The stain was still there after two days. No amount of cleaning will remove it. It has, along with its perpetrator, become a part of me, an aspect of my life, some slight freckle on my dignity.

I still remember everything about her.

It was months ago. Almost a year. We haven’t spoken in forever.

I remember her scent, fresh cotton detergent that clung around her like an aura. The clothes that she wore. The outfits that she chose. Oh, my dear, my love, how I admired you. Her perfect body. Textbook proportions. The perfect weight. How she would have been a girl that I was jealous of, if I haven’t fallen for her. Fallen into her death trap.

Our story is one of stereotypes. A trite tale of love and betrayal, felt by some adolescents amidst confusion and regret. How am I suppose to give this story a new twist? How do I make it my own, as my English teachers have lectured me on? How do I give her what she deserves in a story, do her justice, for someone as beautifully holy as she was?

I guess I won’t. Women are fascinating creatures, and will always be.

We shall start at the beginning.

It was a simple affair. Letter by mail, informing that I’ve been invited to some banquet. The logo of a prestigious college was printed at the top left hand corner. My name and address were on a label. Some Duke TIP knockoff.

Who spent their time making those labels? Every single student that had taken the test must have gotten one. Some no-child-left-behind bill that Bush passed to keep us the same.

I knew what it was going to be. It was going to be held at a local high school, in the auditorium, perhaps. Plastic tables covered with a cheap red spread to seem elegant. The decorations must have been set up by some bored housewives who wanted to appear involved in their child’s life. It would consist of a group of “high achieving individual” students and their overinvolved parents: the ones who studied for the SAT in 7th grade, the ones with no social abilities. I was one of them.

I didn’t want to go, of course. It was held annually, and it was going to be the same speaker, the same awards were going to be presented to the same Lee’s, Zhang’s, Patel’s and all of the kids that I’ve grown up with. The one last year was held during a school day, and my parents would rather have me commit homicide than to miss school.

So, I didn’t go last year.

This year, they wisened up and held it on a Saturday. Great. I have no plans. Why not go, have my three seconds of honor that no one is listening to, bring home a piece of paper with my name and a printed signature, frame it on the wall, and list it on my resume?

I didn’t show my parents the letter. They still got it anyways. Email, the weapon of administrators that knew what most of us would do. Sneaky sneaky.

On that fateful Saturday, I wore a dress used exclusively for the purpose of awards shows that didn’t get worn much. I rode to the event in the car with my parents and prepared for what I was expecting.

What I was expecting wasn’t... her.

Back up. You know how we always use that “fell in love at first sight, she had deep crystal blue eyes and brown hair that flowed like a waterfall yadda yadda...” in love stories? I always thought that was overrated, and that it was never going to happen to me. It didn’t.

When I first saw her, she was standing in front of a window, watching everything that was happening outside. I noticed her because she was American, and not the type with mousy hair, glasses, and a symphonic band t-shirt. No, she was a normal white girl with wavy brown hair and black rimmed fashion glasses. I stared at her for a moment, and she looked back disinterestedly. Then turned back around to the window.

She really caught my interest. The room was painted a dull shade of mustard, and the tables that I described earlier were set up in a rectangular formation, all adorning the stage with the lone microphone. I sat down with my parents amidst a group of their friends. I wondered how long it was going to be until I could start texting without being rude.

Then, by some stroke of the Lord, she and her parents came over and sat down at the same table. Her mom was the kind with the fake tan and the sweet tea. Her dad was a stoic businessman, kinda large and formidable. Their daughter didn’t look at me at first, and prefered to be fixing a strand of her hair. I stole glances at her until she noticed, then tried to make conversation.

“Hey.” I tried cautiously. “I’m Brooke.”

She didn’t smile back. “I’m L-” and named a name that was neither too common or too try hard unique. Perfect.

“So,” I began. “What are you here for?”

“I made up some bulls*** for this essay we had to write, and it won some prestigious award. Apparently I’m getting this scholarship.” She replied with a bored voice.

Sensing that this was not a topic of interest to her, I tried changing the subject.

“What school do you go to, L?”

