She was in my ballet class, somewhere in the middle, age-wise, but damn close to the bottom in terms of skill. She wore these huge glasses, and always looked uncomfortable. I’d assumed she was just embarrassed because she knew that most of the younger girls were better than her, and would continue to be so until she miraculously grew new, less klutzy, legs. But even at her house, she looked awkward, like she just didn’t fit into her surroundings.
And if she was more needy after a nap, I definitely didn’t want to stick around for that! Every three seconds she’d been interrupting me, as I told Lela about how Keith had broken up with me for no real reason, wanting more water, or to know if it was all right if she ate lunch in her room, or wanting to know why the sky was blue. Well, I don’t remember that question specifically, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she’d asked it, since she wanted to know everything else.
The first few times I just told her to go Google it, but after a few unamused glares from Lela, who would then precede to explain whatever to the girl at ridiculously great detail, I gave up, and, from then on, just sighed, folded my arms, and got real comfortable on the couch whenever I heard those clumsy little feet approaching.
Stupid kids.
And stupid boys, for that matter. I guess, if I thought about it, Keith actually having me come over to his house to break up with me was better than him just doing it over the phone. But I didn’t want to think about it. If he wasn’t going to give me any reasons for doing it, or any chance to apologize or try to make whatever I’d done wrong up to him – not that I probably would have, of course – he might as well have just left me a voice mail.
I realized I had stopped walking, and started to laugh at myself, only to find that I couldn’t. Instead, I just felt my chest heaving, inches from sobbing.
“I don’t need him,” I growled to myself. “I’m better off without him.” I didn’t really have a hard time believing that… But it was still a few minutes before I could get myself to start moving again, without feeling like I was going to fall apart. What was so wrong with me that he’d just had to get away?
And why did I even care, if this was for the best? I tried to stop, but as I walked slowly back home, my mind kept going returning, unbidden, to the subject.
The house was, of course, empty, at least for an hour or two more, depending on when dad managed to get out of work. I grabbed the remote and laid down on the couch, only to find, a few minutes later, that I’d already flipped through all of the channels, and there was exactly nothing good, or even brainlessly entertaining, on.
Though the inner debate leading to my decision was quite intense, I ended up not hurling the remote through the television screen before grabbing a Diet Coke from the fridge and closing myself into my room. There was equally nothing interesting to do there, unless I wanted to flip through the books that had been sitting on my shelf probably since I was 8 or 9.
I didn’t, nor did I have any interest in laying in bed, staring at the ceiling – too much chance of thinking about things I’d rather not, at least if I was just there, in silence. But perhaps with the right accompaniment… Much as I loved it, my MP3 player wouldn’t do the trick, either. I wanted to let it be loud, without actually blowing my eardrums out. So I pulled out my CD book, opened it to a random page, which turned out to be pretty much the last.
Of course, the first CD I saw while flipping through my collection was one of Keith’s. I stared at it for a minute or two, unsure of what to do, or even what to think, and then nearly put them all away. First, I took Keith’s CD out and threw it to the other side of my bed, like a Frisbee.
I cracked a little smile; there was no reason to be down, after all. Why should I let him ruin my afternoon?
