With Every Move I Die

The gymnasium is dark, save for the flashing green and white lights that leave the walls decorated with stars, hearts, and disco-esque spots. The room is emptier than I expected, but still peppered with small clumps of people, some dancing and some standing still.

Alexandria decides not to attend the evening's festivities. I could really use her warm heart, upbeat aura, and sound, to-the-point advice on a night like tonight. But instead, I’m surrounded by people who could care less about what I am feeling.

I am still in my awkward stage of not dancing when I see them. She looks pretty, polished, in a gray and black dress, her golden blonde hair straight and perfect. And there is Floyd holding her. I avert my eyes quickly, like I just saw a glimpse of a person covered in blood, or I just saw someone I barely know bawling their eyes out, or I just saw two girls making out, or I just saw someone get hit by a car or have their head chopped off. But all of those things would be undoubtedly better than seeing this. I dared to look again and saw their heads very close. They were seconds away from a kiss. Just in time, I turned my head quickly once more and didn’t make the mistake of looking again. Yuuki tells me that he looks my way a few times, but I don't dare to look at him, not even for a friendly wave or a small smile.

I hope that when he's holding her and seeing me, he takes a moment to think about me. About singing "Away From The Sun" with me or standing so close to me in shop class. About playing cards with David and I at lunch, about talking and talking about all of those little things we have in common, about throwing a frisbee around with me in my backyard when we were young, about how he chose me to work with him on our bridge, Giles Corey: The Bridge Of The Rising Sun, in shop class, about the cookies I buy him and the peaches he gives me at lunch, about the exchanged glances and times we laughed, about our friends that say we'd be cute together. But I know he doesn't. I am the last thing on his mind tonight.

For the rest of the evening, I kept catching glimpses of them. Him holding her while they danced to "Here (In Your Arms)" by Hellogoodbye, a song I’ve always loved. (Not anymore) Her walking as he trailed behind, their hands linked. Him whispering something in her ear and her laughing in response. Slow songs play and I refuse to look at them. I watch Cassidy and her gorgeous boyfriend dance instead, and feel a pang of envy. He's a pretty cool guy. I wish I could find a nice guy that I could show off at school dances like this, a guy that would hold me and push my hair back and kiss me the way he does to her. They make it look so easy. All of those sweet moments. I’ve never even kissed anyone. I'm so fucking lame. Why do I even breathe? I look up at the red numbers on the clock and find myself wishing I were at home watching Juno.

The evening creeps by slowly, and Floyd and his girlfriend eventually leave. I find myself wondering where they went. Maybe to his house. I'd bet they had a jolly-good time, too. Minutes pass slowly, and I become more relaxed about my dancing and simply move. My mind is a million miles away. I stare off into space, eyes and brain unfocused, and move to the beat of the music. Cassidy’s boyfriend reaches out his hand and messes up my hair a little, and the playful gesture yanks me out of my thoughts and I reach up and do the same to him. I can’t help but want to be the girl kissing him instead of Cassidy. Am I thinking like this out of loneliness? Because I'm not even attracted to the guy. But there he was, like some emo Prince Charming, and I’m suddenly, stupidly wishing he came to this dance with me, so I could hold him close and hope that Floyd would see me with this gorgeous guy when he’s not gorgeous and his date isn’t really that pretty either.

And yet I feel something for Floyd that’s beyond thinking he’s gorgeous. We’re like the missing pieces of each other’s jigsaw puzzles. I’m the sweet, quiet part that he lacks, and he is the impulsive, honest, loud, badass part that I lack. We’d be the perfect counterparts for each other.

But he’ll never know that, and I’ll never tell him.

I left the dance a little happier than I had been earlier. Or maybe I was just numb. As I danced, the loud music filling the silence I was locking myself inside of, everything slowly started to fade away. The people around me became just faces, the music became just noise, and my body rocked to the sound, like I was a child being lulled to sleep, or I was rocking back and forth while I cried, because for some reason, that’s usually strangely comforting. Everything was a blur. My eyes that had been wet with tears were dry once more and a little out of focus. At one point, I remember pondering if I was going to pass out, because I felt so detached from the moment. I slowly woke up from my strange slumber, induced by the lullaby of thumping pop music and bumping, spinning, and swaying bodies that crashed like waves. Being at that dance was like sleeping on the beach. After Floyd was gone, the one person that existed in a crowded room had disappeared, leaving everyone else still invisible to me.