She named a private school around the area. “Known for drunk boys and sl*ts.” She added with a laugh.

I laughed too. She didn’t seem uptight about much. “True.” I replied. “Not as bad as Mountain Brook, though.”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “So, where do you go? Indian Springs?”

“No.” I replied. “Vestavia. Known for rich blondes and football games.”

L scooted her chair over. By now, her parents were talking to the other parents at the table, which meant that we had a chance to speak without being overheard. My parents weren’t at the table. Probably across the room or something.

“What’s it like at public school?” She inquired. “Is it as rough as they say it is?”

“No..” I considered. “Then again, I mostly stick with the nerds, I’m not really involved in the drama.”

She nodded solemnly. “I’ve never been to public school in my life. My parents say that I’m too smart for them. I’d be in Hueytown if I wasn’t in Altamont.” She paused. I glanced at her dress, a knee length affair of black velvet decorated with a white lace collar. She looked older than me.

“What grade are you in? I heard the classes were really small.”

“Freshman.” She replied. “And yeah, it’s smaller than public school. About forty of us girls and twenty guys in a grade.”

“Wow. Must be crazy over here. What, with all the girls fighting over the guys.”

“Hmm. I don’t really get involved in that. Besides, the guys are stoned 24/7. You’re in eighth grade?”

“Yeah, a year until high school. Can’t wait.”

We chatted idly for a few more minutes, until a short Asian guy with a thick accent walked up to the podium and tapped on the microphone for attention. He began a speech, congratulating all of us, and thanking us for being here. By now, my parents have come back and were listening intently. L tapped on my shoulder.

“Let’s get out of here.” She hissed. “It’s super boring, and we don’t get our awards until three anyways..”

I glanced at my parents, who were still listening to the speaker like he was the Messiah. “Can I go...” I started, and was waved away and shushed. I took this and nodded at L. We stood up, crouched over, and started weaving our way through the sea of tables.

L and I emerged on the other side, and walked into the front lobby of the building. Hoover High School. The booming of the speaker was still audible through the closed doors.

She walked toward a closed door marked stairs and pushed it open. “Let’s go. There’s no one here, I bet.” I followed her lead.

We walked around the school, through darkened hallways and rows of rusting lockers. Locked classrooms, filled with motivational posters and gum under the desks. Explored the school. We talked all through the while, about school and family and friends. Discovered we had the same music taste. Read the same genre. Had the same priorities. Got to know her, beneath the strumming guitar of indie rock and the principles of Ingsoc. Walked through the baseline of deep house and backstabbing friends. Breathed in dust and overbearing parents.

There was an unlocked science lab, I remember. L opened the door and led me in. We walked to the window and looked up at the overcast sky. I remember turning around, seeing how the light touched her face that made it glow, a dusky perfection. Shadows fell behind us, hiding the black marble counters on which dead frogs were opened for the good of science and vinegar fell in love with baking soda. She saw me looking at her, I know. She probably knew the effect she had on others, how she dragged them in. Having her attention felt like being enveloped in a steamy bubble bath.

But, of course, here I am now, naked on the bathroom floor instead of wrapped in her warmth. An underage Desi Collings chasing after a replica of Amy Dunne.

I wanted to kiss her. Both her lips looked so soft, so inviting. The top one jut out slightly, giving her a natural pout. Feel the softness of them on mine. Wanted the magic of a real kiss, not like any previous inadequate initials with a friend of a friend in the cafeteria. Wanted to take her into my arms, hold her, and make her mine. Mine.

“What are you looking at?” She interrupted. “What’s on your mind?” She smiled.

I felt my face reddening. It is taboo to voice your inner desires to a girl you’ve just met. Subject change.

“Hey, isn’t there a Ben in your grade?”

“Yeah.” She wrinkled her forehead in thought. “I think so.”

“Blond, athletic, kinda full of himself?”

She knew him then. “Yeah. I do know him. Why?”

“Oh.” I considered. “I used to date him, back in the summer.”

“You did?” The briefest look of disgust clouds her face.

“No, not anymore.” I reassured. “He wasn’t all that anyways.”

