Entry 7: Plan F – Text Attack

Date: March 19, 2013

Three days later, around six o'clock in the evening, I was curled up in one of the soft plush couches at The Book Station, the bookstore that was just around the corner of my neighborhood, where I usually bought my books. I was reading one then when someone called my name.

I tore my gaze from the part I was reading and looked up at a man in his late thirties with blond hair and light blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. Patrick.

"What is it?" I asked, yawning and wiping my tired eyes.

Patrick chuckled and bent down so that his face was on the same level as mine. "Your mom called, that's what. She's asking if you're planning on coming home at all."

I'd known Patrick for almost my entire life. He’d known my mom since birth, and despite the fact we weren't related by blood, Patrick had attended all my spelling contests and talent shows at school, and always ate with my family during Thanksgiving as if he were a real part of it.

I had always looked up to Patrick, even if he wasn’t able to finish college because he dropped out in the middle of it. When I had asked for an elaboration, my mom explained that he had taken a doctorate’s degree in college but quit midway.

At first I was shocked, but when I heard the full story, I finally understood. I mean, I didn’t think I could handle attending classes of a subject I had no interest in and that was shoved down my throat by my parents who were pressuring me every single day and complaining about what a failure I was for wanting to become something they didn’t approve, either.

Patrick, however, was able to survive through all that until the first half of his second semester in the third year of college—before he finally made the decision of pursuing his dreams of writing.

His parents went ballistic, of course, and kicked him out of the house.

He had stayed at my mom’s house after that—since my grandparents knew Patrick and were good friends with his parents—and had started looking for small jobs at local stores and coffee shops, trying to earn money for the business he was thinking of, while passionately writing stories at the sidelines and selling them over the Internet.

When one of his books was finally discovered and officially released to the public, he made enough money to open a bookstore and publishing house. Now that place was a dark brick building with a red tiled roof and a sign that read: The Book Station: it takes you wherever you want to go.

And that very bookstore was where I’d spent the past three days, lounging among the mismatched throw pillows, reading book after book under the soft yellow light of a lamp. My mom had finally allowed me to go back to school, but only on the condition that I wouldn’t do anything that would the stress my ankle, which, if you translated that to my language, meant I couldn’t go on with my plans of recovering my black notebook from Colin.

This contributed to the massive amount of free time I had, which I killed by means of reading.

The Book Station had always been like a second home to me, especially since my mom allowed me to go there whenever I wanted, considering the fact that her most trusted-slash-childhood friend was the one handling the place.

There were several encounters over the last few Christmases though, when I had asked Patrick if he felt as if he had wasted his skills and the opportunities presented before him by casting it all away and becoming a writer.

He had answered with a dimpled smile, “Honestly, no. Most people would think of my decision as foolish and rash, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I’m happy where I am now, and even if my books don’t always sell and I don’t have a steady supply of money, I’m content with doing what I love.”

And then I’d asked him if his parents ever made contact with him again, but he would just go quiet and my mom would shush me.

Right then I glanced at my watch and caught sight of the time. “Uh-oh.” I grimaced and quickly got up to my feet, stuffing my book into my bag and draping it over my shoulder. “I’ve got to go, Patrick. Tell Mom I’m on my way home.”

Patrick laughed and ruffled my hair. “Alright, pup, but hold up. I’m giving you a ride.”

“You don’t have to, really,” I said, but Patrick insisted and told me to wait for him at the entrance and that he would bring the car around.

Sighing, I nodded and watched him leave. Mindful of my sprain, I carefully walked down the steps of the carpeted wooden stairs where two to three people were huddled at the corners, their heads leaning on the wall as they got deeper and deeper into the story they were reading.

I knew some of the usual people who came to The Book Station, and yes, you better believe it, they told me their secrets too. Fortunately, they were readers just like me, and they understood the feeling of being in the story and not wanting to be disturbed, so I’d been able to safely escape from them whenever I was holding a book.