On the way out, Cassidy’s boyfriend told me it was nice meeting me and pulled me into a hug. I wrapped my arms around him tightly because I really needed a hug and it felt nice to hold a boy for a change, even if it was my friend’s crazy cross-dresser boyfriend. I told him it was nice meeting him too, even though we had already met twice. But I’d bet he didn’t even remember. I’m not exactly an unforgettable kind of girl. Then, everyone leaves and I'm in my mom's car on my way home to pretending I'm not miserable.

Right now, it’s very, very early Sunday morning, and I’m a little tired. When I got home, I talked to Jordan on Facebook out of boredom and remembered why I didn't like him anymore. A little birdie told me he was single again, and a little part of me cared. But a bigger part of me didn’t. I could say that I hope the girl broke his heart, but I honestly don’t even care. He’s a dolt. I’m glad I forgot about him, but I’ve hit rock bottom once more. And it hurts.

I sit at the kitchen table with my dad. He eats ice cream and Puffin' Corn and works on a crossword puzzle in the newspaper. I’m clicking away at my laptop keys when he says, "I don’t know this one, but I should. ‘A heavy metal band.’ And it has ‘A’, blank, ‘D’, blank." I let a piece of cheesy Puffin Corn melt in my mouth and stop typing. "AC/DC," I say in response. I don’t even like AC/DC too much, but it was the first thing that came to mind. Something hurts inside because it reminds me of Floyd. (What doesn't anymore?) AC/DC is his favorite band.

I start listening to "Away From The Sun" and suddenly I am in the wood shop, touching his hands and singing the song with him. I close my eyes and let myself live in that moment, because I’d rather not be in this one.

I spent the rest of my Sunday sleeping, eating sugary cinnamon pretzels, listening to sad music and writing. I wrote a poem, but it's not any good. But something stood out to me about the poem. Four years ago, on the same night as the dance, February 11, 2008, my heart was broken for the very first time. I was at a middle school Valentine's Day dance, and I had asked the boy I liked to dance with me. He hated me because I chased him like my life depended on it. Even at eleven years old, I was on the never-ending quest for the sweet happiness that usually comes with romance. He had said no to me, and had danced with another girl instead. As soon as I got in the car and we were a block or two from the school, I was bawling like a baby. It continued for hours after. I remember looking down at my Tin Roof Sundae ice cream at home and still crying. It just never stopped.

And it still hasn't. The heartache changes, the reasons for the pain change, but it's always that same pain. I always find myself in the same rut that I was in that night in middle school, when the feeling was still new to me. Now, I'm so used to it, it's scary. It's the one feeling I can never detach from. It's the one that hits me so hard that I just fall down, helpless, and I'm back to being that naïve little girl at the kitchen table with her ice cream. The same one who picked up a pencil and paper and wrote her first poem and hasn't stopped writing since.

I'll always be that girl.

No if only I can be proven wrong.

On My Side

A few days ago, I had been talking to Floyd in French class about how Symphony seems to enjoy treating me like nothing, and still expects me to act like nothing is wrong. Today, she had been flitting around in her usual fashion, following around our young, good-looking history teacher. (Every girl's dream, except when he sings Lady Antebellum in class and burps in your face while checking your work) After his class, I had been leaving with Floyd and David as she had been entering, for whatever reason. She had said hello to me, and I greeted her in return, but all I could think of is how she had ignored me the night before when I had tried to talk about something other than her for a change. I waved and smiled anyway and heard Floyd mumble something behind me. I slowed down and fell into step beside him.

"What was that?" I asked, smirking. I was greeted with that mischievous look he wore so well.

"I said, ‘get the fuck out.’ You know, not to Symphony or anything…" I grinned a little.

"...my thoughts exactly."

"That’s what I do. I say the things that no one else does." We smile at each other. He's right. Always right. He’s like the missing piece of me, the part of me that never has the guts to come out. He’s the edgy, harsh, rude, I-don’t-have-time-for-your-bullshit side of me that I’m too yellow-bellied to reveal.

