FIVE
What are the odds?
As it turns out, I do like football. Really, what’s not to like about guys in tight pants running around on a field? Plus, I get to hang out with my best friend and eat junk food. And the best part? People watching. There are so many interesting people to watch in the stands.
“What about the girl two rows in front of us, second person from the left?” Micah says. He’s turning out to be quite the people watching buddy.
I turn to look at the girl. “Bleached blonde hair. But it’s not done professionally. It’s definitely from a box. But she has a purse that probably cost her a month’s worth of pay from her minimum wage job. That, or it’s a lucky thrift store find,” I say. “She’s trying way too hard to fit in. I bet she even likes Justin Bieber and Jake Paul.”
Her phone rings. Her ringtone is an annoying pop song.
“Huh, you’re good at this,” he says.
I focus my attention on the game as the crowd around me goes nuts. They’re all yelling and cheering. I look out at the field to try and figure out what happened, but I really have no idea. I look at the scoreboard and see that we’re ahead. We were tied. So we must have scored.
During a break, I watch a guy take off his helmet and walk to the sidelines. He looks mad. Maybe about something that happened on the field. His brown hair is wet with sweat and he runs a hand through it. I watch as a blonde cheerleader runs up to him. I watch as his face softens and he smiles. Even from here, I can tell that he must really like the girl. She gives him a short kiss on the lips, and then runs back to the other cheerleaders.
I wonder what it would be like to be in love. I’ve never had a boyfriend before, unless you count the fifth grade, which I don’t. I mean, I’ve had crushes, and I’ve had guys ask me out before, but it’s not the same. I want to know what it’s like to want to be with somebody so bad that you’d give up anything to be with them. To love somebody so much that it physically hurts to be apart from them. To be willing to sacrifice your own happiness for them. And, of course, have the same feeling returned.
I look at Micah, who is currently looking at a girl who just sat down at the end of our bleacher.
I bump him with my shoulder. “Go talk to her.”
He looks at me. “What? Who?”
“That girl you were just staring at,” I say.
“No,” he says. “I mean, I wasn’t staring at anybody.”
“Micah Stevens, if you don’t go talk to her right now, I am going to post the pictures I took of you driving my pink car online,” I say.
“You took pictures?” he asks, looking panicked.
I pull my phone out and pretend to do something on it.
“Fine,” he says, pushing my phone down onto my lap. “But what do I say?”
“You’re the people person,” I say. “You talked to me without any problem.”
“But she’s hot.”
“And I’m not?” I fake pout, pretending to be offended. Secretly, I’m glad that Micah doesn’t think I’m hot, because that would ruin our friendship. I need to be his friend.
“Isla, help.”
“Fine,” I say, and look at the girl closer. I suppose I should make sure she’s a good girl for Micah. Her wavy brown hair is pulled up into a messy bun. It’s kind of falling off to the side of her head, making me like her already. She doesn’t care if her hair is perfect. Her clothes are modest, she’s not wearing makeup, and she seems disinterested in the game in front of her. Instead, she’s talking to a girl beside her. She’s probably friendly. “Look at her shirt. She has good taste. Talk to her about the band.”
“Rammstein?” he asks, scratching his head.
My mouth falls open. “Please tell me you’ve heard of them.”
“Nope.”
“It’s a German band,” I say, pulling headphones out of my pocket. I turn on my favorite song by them, Amerika. I put one of the earbuds in my ear and he takes the other. I turn on the song. He smiles from the first beat on.
I knew he would like it.
After the song is over, he hands my headphones back to me.
“They’ve got an amazing sound. What is the song about?” he asks.
“About how America pushes their beliefs off on other people,” I say. “Not everybody wants the same things America does. It’s just their way of saying they wish America would stay in America.”
“Interesting,” Micah says, standing up. “Okay. I’m going to go talk to her.”
“Break a leg.”
He trips over somebody’s purse.
“I didn’t mean literally,” I say.
He keeps walking towards the girl and I smile, proud of myself for encouraging him.
I watch the exchange between the two of them. The brunette girl has a huge smile on her face the whole time she’s talking to Micah. I don’t know what they’re saying, but they both laugh. I can tell she’s into him.
I watch the girl pull her phone out of her back pocket and type something in.
He’s giving her his number!
A few seconds later, he walks over and sits by me.
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“Marisa wants to hang out,” he says.
I knuckle bump him.
I am good.
…
After the game, I am at a crowded bonfire. Everybody is celebrating because of the victorious win against Alabama. Apparently they are one of our rivals, but I could care less about it. I am glad we won though. It’s good to know I still have a little bit of school spirit.
I hold my red cup in my hand, not putting it down. It’s just soda that Micah got for me, but I’m not taking any chances. I’ve heard enough stories to know what happens to your drink if you set it down at a party.
“There’s Marisa,” I say, pointing her out in the crowd. “You should go say hi.”
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Micah says, looking torn.
“I’m fine,” I say. “If I get lonely I’ll text you.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod. “Positive.”
“You’re the best, Isla,” he says, walking toward Marisa.
I grin to myself, satisfied with the potential match that I helped create. Someday, if they get married, I’ll get to make a speech about how I was there when the whole thing unfolded. How I basically set them up. It’ll be great.