Once I was on the main floor, I passed by Alfred who, despite being as old as ever, was still a perfectionist at heart as he arranged the books on the shelves alphabetically by author. I gave him a gentle pat on the back, which he responded to with a slow turn and smile in my direction.

Before I left The Book Station, I waved my farewell to the cashier girl, Francesca, who flashed me a bedazzling smile and waved back over the shoulder of a customer. Francesca had only been working with “the crew" (as Danny, another one of the odd-but-loyal employees called them) for three months, but I already liked her just as much as the others. She was a lively brown-haired beauty of Latin descent, and whenever I stayed really late at The Book Station and I’d be alone with her and Patrick I’d always nudge him in the ribs and whisper, “Why don’t you make a move? I think you guys look good together.” Patrick would only blush, apologize to Francesca, and shoo me away.

I took my time walking towards the entrance and waited there, averting my gaze from the people who came in and out of the door.

My ankle wasn’t fully healed yet, and though it’d been almost a week since it got sprained and didn’t hurt anymore, it still felt as if it was as sensitive as a twig, ready to snap at any moment.

After a minute or so, Patrick’s car parked in front of The Book Station and the passenger door swung open. Patrick was leaning across from the driver’s seat, the seatbelt holding him back from going any further.

“Come on,” he said and I shuffled towards the car. It took a while before I was safely inside the car and we were on our way.

“I heard you’re done with all the books you bought last week,” he said without looking at me. “That’s quite an amount.”

“Not all,” I said, sighing, remembering how Nick had quickly finished seven books in one day, “but I’m almost done.”

“It’s a wonder you can still keep your grades up with all the reading you’re doing.”

“Says the guy who dropped out of college and started a bookstore,” I murmured and Patrick laughed. “Hey now, don’t go following my footsteps. You have a whole future ahead of you. Don’t waste it until you’re sure you want the consequences.”

We soon arrived at my neighborhood and then we were right in front of my house. My mom must’ve heard the engine of the car because she stepped out of the house, wiping her hands with a rag, and smiled at Patrick and me.

“Hi, dear,” she said as I exited the vehicle and made my way around it. Then she bent down to look at Patrick through the car window. “Thanks for watching over her, Pat.”

“Anytime, Jul,” he replied, putting the car into motion. He waved at me. “See you, Seven.”

“Bye,” I said, waving back as Patrick drove away, turning around a corner and disappearing.

“What took you so long at the bookstore?” my mom asked as we turned on our heels and headed inside.

I shrugged, saying, “I got too into the story, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said and then added with a smile, “you know, for a minute there, before I called Patrick to check if you were at the bookstore, I was thinking you were with someone.”

I cocked my head to the side, trying to see what she was hinting at, and echoed her, “Someone…?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said when obviously she did, “someone like…Colin, maybe.”

At the mention of him, my senses became clearer and I became more attentive. I distinctively remembered the absolutely unnecessary but undoubtedly welcome kiss on the forehead that made my hopes rocket to the sky last Saturday.

However, those said hopes went crashing back down to the earth on Monday, when my mom had finally allowed me to go back to school to get some exercise on my ankle, and Colin had taunted me by holding the black notebook within my reach and snatching it away, jogging so that I wouldn’t be able to catch him with my sprain.

I frowned at her, a part of me fearing where this was leading. “Why would I be with Colin of all people?”

I couldn’t help the bitterness in my tone and mom must’ve caught a whiff of it because she said, “Well, I thought you liked him.”

I tried not to make it obvious that she had hit a bullseye, and made a face. “And what made you think that I would like someone like him?”

Mom smiled knowingly at me and said, “I recognized the way you looked at him. I looked at your father the same way before and I still do. I can’t blame you though—the boy is charming and sweet.”

“No, he’s not,” I said, scowling at the memory of all the times he wouldn’t return what was mine. “He’s mean.”

Now it was my mom’s turn to frown. “How can you say that, Seven?” she argued. “If he was mean he wouldn’t have visited you last Saturday. You should be more grateful.”