Then at lunch, he lets another impudent comment about Symphony slip as she leaves for the classroom of the man of her dreams. Brooke and Elaine grumble something about how rude he is, with matching eye rolls. He gestures my way with his eyes and says,

"She doesn’t like her. Therefore, I don’t like her." I look down at my lunch tray to hide the pride showing in my grin.

I take your side and you take mine? Sounds likes a plan.

And now again I’ve found myself so far down, away from the sun that shines into the darkest place, I’m so far down…

We both sing under our breaths as the shop teacher blasts music for us as we work out in the shop, building our Popsicle stick bridge. The teacher has a great taste in music, always playing things Floyd and I find ourselves singing along to. And as "Away From The Sun" plays for us, I glue and tape and measure Popsicle sticks absentmindedly, thinking about how close we’re standing. I hold a stack of sticks together for him to tape, and as he does, his hands are touching mine. Not just a brush here and there. I can feel how warm his hands are, and I wonder if he’s thinking about holding my hands like I’m thinking about never letting go of his.

When I was younger, when we would toss a Frisbee around in my backyard sometimes, passing the time as our dads and moms talked, I would’ve never suspected I would end up wanting to be his girlfriend when I was fifteen.

Life is full of surprises.

What Am I Doing Wrong?

"What does a guy look for in a girl, anyway?" Michelle asks out of curiosity. What a question. We all wonder. We barely ask.

"Boobs," David says with a laugh.

"Smart man," Floyd says matter-of-factly, with one of those mischievous grins on his face. He had found his opportunity to irritate Michelle or the day.

Floyd and Michelle argue for a while about it. God, everything is an argument with them. Michelle just wanted advice of some sort and it turned into another frustrating forty-five minutes of not enjoying my food and blasting my music.

"I think you’re desperate," Floyd says to her. Looks to me for my reassurance, my egging on, my taking his side, my agreement. I avert my eyes and hope he gets the message.

"Someone please tell me you don’t agree with him," Michelle groans. No one speaks up, for fear of falling into this dispute as well. "I’m not desperate. I just wanted to know, what am I doing wrong?"

"Everything." He’s smirking and I want to slap him now. Why must he be like this?

Yes, Michelle should know that’s not a question you ask a straight guy (or even a gay one) below the age of eighteen. You just don’t, because you are not going to hear what you want to hear. Yet she ventures into that territory, fearless and determined, the same way she is about anything and everything. Does it hurt her when he says that? Probably not, but

I know it hurts me.

It hurts me that this guy who is supposed to be my Superman is being the villain.

Michelle and I both don’t have much luck with guys. Actually, I may even have less. (I can clearly remember when she was dating a fellow saxophone player in middle school) And here she is, being told she’s doing everything wrong by the guy I try to do everything right for. Does he think the same about me? I mean, he doesn’t despise me the way he despises her, but maybe I’ll never be good enough for him because I’m not pretty enough. I spent the rest of the day in frustration, for more reasons than one.

I felt almost like a gay person who’s pondering coming out of the closet. But I'm perfectly hetero, since I am a female, and the problem is a male. But the thing is, I’m revealing my secret, but not to the people around me. No, not them. Not yet. I’m letting it escape from my brain and fill me completely. I’m getting used to the fact that I’m letting myself be attracted to this guy. This guy, who isn’t nice to anyone but has never said anything rude to me. This guy, who everyone looks down on but I look up to, in the sky as I see him shed his Floyd Disguise and become Superman, flying away and saving the world. Why can't anyone else see that? Why is it so hard to see that today?

In French class, when he brought up how "hilarious" lunch had been, I told him that what he said to Michelle was very offensive, and I know that if it were being said to me, it would really hurt my feelings. He responded with silence. The next day, only a few mildly sarcastic comments slipped past his lips, nothing harsh enough to make us all cringe. I was pleased, and I pondered if that had been his intention.

I don’t know what I was doing wrong before with Jordan (everything?), but right now, I’m trying to do everything right, anything possible to make this work out. I don't want to get my hopes up. I don't want to overanalyze. I just want to let it all happen. And hopefully, it will happen with the intention of turning into what I’ve been waiting for for way too long.