“He’s, like, known for being a player.” She glanced at the dark wood cabinets underneath the counters. “Good thing you dumped him.”

“Yeah, it was a bad decision.” I watched her drum her fingers on the windowsill. Ben wasn’t all that, but she was. “I don’t date guys like that anymore.. Actually, I don’t like them at all. Guys, I mean.” I finished awkwardly.

She looked at me. I couldn’t read her expression. “Oh.” She responded slowly. “I’m fine with that... In fact... Me too. ”

..

I didn’t know what to say. I looked down at the floor tiles. She shifted her weight. I tried to digest it. Here she was, this girl, who met and exceeded my standards, pronouncing to me that she was, also gay. Sexual tension filled the room until it almost became matter.

“So, when did you realize?” She broke the silence. “That you were a lesbian?”

I swallowed. “When I started liking my best friend, I guess.” I stammered.

“Really?” A tone of excitement crept into her voice. “Me too!”

I glanced up, with joy that she wasn’t weirded out or disgusted. I shared my story. “We’ve known each other for years, ever since we were in an art class together when we were younger. She’s my oldest friend, really. She has wavy brown hair, dark hipster glasses, loves cats...”

I rambled on until I realized that the girl I was describing was almost parallel with L. She didn’t seem to notice, however. I asked her about her best friend. As I listened to her description, I realized with a pang of jealousy that she wasn’t like me at all. Maybe I wasn’t her type. I didn’t stand a chance with this human goddess.

Still, we talked on, about coming out and acceptance and crushes and GBFs. It must have taken nearly an hour, yet time didn’t pass. God seemed to allow me infinity just to talk to one of his earthly angels. It wasn’t until we glanced at the clock on the wall adjacent to us that we realized that we needed to be in the auditorium NOW to receive our awards. We stood up, and I almost fell from the dizziness that accompanies sudden movements. She caught me, giggling, and we raced downstairs to the awards banquet. Retracing our steps and conversations, until we reached the beginning once more. The seventh graders were lining up when we walked in, and I joined the group of eighth graders straightening bow ties and smoothing out dresses. L walked over to the group with special awards and chattered easily. The green fire of jealousy burned once again when I saw her laughing with a group of guys. Yet, I was comforted that she didn’t find them attractive. When my name was called, I walked onto the stage, a certificate was handed to me with a piecemeal applause from the audience. It was the best that I’ve felt in days, and I actually smiled genuinely for the camera shutter.

I walked back to my table and sat down. L’s group was next. Their scholarships was read out, and a murmur waved through the crowd. These kids were the real deal. Her full name was said, and I didn’t recognize it belonged to her until she strided up there to a roar of applause. I thought of her first name with my last name, or my first name with her last name. They both flowed perfectly.

Now, I realize that her name had too many sharp syllables for my last name, and my name was too abrupt with hers. Though they sounded well when slurred by a young girl drunk with love.

“You go by your middle name?” I asked when she came back.

“Yeah, ‘cause my first name’s too common. The name Anna is too saturated into our society. You won’t guess the suicide rate for someone named Anna versus someone named.. Rosalina.” She whispered back.

“It’s not a bad name. I like it, really.”

“Eh. It’s okay. You don’t go by your given name either.” She retorted.

“It’s not too drastic a change,” I explained. “Brooke is a diminutive of Brooklyn.”
(However, I despise location names. Brooklyn? The city filled with flannel donning, beanie wearing hipster-yuppies? Hardly my description.)

“You could change it.” She suggested.

“To what? Anna? Anna Sun?” I joked.

“That’s not a bad name.” She considered.

“No, it’s the name of a song by Walk The Moon.” I pointed out.

“Hmm.” She hmmed. “Maybe not, then.”

“It’s a nice song, though.” I advanced. “Very prone to analyzation.”

“Anna Sun.” She repeated.
Annasun. She mashed the words together.
inn-a-sun
innosunc
innocence?”

It was further than I’ve gotten in my analyzation. She amazed me, really. With her insight. One more reason.

“Whoa. I never thought of it like that.” I admitted. “See if you can find anything from the chorus.”

