If Only Life Was Like a Movie

            by Tessaly Jen

 

My name is Caroline, but all my friends call me Linny. Usually I like Linny, but sometimes I think it sounds too much like Linty. Can you imagine your parents naming you Linty? I guess at least that’s better than Lint. There should be support groups for people with bad birth names…Lint, Dick, Eugene, Helga, Olga…Don’t you just automatically think of large Russian barmaids when you hear those names, Helga and Olga?…Oh, but you know what is a nice name: Taylor Schwarz. But only Taylor Schwarz could pull off a name that gorgeous. And of all the girls at Seabrook High, guess who’s going on a date with him? Me! Well, not exactly a date, but he’ll be there and so will I…and so will 15 fake trees, 50 birds of paradise, a bunch of those little palm tree-shaped confetti, 100 balloons, 125 yards of aqua streamers, a giant paper maché toucan, and the rest of the jungle-themed prom organizing committee…but I like to think of it as a date, and who knows, maybe I’ll accidentally trip and he’ll help me up and our eyes will meet and…okay, so maybe I’ve been watching a few too many romantic comedies lately. Oh, I was watching this great one the other day. It was about this girl who secretly liked this guy and, well you can just go see it yourself.

I’ve never really been on a date before. Well, there was that one time in kindergarten. Jimmy Fountain asked me to eat lunch with him and offered to show me his bug collection. The “date” ended with me running screaming from the live spider that crawled out of his bug jar. Then there was the time I rather unwillingly went on a date in eighth grade. When I told my parents that I was going to go to my school’s eighth grade dinner dance with a few girlfriends, they suggested I take our neighbor, Sam Arnold. I insisted that I’d rather go with friends but, as my brother says, my mom’s “grandma clock” was already ticking, and her suggestion became more of a, “Either you’re going with Sam or I’m not paying for your ticket.” I suppose it could’ve been alright if Sam had shown any remote interest in me, but as he was already in high school, he was mortified to be forced (his parents were cohorts with mine) to go to an eighth grade dance. He was so embarrassed, in fact, that he made us go through a back alleyway to get to the dance…I ended up smelling as if I’d sprayed “Anus No. 6” on myself.

I’ve liked Taylor for a long time, probably too long. It’s like when you go into the kitchen and find a bag of chocolate chips and you think, it won’t hurt to just have a handful. But then you end up taking the bag back to the table where you were trying to teach your pet hamster to roll over, and, unconsciously, you just keep reaching in for more, then your stomach starts to ache, but you can’t stop. It’s like there some spell on you. Well that’s how it’s been with Taylor. I just can’t stop liking him. But I have a plan now. On Thursday, while we’re decorating, I’ll casually bump into him and need help reaching the spot where the streamers connect. I’ll use my feminine wiles to draw him in and then he’ll fall head over heels for me like Freddy Prince Jr. in that movie…what was it called?

 

            I don’t know what to wear. I’ve been staring at my closet for forty minutes and everything has started to look awful. Half my clothes remind me of my terrible Limited Too phase when my general rule of thumb was if it glitters it’s divine, if it sparkles spend a dime. The other half seems to be in rebellious response to that phase; it states, everybody knows that brown is the new black. Everything on that side of the closet is brown, tan, beige or grey. The clothes are so bland they make burgundy seem bold and provocative.

            After another ten minutes, I decide to not get dressed. I mean, I decide to not change. I mean I decide that the blue jeans and t-shirt I’m wearing are best. Well not best, but I reason that at least I won’t have to worry about Taylor asking me why I went home after school and changed. Not that he’d notice. He probably gives me about half the attention that he’d give to a fleck of dirt on a bug smashed on the bottom of his size 11 two-month-old black and white Vans. Okay, maybe a little more than that, more like the thought that he’d give to the bug. I plan to be at least as worthy as the shoe by tonight. I know it’s ambitious, I mean, those are some nice shoes, but I’ll never get anywhere if I don’t set goals.

            Oh crap! How did it get to be so late? Okay, keys, phone, iPod, wallet, gum, balloons, tissues in case I have an anxiety attack, chocolate bar to make me feel better about getting too emotional, apple to make up for unhealthy eating, one last look in the mirror…well there’s nothing I can do to change my looks now…I’m set to go.

            “I’ll be home later!” I shout up to my mom before dashing out the door.

 

            Based on the talented swerving and car dodging I just performed, I don’t know how the DMV failed me the first time I took my license test. And look at that, perfect timing—fashionably late. It won’t look like I was too eager to see Taylor, but I won’t look like a flake either. Unless he likes flakes…who am I kidding, no one likes flakes, except for Frosted Flakes, those are good. When I was little my mom would only buy plain, boring, healthy old Cornflakes, but I always sneaked sugar from the sugar…shaker? No, that’s for salt. Canister? No. Container? No. But oh, have you ever been to the Container Store? That place is amazing, just tons and tons of bright-colored containers. And other stuff too. Like one time I got a really cool...jar, that’s what it is, a sugar jar.

            What? Where is everybody? I swear we were supposed to be here at 6:15. And my watch definitely says 6:30. Is today daylight savings? No, it couldn’t be, it’s May. I wonder why the gym clock says 5:47. Oh crap. That explains why I didn’t wake up in time for first period today. That’s the second time this week that I’ve set my clock instead of my alarm. Maybe I have ADD. Whoa, have you ever noticed that ADD spells add? That’s crazy!

            Oh, I just got a brilliant beyond brilliant idea (so maybe I watch kid’s movies along with romance comedies…but that’s only ‘cause I have a little sister who’s favorite actresses are Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen and Lindsay Lohan)! I could blow up all the balloons to show Taylor how dedicated I am!