Superman

"I still can’t believe she told you she hoped that you make someone commit suicide one day," I say in disbelief as we both draw absentmindedly, lines and triangles on a blue paper, beginnings of a Popsicle stick bridge. I draw a car driving on the bridge cheerfully. He draws an army tank chasing my oblivious car, on some sort of angry rampage.

I’m talking about a girl named Michelle who recently started sitting at our lunch table.

Michelle is practical, intelligent, talented in music, and a perfectionist. But, she is very opinionated, the type of person who will speak her mind anytime, anywhere, and as loudly as she can.

Floyd despises her for for it, because he's exactly the same way. The only difference is that their points of view stand on either side of the spectrum. Or Floyd just makes it seem that way to grind her gears. Funny how when you put two people like them together, all hell breaks loose. Well, it's not actually funny, if you catch my drift. Lunch went from a peaceful time of laughter and socializing to a time of tension and arguments. Floyd's one intention is to make Michelle so angry that she switches to a different lunch table. And if anyone's capable of that, it's him.

I hope you make someone commit suicide one day. 

Some may say she took it too far, even too far in Floyd’s terms, and with him, too far is way past the lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

"I know, right? Believe it or not, I’m actually the guy who stops people from killing themselves. I’m the guy who stops people from cutting their wrists," he says to me. I look up from the car and the tank and eye him curiously. Really? I keep watching him as he goes on. "My friends call me up, and they ask me to talk to these people I don't even know, talk them out of it. And I'm just sitting there on the phone, asking them about their lives, finding out what's wrong. That's all I do. I talk to them. I tell them to ask out that girl they think they don't have a chance with. Or whatever. Anything. And it always works."

I was speechless. How do you respond to that?

Is there really such thing as a superhero? Does God put them in the world to save the day? Because here is just another guy, the last person anyone would suspect of being a superhero, sitting beside me in shop class in a white t-shirt and jeans, moving his hands as he talks about saving the day. He's like Superman or something. He could save the whole world if he tried. Anyone could, but who actually would?

And now, today is Wednesday, but it doesn’t feel like a Wednesday. I had bounced around like a mental case from the bathroom to the bedroom and back again, brushing my teeth, applying mascara and hitting the volume button on my laptop. "Kryptonite" by 3 Doors Down.

If I go crazy, then would you still call me Superman? If I'm alive and well, will you be there, holding my hand? I'll keep you by my side with my superhuman might, kryptonite.

Superman. He's my hero.

Later that day, we are at lunch, impatiently waiting for our food. Floyd is making Lucy a playlist on Spotify because her taste in music is absolutely terrible. (Nicki Minaj? Gag me) His playlist is full of the bands he thinks that everyone should like just because he does. Then he says, "And now some 3 Doors Down." I look up and say something about how much I love them, I was just listening to them this morning, their album Away From The Sun is amazing, blah blah blah. He looks up from his computer and says, "'Kryptonite.' Hands down the best 3 Doors Down song." I bite my lip to keep myself from grinning like a freak. It's his song! He's talking about liking it! Why does that make me so happy?

Then, we are at lunch on Monday, digging into the food we had been been impatiently waiting for once more. David skipped school for the day, so our usual triangle of random conversations has dwindled down to only Floyd and I. David’s seat becomes mine and I don’t even miss him as Superman and I talk about music and movies and everything and nothing. Suddenly, two other lunch table occupants are trying to get his attention, and him being pulled from our conversation irks me a little. Their statement even more so.

"Hey Floyd! There’s someone we think you’d be really cute with," Elaine says. Brooke nods and so does Symphony. Matching grins all around, and suddenly, all of their eyes are burning into me. Why are they staring at me? I pick at my buttered noodles, faking nonchalance. Then Brooke, eyes still glued on me, says, "Yeah, really cute." I keep looking down at my tray of food and suck on the straw sticking out of my milk carton. This is kind of mortifying.

"I’m dating someone," Superman says.

Oh. How nice.