She pulled out her over-sized Samsung phone, and googled “anna sun lyrics”, and we huddled over the screen.

What do you know? this house is falling apart
What can I say? this house is falling apart
We got no money, but we got heart
We're gonna rattle this ghost town
This house is falling apart

All the while, I couldn’t stop thinking that, if she married me, that would be her name.

I looked up to a hand on my shoulder. I glanced up at my solemn father, staring down at the top of our heads. “It’s time to leave.” He dictated.

I looked down at L. We exchanged glances, and she looked over at her parents. They were focused on their phones. I wondered if their marriage was falling apart. If their house was falling apart, and the only thing keeping them together was love for their daughter. Heart.

“Wait.” I replied to my dad. “Just a minute.”

“Okay.” He responded tiredly. “Your mom and I will be in the car.”

L, sensing that I was about to leave, had already pulled up her contacts before I initiated anything. “What’s your number? I like talking to you.”

I gave her it, despite so many warnings from my childhood to never give out personal information to a stranger. After all, those were made for creepy old men, not for a girl the same age as I. She was just a.. friend. For now. Until I could make it more. “I’ll text you when I get home.” She said in return.

Suddenly, I was overcome with dread. There was a reason I made the first move, without exception. I was afraid of getting stood up. Lost interest in. For all I knew, all those people that had uttered those same words might as well have been homeless.

I sincerely hoped that it would not be lost in her memory. I stood up, gathered my possessions, and smiled in farewell. I was going to learn now to trust people to keep their word. The car ride home, I could hardly contain my excitement.

And she did.

A couple minutes after I got home, my certificate stashed away, changed out of my dress, and charged my phone, I heard a ding.

She had texted me back! I rushed over and plopped myself down on the floor.

“Hey it’s L.” It read.

“Hey, it’s Brooke.” I responded. Then cringed. Of course she knew it was me.

As I typed out my response, I realized that the send button was green. She had a Samsung, so I couldn’t see if she was typing in reply or not. It made me nervous, a small ripple in the ocean of relief.

Thankfully, she replied. “Ik it was nice meeting you at the awards.”

My face felt hot, my heart felt like metal, and my body floated, supported on elation.

“It was nice meeting you too! You’re really....”

I struggled for what word to say. Sweet was too southern. Nice too broad. I couldn’t say anything like ‘hot’ or ‘beautiful’. I wanted to sound smart, but no way I’m typing ‘intellectually stimulating’. Easy to talk to was too artificial. Nerve wrecking. I would usually text a friend (who has had more success in the dating department) to figure out something to say, but I had to let our relationship progress. Never announce a pregnancy in the first trimester.

I didn’t want to keep her waiting for too long, so I chose the first half-decent thing that came to my mind. ‘Nice to talk to’.

She didn’t reply for a minute, and I was scared that I lost her interest already. I stared at the pixels on the screen. The black letters staining the repetitively grey and green text bubbles. A comic strip, with no punchline except for broken hearts and melodrama. The art of texting: an impersonal, imprecise way for communication. No expression, no tone, no deeper meaning. Yet so deeply ingrained into the routines of teenagers.

My phone dinged once again, my brain a clumpy mess. A small whoosh held more potential than the plots of Shakespeare, more suspense than Stephen King, more tension than the writing exercises conducted by English teachers. A small (1) icon was symbolism, it was texture and soul, it was my Anna Karenina. The tap of fingers on a sensitive screen would reveal the reason behind Mona Lisa’s smile, the whereabouts of Genghis Khan’s grave, and my fate. It was allusions in a short story, composed by a girl who believed in true love.

“Thanks! You too. You know that song you were telling me about? It’s great.”

“Yeah, they’re an indie rock band. WTM has a lot of deep lyrics”

“Lol yeah”

The butterflies in my stomach turned somersaults. Was there a reply to this? How would I think of a retort for some shorthand lingo that probably took less than a second to think out?

