Sent

She wasn’t very pretty: a long nose stretched down her face, beside it lay dyed black hair with bright green streaks, but she was mine. Most people avoided her; she had a very unusual style. Today she wore bleach splattered purple overalls and a bright green off-the-shoulder shirt, which was against the dress code. I just wore a boring grey buttondown and tan trousers; at least I wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. It was tenth grade, and who you talked to was closely observed. I didn’t have to worry about that, because I never talked to anyone. I did talk to her though… well we texted at least. By that, I mean she texted me, I never really responded too much. It was a Monday when it happened. We’d been in school for about two weeks when she first texted me. Nothing special, just the usual, “Hey, I don’t have your contact saved, but you’re in my grade, right? �� ” and “Hello? Who is this? ��” that went on through the first period to lunch. I expected her to start believing that she was texting a robot number and ignore me like everyone else, but she didn’t. I always wondered why she kept texting a number when she didn’t even know if someone was on the other side. That’s when I realized I had my read receipts on. But for some reason, I kept them on. It was nice knowing that someone knew I was there. I had to take the bus home. My parents were at work and I wasn’t old enough to drive yet. I never liked taking the bus, too much pressure, but today it was the only option. Deciding where to sit was the most awkward and uncomfortable part for me. The front of the bus was filled with trendy kids, who gossiped to everyone and about everyone. Sitting there would just draw attention, which is the last thing I needed. The gamers sat in the middle, and I didn’t even own an Xbox, but we occasionally communicated, just the usual, “Hey! Did you have the test? Any plans over the summer?” strictly business and nothing out of the ordinary Thalia O’Neil or personal, which is fine by me. The back would be a good option, except for the fact that it was contaminated by the juniors and seniors, which just left the back middle, for the extras. It was a new bus, and by that I mean, it had only a few graffiti slurs and didn’t completely smell like the inside of the boys’ locker room after basketball season. The bus ride to my house was thirty minutes, thirty-six if you count the walk from where the bus dropped me off. It could’ve dropped me off directly at my house, but I prefered for people not to see the shack I lived in. Well, “shack” is a bit of an exaggeration, it was truly a beautiful house, but it was too perfect, too noticeable. It had dark blue shutters and doors, and we had painted the wooden porch and swing the previous summer. I hadn’t really noticed it all before; I had been accustomed to having my head down like a beaten dog. That day was different somehow. I even took a moment to appreciate the daisies planted by my mother. They were messy and would probably die before October, but they still looked beautiful to me. My phone buzzed, snapping me out of my head for a moment. I shook my head to clear my vision; it was her: “Today was fine, I hate my Calculus teacher though����.” I slipped through my garage to my room only to be greeted with another text, “Ugghhhh my sister just got me grounded ����. I hate her so muchhh���� ❤.” I rolled my eyes, “Ugghh that sucks.” I whispered, but I didn’t respond. I liked listening to her, I didn’t want to ruin that with my socially awkward way of speaking. She was a good acquaintance of mine, I thought, and I would’ve thought of her as a friend, but it didn’t seem fitting yet. That is, until she really started to open up. “I want to run away,” her text said. I shook my head, it was about 1 o’clock in the morning, and I was still

drowsy from sleep deprivation. She was joking, she had to be. Even if she wasn’t, why would she come to me for this? We barely know each other, I haven’t even spoken to her. I turned over and closed my eyes, she was joking, I told myself, she must be. My phone buzzed again and read, “No one cares about me here, there’s no reason for me to stay.” I wanted to respond, I had to, but what would I say? I was always terrible with words, I was terrible with everything. I participated in zero sports, zero camps, and I got homesick a lot so sleepovers were out of the question. My social life was not a priority, I don’t think anyone even knew I went to their school. The only thing I could do was listen, which explained why music was my only peace. I have no siblings and my parents were never home…. except to sleep and make meals like normal parents, I guess. I don’t think I would notice their absence as much if I occupied myself with friends and girls, but I just had music. That was fine with me, but it wasn’t with her. I spoke to her the only way I knew how, and I sent a text that changed everything. “Dear Evan Hansen, You will be found.” I expected silence, or a vulgar text including remarks about my nonexistent responses, but all I got back was, “Thank you, sorry for the late response. After I read your text I talked to my parents. We talked things out and they’ve agreed to get me a therapist to help me sort things out.I feel better now, because of you❤️ .” That’s when I started calling her mine. We talked more, and I stayed consistent in my lyrical tongue. I was surprised how much easier it was to steal words from other people than to come up with them yourself. First, it was ‘80s classics, Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, Billy Joel; she seemed to enjoy them. The 2000s didn’t hit too well with her, so back to Madonna. I wanted her to be happy, I needed her to be happy. It seemed like we were conjoined, and her happiness was mine. It was the perfect relationship, staying up all night talking about movies, books, and basically anything that came to mind, but I knew it wasn’t enough for her. Eventually, she would ask that dreaded question, “Wanna meet up? Like in real life I mean.” I just didn’t know it would happen so soon. I panicked. It was 5 AM and my mind was fuzzy, I didn’t know how to answer in a way that explained to her how I felt but didn’t disappoint her. I looked for some lyrics, something, anything; Bon Jovi, Wham!, Survivor, The Cure, nothing there. I moved on to the ‘90s, I was sure she wouldn’t mind, Backstreet Boys, Smash Mouth, Ricky Martin, nothing. I even went back to show tunes, but I couldn’t find anything anywhere. I’d never really panicked before, but I did then. My world was crumbling, I shouldn’t have opened up, I knew better. If we don’t meet she’ll hate me, but if we do she’ll be embarrassed because of how strange and unusual I really am. I had to respond soon or she’d question our whole relationship. Relationship? We’d talked for barely seventeen hours, it probably meant nothing to her. But what if it did? She probably expects some knight in shining armor, or football player, or maybe even a girl, I never did reveal my gender. I wasn’t too skinny, but I wasn’t overweight either, I was just average. Everything about me was average. I wasn’t ugly, or handsome, I had shaggy blonde-ginger hair, that was long enough to cover my eyes and a stutter. My parents hadn’t taken me clothes shopping in two years, so everything I owned was too short. My mom always said I had the perfect amber eyes, but I keep them covered. Anything that would make me stand out I hid. Even still, who’d even want to talk to me, nevertheless be seen with me? Out of all these uncertainties, the one that made the answer clear was the question, what if I lose her forever? I picked up my phone, knowing no lyrics could help me now. I started typing, this was the first thing I texted that wasn’t stolen, but I couldn’t get the message across any other way. My thumbs were moving on their own, no second-guessing, no deleting and starting over, no more worrying. She sees the real me, not the mask, even if the real me is uninteresting, bland, and a weird music geek, she sees it and she doesn’t look away. Totally numb, not sure what I what to do or think, I looked down at my screen which read only one word: Sent.

~ Aubryn Dubois