I pull a dollar out of my purse for green tea and sugar cookies, leave with my empty tray and pretend that those words meant nothing to me.
Come to think of it, those words did mean nothing to me. Like I give a flying fuck. I’ve seen how long his relationships last. Has he ever made it past two weeks?

Wait... Is this maybe-perfect-comic-book-romance-waiting-to-happen becoming sadly predictable? If Superman were to sweep me off my feet and fly me around the world, would he eventually just drop me into the ocean somewhere and find a new damsel in distress to save? Should I spare myself the pain and just admit I already started drowning a long time ago?

I almost told David about all of this today. Almost. How could I say "I like Floyd" when I don’t even know if that’s true? What does that even mean? "I like him"?

It’s all so confusing.  Do I love Superman, or don’t I?

Superman's disguise is not a man named Clark Kent. Superman's disguise is an anarchist. Superman's disguise wears ripped jeans, Metallica t-shirts, and green Converse sneakers. Superman's disguise plays football. Superman's disguise is a smart-ass. Superman's disguise is not something I fell in love with at first sight. What I fell in love with was Superman.

I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what to do. I’m just kind of suffering quietly, terrified to tell anyone my secret in fear he will find out and everything will be ruined. I’m a girl with an internal conflict. I’m a damsel in distress.

Superman, save me.

The Secret

I think she knows now. I think my sister knows my secret.

I had been listening to a song that reminded me of him. "Sparks Fly" by Taylor Swift. She could've written that song about him.

She said, "What's with you and that song?"

"Nothing. I like it."

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

Yes.

"Uh...no. Why would you think that?"

"How did you get over Jordan so fast?"

She is very interested. She won't stop until she pries it from my mind. I know this.

"He's an idiot." This is true.

"Getting over someone is easier when you like someone else."

"What about Light?"

"That wasn't easy!" This is true as well.

"Uh… yes, it was…" This is a lie.

She's been interrogating me since that coversation. That was a few hours ago, and I think she knows now.

She was right. Letting go of Jordan was a lot easier than I expected, because I might have been thinking about someone else.

He fascinates me. He's sort of amazing, possibly my hero.

We have a lot in common. The same sense of humor. The same taste in music. The same opinions on just about anything.

He’s the type of boy that if I went out with him, other girls (and their moms) would look down their noses at me. He comes off as kind of reckless, a little shiftless, but he’s more careful than you would think. A lot of people think he’s rude, but I think he's honest. He’s funny but not in an obnoxious "I will act as ridiculous as possible just so people think I'm funny" way. He plays football, but he’s also into art and things that most football players write off as "faggy." He never really settles down in a relationship, always calling it quits before things get too serious.

As time passed, we talked more and more, transforming from mere acquaintances to two people who talk to each other on a regular basis and make each other laugh. Maybe even friends. There was a time when I started thinking everything he said was interesting or funny. There was time when I looked forward to seeing him. There was a time when I was confused about how I felt about him. There was a time when I noticed his eyes were light green, and noticed all of these other things about him that suddenly seemed appealing. Leather jackets, plaid flannels, chain necklaces, and Converse in a lot of different colors. Hair that's a cross between red and blonde, and pretty curly so he keeps it cropped short. A smile wicked enough to make my face flush just glancing at him.

We share desserts with each other. We listen to music together. We build bridges together. It feels kind of right.

It's weird, but here I am.

I'm sitting here, hesitantly writing about how I can't help but wonder what it would be like if Floyd was my boyfriend.

Cross The Threshold?

After saying something slightly asinine to me in one of his bizarre squawky voices, Jordan and I laughed and I disappeared into the classroom adjacent to the wood shop.

The shop was filled with the sweet scent of sanded wood, the sanded wood of the guitar stand Jordan was building. I had sat in the classroom the whole period and listened to the machines whir and the tools clattering. I had seen quick flashes through the window of long brown hair, pale white arms, a black t-shirt. Jordan wasn't wearing his sweatshirt. I almost didn't recognize him.

After class, he ambled into the classroom, waited by the door. A few of his other casual friends were in the class as well, so I figured he was waiting for one of them. But he simply greeted them with more weird statements and let them pass. I think he's waiting for me. I slung my heavy backpack over my shoulders and headed toward the exit. He feel into step right behind me, and we talked all the way up to fourth period. Just my friend and I. The guy friend who does weird things that make me laugh, the girl friend suffering from a weak point by his side. But she bounced back. She always does. Just two friends. Right?