Fortunately, my mother saved me from this dilemma. The announcement that I needed to gather my own laundry and stop wasting time texting jolted me from my thoughts about L. I debated on soothing her supposed worries with a ‘gtg’, but my pride at someone else saying the last word and anger at her lol yeah triumphed. I grabbed the basket with my dirty clothes, and walked down the steps carefully. As I pressed my face to the basket, I wondered what L was doing. I wondered what her room looked like. I wondered if she had to do this same indignity, carrying her own used material down to be recycled, or if she had a maid who spared her. If her parents would spoil her, and keep up appearances with the code words domestic help to their friends. I wondered if she would be a double texter, and if there would be a text waiting for me.

I unloaded my laundry into the three containers marked whites, colored, and black while thinking of water fountains and train cars. These clothes must have seen something disturbing, been stained by outside forces, and had to have their minds washed by the giant corporate washing machine. The mental hospital for clothing with PTSD. Of course they had to be separated. The whites were the children, the most pure vulnerable. The colored were the------

I had to stop doing that. Looking into everything. It didn’t cause anything but overthinking.

What a disease.

L wouldn’t like a girl who thought more about the symbolism in her dirty clothes than her future. Neither would I.

As I carried the now empty container back up to my mom, I made sure to avoid my mother so that she will not unload any more of her burdens on me.

Upstairs, I settled into my little corner, equipped with a stuffed animal to pound in times of anger and tissues for times of temporary despair. It was my little emotional corner, the giant plush panda bear that I sat on and the lamp with the harsh white glow. My phone laid in a crook of the panda’s arm, hidden. There wasn’t anything bad on it. No pictures of my naked underdeveloped body for online predators. Just some images that I wouldn’t like to explain.

I settled down into my panda, and tried to unlock my phone with my fingerprint. It didn’t work. I tried several times, until my phone pulled up the passcode in desperation. Even my phone gives up on me, I thought scornfully. So much for individuality.

As the screen hurtled into the messages app, I saw at a glance that there was no new texts. The contact name for L was at the top. Not even enough texts to demand scrolling. Pathetic. My heart sunk a bit, though I told myself that I didn’t care. She wasn’t an angel. She wasn’t even a decent enough person to double text.

I stared stupidly at the phone in my hand. A modern piece of technology. All the world’s knowledge at my fingertips, and I’m sitting here moping because this girl didn’t text me back.

The rest of that day passed without any notable happenings. I did all the things required of me, and spent the remaining time watching trash-filled reality TV.

After a certain episode involving a rather busty girl melting down over lost diamond earrings in a first class hotel in Polynesia, I decided that I needed to do something productive.

Contradictory to predictions, L does not text me right when I reach over for my oh-so-foreshadowing copy of Gone Girl, and I do not have an in depth conversation with her on life and God and death and mortality, with the end result of us falling in love. The components in a love story don’t occur when the main characters bitter apathetic individuals of teen years. Stop romanticising 2am conversations.

I didn’t do anything productive. I sat on my a** and watched more cheap entertainment. I felt that I was above the actors, yet wasn’t I the one sitting alone on a stained couch on a Saturday night while they got paid thousands for their drama filled brawls?

----
That night, I laid in bed and thought of L. I wonder if we were ever going to become anything, if we were just (figuratively) a one night stand. A one banquet stand. Ha.

I don’t seem to be doing much for a girl supposedly smitten with her first real crush. I’m supposed to imagine our future, what our genetically engineered kids we got from outside means would look like, how she would come home and I’ll kiss her on the lips and take her coat in. In our fresh-out-of-a-magazine home. With a crackling fireplace. And maybe throw in a few adoring pets. Soft candlelight.

But if I were to do that, I would be nothing but a trusting puppy, fawning at the feet of the children kicking him.

I scorn her.

Oh, so you want to know what she did? The crime that I’ve been framing her, making war crimes out of a sweet girl’s harmless intentions?
Of course you do. Everything’s been leading up to this. I’ll tell you. I’ll tell everyone.

Girls are ferocious creatures, with their weapon of silence.

Sorry for the letdown. She never texted me again. I didn’t try to start a conversation. I wasted the entire story for a quiet climax and a disappointingly low ending. But we never talked after that. An unsatisfying slice of life. Trite unrequited young love. Closure is a luxury.
----