            God this is hard. Maybe I won’t do all of them. I wonder if there’s a balloon blowing up contest. I mean it takes finesse, getting it started—that’s the hard part. After that, it’s simple, except when you have to tie it, you’ve gotta position your fingers so they don’t get stuck in the balloon but you can’t let the air out. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was one. A contest, I mean. People are crazy; they eat fried Twinkies and pay for their dogs to go to spas. (No joke, I saw a travel channel special on it. Yay for JetBlue—Congratulations, you have 36 channels of Direct TV!)

            I can’t believe I’ve only done three balloons so far. Whoa, I’m a little woozy. I wonder if this is what a beached whale feels like when he’s water deprived. Did someone just turn more lights on? Someone must have been here all along, so maybe I wasn’t not late…on time, no…early. That’s it, I wasn’t not early. No, I was not not early. What? Maybe everyone else is late and I’m on time. This balloon is heavy. I wonder how much air I’ve blown into it. It’s not very fair. It just keeps taking and never gives. That’s not a healthy relationship. In a healthy relationship there’s an exchange, give and take. That’s how it’d be with me and Taylor.

           

            “What?”

            “Caroline, are you alright?”

            “Huh? Oh, Taylor. What are you…”

            “I think you passed out.”

            “Oh, no thanks, but thanks for asking.”

            “No, I think you passed out.”

            “No, no. Not me, I’ve got great genes, I don’t faint.” I have great genes? What am I thinking? “I’ve just been inflating. I mean I’ve been inflating balloons, I’m not inflating personally. I’m dieting for prom.” Oh no, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

            “Oh. Okay. Um, I think you have something…”

            He’s pointing to my face. Oh crap! Do I have a zit? I swear I looked in the mirror like twenty times before leaving today. Ew! Why is my face wet? Was I drooling? Am I so gaga over him that I’ve lost all control of myself? Surely I’d notice if I had drooled on myself. I try to smile cutely but I probably look more like Anna Nicole Smith than Anne Hathaway. I manage a weak “thanks,” but I’m sure my face is as red as a baboon’s backside.

            “So, shall we?” He asks, gesturing to the gym.

            I can’t believe he’s asking me to dance. It’s like those scenes in movies when the gym is empty after the dance and everyone has left except the one girl who didn’t get asked to dance for the whole time, but then her dream guy walks in and everything falls into place. I always hoped life would be like a movie. But not a Peewee Herman movie, I mean, can you imagine living in his playhouse? God that’s a scary thought! It’s like imagining what Elton John carries in his fanny pack. Yikes!

            “Caroline?”

            “Yes, I’d love to,” I say trying to sound as light and breathily attractive as possible.

            “Okay,” he replies. “Where should we start?”

            “Well, maybe some music would be good.”

            “Yeah, I guess so. What do you like to listen to?”

            “Anything that sets the mood.”

            “Okay.”

            He turns the radio on to a rap station; not exactly what I’d had in mind. “Maybe something a little mellower.”

            “Okay,” he says, changing the station. “I guess we’re ready.”

He’s so formal about this, but it’s kind of cute in an innocent kind of way, which is not at all what I imagined but still, it’s happening. I get up the least awkwardly I can manage and walk to stand in front of him. My eyes drift closed as I put my arms around him the way I’ve imagined doing so many times. It takes me a minute to realize he’s not responding, and when I open my eyes, his face stares back at me in wrinkled and distorted confusion.

“Won’t it be kind of hard to set the dance up in this position?”

What? Oh my God. If my face was as red as a baboon’s butt before, I’m sure it’s closer to the shade of Heinz ketchup now. “Yeah. I know, I was just you know…” What? Trying to get into the Trauma-Rama section of Seventeen? “Seeing what the gym would look like from the view that people will have while they’re dancing. You know, to get a feel for what direction to take our decorations.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, doubt and unease creeping into his voice with the subtlety of a whoopi cushion.

 

            I start walking towards the box of streamers Taylor brought and my foot catches on the rest of the un-blown-up-balloons-that-hate-me-and-want-me-to-look-like-an-idiot. Don’t ask me how, but I end up flat on my face like the bug smashed on the bottom of Taylor’s shoe. Perhaps the shoe was too lofty a goal and the bug was the better target.

But wait, maybe this could be a good thing—Taylor’s reaching his hand out toward me…an act of friendship? Compassion? Passion? Love? Romance? I take his hand in mine and pull myself forcefully up to him. Uh-oh. Maybe too much force. I feel the two of us leaning the other way. It’s almost slow motion, as if we’re the Leaning Tower of Pisa until finally we lean too far and I’m on top of him. Oh my God! It’s like in the movies! Now he just has to gaze into my eyes. But I can’t read his face. He’s either surprised in a good way, shocked in a bad way, or he can’t breathe.

            “I can’t believe you would do this to me!” I look up and see Elmer Jacobson looking at us in horror. I didn’t know he liked me. Heck, I thought he was gay. I mean, he wanted the prom theme to be “Tiaras”. Not royalty or diamonds, tiaras.

            Taylor is scrambling to get out from under me. “Elmer, it’s not what it looks like. I can explain.”

            WHAT?!! Wait a minute. Rewind. “It’s not what it looks like?” There’s no way! I swear, I’ve had a crush on Taylor for seven months. He did not just confess that he’s going out with Elmer Jacobson. That’s like Britney Spears shaving her head, it just shouldn’t have happened. Not that I have a problem with gay people in general. But honestly, does the one guy I like have to be gay? I wouldn’t care if I found out he was from another planet (who wouldn’t date a real-life Clark Kent) but gay? That just bars it completely. Now the probability that he’d be interested in me is like the probability of there being a sequel to “Gigli”. Zero to none. Zip for Linny. The game is over. If only life was like a movie.

            But speaking of movies, have you seen the one where…