On Wednesday morning, my computer sat open in front of me as I ate breakfast. My desktop background was a picture of a girl reaching out to a heart-shaped balloon as it flies out of her reach. (It's work by a street artist called "Banksy." If you Google Image search something like "Banksy girl with heart balloon", you'd probably find it) Jordan had pointed at it and said, "I don't get that." I responded with, "She's chasing the heart." He said, "Shouldn't she be running or something?" I shrugged and went back to eating. "I don't know. That would probably help."

Maybe she's out of breath from chasing it for too long.

I was sitting at home, strumming the song I had written about him only days earlier, when I realized what that girl in the picture was doing. She wasn't chasing anything. Not anymore.

She was letting go.

I smiled.

Is that what I'm going, let my heart go, waiting to see whose hands it falls into next?

"When one door closes, another opens."

That's the thing. Did another door open?

I think the most accurate response would be maybe.

If it did, it opened up long before I gave up on the first one. But I had quickly averted my eyes. Why that door? Maybe now I'm completely letting go of that first door. "Jordan," it says across the front, etched into the wood, the tall, thin letters mocking me. The door never opened. I shoved bobby pins into the lock, I tried to knock it down with an axe, I tried to be a telekinetic and make it break from the hinges with my mind. But nothing ever happened.

So I let go of the doorknob I've been yanking on, and I fall down into nothing. Well, maybe not nothing.

I'm falling. There is air rushing in my ears and I smile at the sound. I leave sweet smelling wood shops and love songs on repeat behind and drop into another dreamland. In the new dreamland, there are no dreams, no love songs, no hopeless romantic musings. No, not yet. There is just a dark, murky but sweet smelling pit of utter confusion. I'm drowning in it. It feels good. It feels right. It's not a raging physical attraction. It's not a need for a fairytale romance. It's not song writing. It wasn't even post writing for a while. Until right now. It's not thinking someone is adorable. It's not looking past stupidity just because you're only attracted to the good things. It's not a crush.

No, this comes from somewhere else.

And it's confusing the hell out of me.

How To Fall Out Of Love

I never would have thought it would be so easy to let go of Jordan. It’s almost unbelievable!

Today is a Wednesday. Wednesdays are lovely. But this one wasn't perfect.

I had a weak point this morning.

I was playing my guitar when I saw him looking at me. I looked away quickly, bit down on my bottom lip, and my mind began to race. Please don’t look at me. Please don’t make this hard.

I started singing a song under my breath, "Harder Than You Know" by Escape The Fate.

Baby, don’t talk to me, I’m trying to let you go. Not loving you is harder than you know.

I looked up a guitar tab for it, and gave up before trying. Too difficult for a scrambled brain to figure out. Maybe I just wasn’t meant to play it at that moment. I slid my capo into place and started playing a song called "How To Fall Out Of Love." It was a song I wrote only a few days earlier.

It was about letting him go.

He stood beside me and listened to me sing and play. My voice trailed off and got quieter. Cassidy told me to sing louder, but how could I? I didn’t want him to hear it! I was faced with a decision: listen to myself or listen to Cassidy?

I chose the latter and kept playing.

I’ll never know what he thought. Probably nothing. I overanalyze everything.

Throughout the day, we talked like friends. Maybe that’s what we’ve been doing for months, but I chose not to notice. But one thing that happened really stood out to me. Kind of seems unimportant, but for some reason, it doesn't feel that way.

I touched him.

I always avoided physical contact with him. Always. Today I played with the hood on his sweatshirt, touched his hair, touched his arm when I talked to him, all things I never would’ve done before. Weird. Aren’t those the things that most girls do when they like someone? I guess it’s the other way around for me.

As I put my guitar away, he handed me the light purple pick I had let him use. Our fingers touched. Electricity. I cringed. No. Go away, stupid sparks that aren’t actually flying.

So, I had a weak point. But I strengthened throughout the day. I moved him back onto the back burner and kept living my life.