You just have no idea, Mom, I thought to myself while shaking my head at her. “Okay, well, let’s just agree to disagree because I’ve got homework to do.”

My mom sighed and shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she walked towards the kitchen, and I slowly climbed the stairs. Once I was in my bedroom, I dropped my bag on the floor beside my desk and started on my work.

In the middle of solving math problems and writing a critical analysis of a short story we were asked to read, my phone kept rattling against my desk with every message I received.

This time, I replied to each and every one of them, although a bit tiredly and with my responses slowly decreasing in the amount of emojis I used until there were none at all and my words were barely understandable from all the shortcuts I made.

Even when I was finished with my work and I was sitting on my bed, my foot propped on a pillow, the texts kept coming.

Seven, I’m in a major situation. Txt as soon as u can.

He replied!!! What do I say???

Do u know how to answer the math assignment?

Ur advice worked!! Thanks a million :)

I didn’t bother picking my book up because, surely enough, before I could even finish one sentence, another text would pop up again.

I groaned irritably as my phone vibrated on the cushions beside me for the umpteenth time, interrupting my reading before I even got five words in. I grabbed it and nearly drilled a hole through it when I murderously tapped the screen.

Do u think Colin’s mad at me? :( He’s not replying to any of my txts…

I paused as I reread the message and checked the sender. It was one of the girls in Colin’s circle of friends who had a crush on him, Alana. She had probably abused her texting rights again. I felt bad for Alana, but I did pity Colin too. I definitely knew what it felt like to be annoyed with several people texting you over and over again…

And then I got an idea for plan F.

I may not be able to run after him anymore or sneak around trying to take my notebook back, but I can annoy him.

I quickly typed: Don’t txt him for now. Let it be. Maybe he’s busy. But just as I sent the message to the girl, I did the contrary: I searched for Colin’s name in my contact book and texted him: Hello, Colin Stillman. Boo.

I had long before used my resources to dig up his cell number, but I never dared myself to text him. Sure, there were times when I attempted to compose a text and send it to him, but I would always squeal in panic and erase the message before I could send it accidentally and die in shame.

My stomach was twisting itself into knots as I waited in anticipation for his reply. Would he know it was me? Did that mean he had my number all this time too? What would he say? Would he think that I was one of those girls who kept texting him, trying to catch his attention?

Each time my phone buzzed, I jumped and quickly snatch it to see if it was him, but it was always someone else.

After a while, another buzz came and I checked my phone, my heart nearly jumping out of my chest when I saw his name on my screen. I swallowed nervously as I pressed the OPEN button.

He had replied: Rick, if this is you, then how dare you steal my prank text ideas! But if it’s not, then who’s this?

I laughed softly at the way he responded, so much like how he talked in real life, and I could almost imagine his voice saying the words. I noted that he wasn’t the type to use shortcuts when texting.

I simply typed: 7

Three minutes later, a little quicker than his earlier reply, he said: Oh hey! :) I see you’ve taken another level of stalking.

For a moment I smiled at how warmly he greeted me when he knew it was me texting him, but that smile quickly turned upside down when I saw his last sentence. Scowling at my phone, I replied: Give me back my notebook, Colin. I’m serious.

I pressed send. My phone beeped.

And you think I’m not?

 

 

Well, okay, I’m not. Haha.

I gritted my teeth and furiously texted: Give it back.

No.

PLEASE give it back.

No.

Please.

No.

Come on!

No ;)

I screamed in frustration. Give it back! Not waiting for his reply, I resent him the same message again—and again and again and again and again.

But he said No again—and again and again and again and again. His last one, though, contained a question: How did you get my number anyway?

This was the question I had been dreading. Trying to sound as if I had everything in control, I replied: I have my resources. Now give it back.

That sounds kind of cool but no. Sorry, stalker.

GIVE IT COLIN! And I’m not a stalker!

No.