While I’m standing there, sipping my Dr. Pepper, I watch the crowd, because that is what I do best. I see a lot of people acting crazy, reminding me once again why I don’t drink. I am not even sure I like being here. If it wasn’t for Micah, I probably wouldn’t be.
I’m about to turn and walk away from the crowd, feeling a bit claustrophobic, when somebody bumps into me. I spill my soda all over them.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“You ruined my dress!” a very high pitched girl yells at me. “This is a…” she rattles off the name of some designer. “Do you have any idea how much it costs?”
She may as well be speaking Spanish. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
“Like you could afford it,” she says, looking me up and down, like I am a piece of gum she stepped in while wearing her designer shoes.
“Whatever,” I say. “You’re the one who bumped into me.” I point to her heels. “If you can’t walk in those shoes, you probably shouldn’t wear them.”
She gasps. “You… you… you…”
“Giggi,” a boy says, walking up to us. “Is everything okay?”
I look at the guy. He’s tall. Like about six inches taller than the girl in heels. Who is about three inches taller than me. Though, in my defense, four of her inches are from her shoes.
The guy, who I am now looking at instead of the crazy girl, has curly brown hair and eyes the color of the sky on a cloudless day. He’s kind of gorgeous. Of course this girl is his type. I probably spilled my drink on his girlfriend. I will officially be the outcast of the school.
“No, I’m not okay. This… thing… ruined my dress,” she says.
“I’m a girl,” I say, reminding her that I am still here. “Not a thing. And I’m standing right here.”
The boy turns and looks at me. “Hello.”
The girl he called Giggi turns and stomps off. I hear her yelling at her friends about me when she’s twenty feet away.
“Is she always that whiney?” I ask him. Maybe I shouldn’t call his girlfriend whiney, but I can’t help myself. Certainly he knows that his girlfriend is a loser.
“Unfortunately,” he says. “I am ashamed to say that she is my sister.”
Sister.
Not girlfriend.
Interesting.
“I will buy her a new dress,” I say. “It was an accident, but I didn’t mean to spill my drink on her.”
“Don’t worry about it. Giggi never wears the same outfit more than once anyway,” he says.
“That’s… kind of sad. Her and my mother would get along great,” I say, thinking I’ve never seen my mom wear the same outfit twice either. She’s scared she’ll take a selfie in the same outfit more than once and her followers will stone her.
“I’m Camden,” he says.
“I’m Isla,” I say.
“Isla!” I hear Micah yell as he runs towards me. “That girl is totally into me. I so owe you.” He stops when he sees Camden in front of me. “Oh, sorry to interrupt. I’m Micah. Best friend of Isla.”
“I’m Camden,” he says. “Isla’s… um… knight in shining armor.”
“We just met a few minutes ago when I spilled Dr. Pepper all over his sister,” I say. “It was an accident, but I’m pretty sure I ruined her life. At least, she seems to think so.”
Camden laughs.
Micah looks confused. “Right. Well, I just wanted to tell you that Marisa and I are going to go somewhere less noisy and talk. Are you cool getting back alone?”
“I’m fine. I drove,” I say.
“Okay. See you tomorrow,” he says, then runs off.
I turn to Camden. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Camden.”
“Cam,” he says.
“Cam,” I repeat. “I should probably get going to. I only came here because Micah begged me to. This isn’t really my kind of thing.”
“You should stay,” he says. “Hang out with me.”
I look at him, and notice something familiar in his blue eyes. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it comes.
“I’m sure you don’t want to hang out with the girl who ruined your sister’s dress. I’m, like, the enemy,” I say. “Besides, I’d just be in your way.”
“I insist,” he says. “Besides, I don’t care what my sister thinks.”
Huh.
He’s defiant.
Maybe he’s not like her.
“What year are you?” I ask him.
“Freshman,” he answers. “You?”
“Freshman as well,” I say. “I thought maybe that Giggi girl was your younger sister. I mean, you’re way more mature.”
“Twin sister, actually,” he says.
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” he says.
“You two don’t look anything alike,” I say.
He has brown hair where hers is blonde. He has blue eyes, she has brown. He has a soul, and she doesn’t.
“We have different fathers.”
It takes a second for my brain to register his comment. “Wait, what?”
He laughs. “I’m kidding. That’s biologically impossible. Though, if it were true that would explain a lot.”
He is funny.
I like him already.
“What does your shirt say?” he asks.
“It says Liberate North Korea,” I answer. It’s written in Hangul. I repeat the phrase in Korean. I am not fluent in Korean, but I can read it. I’d like to learn it someday, but I’ve never had anybody to practice with.
“You like Korea or something?”
“I’m obsessed with South Korea’s culture. This might sound weird, but I listen to Korean rap, like, all the time,” I say.
“I like Korean rap,” he says. “It’s rare to find somebody who listens to it.”
What are the odds of meeting two people who like Korean rap at my college? This is crazy.
“Isla, what is your last name?” he asks, studying with me an intense gaze.
“McAdams,” I answer.
I can’t read the expression that flashes across his face. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it comes.
“Isla, you and I should be friends,” he says.
Friends.
I like that.