,” I groan, burying my face into a pillow, “Time to get a new best friend.”
Jerome’s familiar, friendly laugh fills my ears yet again. This guy sure loves laughing. “You realized that eighteen years too late, Ree.”
Standing up, he pulls me up with him. “Why were you interested in that guy anyway?”
“I dunno,” I shrug, straightening my turquoise dress.
Jerome grimaces. “Mom’s choice?”
“Yeah,” I mirror his face, “You got that right.”
“So what was his name again?” he asks, walking leisurely to his kitchen. I follow behind him, tugging at my curled black hair.
“Jesse Richard,” I answer, "Apparently we’re ‘made for each other’.” Blame my mother and her over-imaginative brain. In the past three months, I’ve met about fifteen other guys who were my ‘honest-to-God other halves’.
“So what do you like about him?” Jerome asks relentlessly. I know better than to argue; this has become almost like routine. I go out with a guy my mom recommends, and then once I’m turned down – because I’m always turned down – we try analyzing the ‘perfect match’ and, as always, conclude that he wasn’t worth it.
Just, you know, an eighteen-year-old girl’s average life.
“He’s cute,” I admit, smiling slightly. “And doesn’t really mind me being that awkward.”
“You? Awkward?” Jerome scoffs. Being the professional multi-tasker that he is, he’s halfway through making two cups of coffee.
You see, the thing with Jerome is that he can’t believe all the other guys don’t like me. He can’t even believe I can be remotely awkward. Because for Jerome, I’m...
“Yeah, you moron.”
...wild. To say the least.
“You’re never awkward in front of me,” he points out calmly, grabbing two coffee cups and pouring the hot beverage into it.
“That’s because you’re you,” I say, with the air of explaining something to a two-year-old. Frankly, I can’t find the difference. “You don’t even qualify as a guy.”
“I feel offended,” he announces, pulling on what he thinks to be an offended expression.
“Is looking like you’ve choked on a rubber duckie your way of showing it?” I ask innocently, smirking at his fallen expression. “You didn’t look that bad,” I admit, instantly regretting it as his chest puffs out.
Feed the guy with compliments and get a huge ego for free.
I don't complain though. It comes with being his best friend. Plus, I have plenty of time for revenge. And he’s way too oblivious to realize that.
We take our coffee cups and head to the living room, sinking down on the couch beside each other. I drag my legs up to my chest and cradle the hot cup in my hands, letting the warmth heat me up.
“Dude, what’s up with the heating?”
“Mom broke it,” he frowns, “Something about cleaning the house.”
I can’t stop myself from laughing. Jane – Jerome’s mom – isn’t exactly your typical housewife. She holds hairdryers as often as my mom holds dusting feathers, and picnics at the mall are her staple diet.
“You sound down,” I remark, following my words with a long sip from my cup.
“Oh Ree,” he begins sarcastically, “It’s just two in the morning. Can’t possibly be because I was up late wondering what that jerk of a guy did to my best friend, can it?”
“You were worried?” I ask delightfully, leaning forward to ruffle his already messy brown hair. “How cute.”
“Try stupid,” he mutters. However, I know he doesn’t mean it, because his mud-brown eyes twinkle playfully the way Jesse’s eyes fail to do on more occasions than one.
“So were you expecting him to say yes?” Jerome asks, his coffee cup untouched. I consider forcing him to drink some of it – his sleepy atmosphere is making me die of boredom.
“No, not really,” I admit, “More like routine, you know?”
“I don’t think I know, considering I’ve never been compelled to ask a girl out,” he smirks, “They’re always throwing themselves at me, you see?”
That has to be the biggest lie of the millennium. Sure, Jerome’s cute and stuff in a very best friend sort of way, but there are…were…better-looking guys in our grade.
I almost gasp with the realization. High school is over.
Over.
And I blame stupid Jerome for reminding me of that definite death threat.
“Jerk.”
“Weirdo.”
“Tomster .”
“Ree-a-doodle-doo.”
I burst out laughing at that one.
Needless to say, Jerome and I are a tad bit crazy. When we were six, we discovered nicknames, and decided that we needed to give each other special ones.
Jerome began calling me Ree, not too original if you ask me. He basically got it from the second syllable of my name. But I guess it qualifies – no credit to his imagination.
I, on the other hand, set my imaginative gears working and came up with my special name for him – Tom. Everyone calls him Jerry – short for Jerome – but I played it a different way. Instead of going with good old Jerry, I call him Jerry’s other half – Tom.
If you don’t get which famous duo I’m referring to, you had an awful childhood.
“Really?” I giggle, “I remind you of a rooster?”
“Yes,” he nods solemnly, “A rooster that’s keeping me up so freaking late at night.”
“Chill, Tom,” I punch him playfully, “You and I both know it doesn’t matter.”
He glares at me playfully. “Done insulting me?”
“Not yet,” I smile devilishly, “Just waiting for inspiration to sink in.”
Being completely Jerome-like and coming up with zero awesome answers to retaliate with, he rolls his eyes. “So why did you tell dear Mr. Jesse that this is your house again?”
I sigh satisfactorily. Poor Jesse probably thinks I live here, at Jerome’s house. After all, I made him pick me up for my date from here, under the pretense that this is my home.
“Because if I made him pick me up from my own house,” I explain, “Mom will probably start handing out the wedding invitations.”
Jerome chews his bottom lip – an irritating habit he’s had since forever and a day. “You know, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she actually did that.”
“Besides,” I pinch his cheek, ignoring his comment, “I needed to make sure my best friend was okay with my dress.”
“I still think it’s too short!” he protests, staring at me wide-eyed. I often question Jerome’s sanity. He must be the only person in the whole world who classifies an ankle-length turquoise gown as short.
“Yeah, totally,” I deadpan, “Revealed a lot of myself to Jesse, didn’t I?”
My forever overprotective best friend glares at me. He always hated it when I hinted around guys eyeing me up. Not that any guy ever did. Jerome made sure I always dressed modestly for high school, and even when we went out, he was forever hovering around me like the jerk he is.
A very caring jerk, albeit.
The very caring jerk in question suddenly yawns. I can’t help but imitate his action.
“Sleepy!” I groan in between of yawns, my eyelids growing heavier. I barely catch a small smile on Jerome’s lips as he takes the coffee cup from my hands and walks to the kitchen. He trudges up to his room and comes back with my favourite Winnie The Pooh blanket and pillow. I smile fondly, realizing that half of my stuff is at his house. It’s like I've lived here all of my life. In fact, I probably have.
Taking the pillow from him and lying down on his couch, I snuggle into the blanket.
“Nighty night, Tom,” I murmur sleepily, pulling him down for a hug. I giggle as he groans, leaning back to pinch his nose. “You know you love me,” I wink.
“And I ask myself why everyday,” he jokes, pinching my nose in return. “Nighty night, Ree.”
And in a matter of moments, I’m fast asleep, dreaming of kings, queens, cheese cakes and unnecessary plans for revenge.