I was so tempted to text him the same message again, when my phone suddenly vibrated—a little longer this time—and my screen flashed with the words:

INCOMING CALL

COLIN

My thumb hovered over the green ANSWER button. For some reason, my heart started racing and I suddenly became conscious of myself. This was going to be my first call conversation with Colin. I remembered the daydreams I had of him suddenly calling me out of nowhere, just wanting to chat and—

I quickly shook my head, trying to shake those thoughts away. “Keep your cool,” I whispered to myself. “He’s not the guy you thought you liked. He’s a jerk. He’s a jerk. He won’t give back your notebook. You’re supposed to be mad at him.” I let out a deep breath before answering the call.

“Hello?” I asked quietly.

“Hi there.” I couldn’t believe it—even his voice sounded amazing and the static made it a little husky. I blushed involuntarily and tried to sound irritated as I said, “Why are you calling me?”

“No reason. I just wanted to hear what you sound like through the phone.”

For a moment, I choked on my own words. “Whatever,” I finally spat out, and wondered how it was possible for someone who wasn’t even in the same room with you to make you blush even more than you already were.

“And I’ve made an analysis that you sound different,” he continued, “…a little less squeaky.” On second thought, I suddenly remembered why I was supposed to be mad at him. “Anyway, I’m bored too, so yeah.”

Through the phone, I could hear the sound of papers being flipped and something scratching. “What are you doing?” I asked curiously.

“Sketching, why?”

“It’s nothing. I can hear the paper,” I told him as I reached towards my ankle and gingerly touched it. Wincing at the sudden but tiny pain I felt there, I asked, “What are you sketching?”

“A bridge,” he answered.

“Isn’t that kind of hard?”

“Yeah, it is, but I can manage.”

“You must be pretty good at drawing.”

“I don’t know…I’m not trying to be humble or anything, okay? But thanks. By the way, how’s your ankle?”

“It’s still an ankle,” I replied sarcastically.

“You’re so hilarious, Seven. Seriously, I think I’m going to die from laughter.”

“Oh shut up.”

“But seriously—and this is coming from me—are you okay?”

I pursed my lips, suddenly feeling all warm and fuzzy. “Yeah, I’m okay,” I said.

“Wow, we just achieved a normal conversation. Way to go for us, huh, Seven?”

“Give me back my notebook.”

“Aaand…you ruined it. Nice going there.”

“Look, Colin, I’m not your source of entertainment, okay? That notebook is really important to me and I need it back.”

“Now you’re making me wonder what’s inside…” I heard more shuffling papers and my blood ran cold in fear. “Colin!” I practically screamed at the speaker.

“Ouch! You don’t have to scream at my ear, you know!” I heard him mutter.

“Give it back already! I mean it!”

Colin sighed. “You know, I actually thought you were done chasing after me.”

I paused for a while and then asked, “What made you think that?”

“I can’t tell you. If I did, I’d have to kill you.”

I rolled my eyes. “That is so cliché. You know you sound like those bad boys in romance novels, right?”

“What?”

“You know, the guy that is always flirting with the protagonist, who in turn is actually already drooling over the bad boy’s sexiness but is still trying to deny it.”

Colin chuckled and said, “So, in this situation you’re the protagonist who’s drooling over my sexiness and is still trying to deny it?”

“N-No, I was just saying—” I started stuttering, and then I heard his booming laughter. “Ugh! J-Just give me back my notebook!”

“No.”

“Colin, I am so going to—”

The line went dead. I pulled my phone away from my ear and glared at the screen that said: CALL ENDED.

“I can’t believe it! He hung up on me!” I exclaimed and then angrily threw the phone at my bed, letting it bounce off and land at the edge.

I crossed my arms and looked away, fuming. Not a minute after, I heard the familiar vibration of my phone against the bed. I glanced over at it and saw that I had a new message. I tentatively reached for it, hoping that it was Colin wanting to apologize and promising he would give it back already. I took the phone in my hand and opened the message.

See you tomorrow, 7.

Despite the red blush across my cheeks and the stirring of my butterflies, I threw my phone at the bed again.