03-Brad

“There she is,” Brad whispered.

“Now is your chance,” Clay said. “She’s all by herself, man. Go.”

“Yeah, I will.” Brad paced forward, moving toward her.

She stood at her open locker, sorting through the items within. She was Amy Weaver, with long blonde hair that shone atop her short cardigan, and jeans worn low, showing off her hips. Brad had spent much of his recent days—really the whole year—in awe of her.

He thought back to just last week, when he’d dropped the letter into her locker. Brad had poured his heart and soul into that letter, and—painfully—Amy had not given him any indication whatsoever that she’d received it. As Brad approached her, his eyes scanned her open locker, wondering if he’d see his letter there, sitting at the bottom, still unnoticed and unopened. He cursed his situation—seeing the unopened letter would explain her behavior, but then it would also represent a ticking time bomb for some undefined point in the future. Brad wished he could somehow just take it back, but he knew that was impossible. The bomb was planted. Forever planted.

Oh well, Brad thought. What’s done was done. His mission now was independent of the letter. He would ask Amy to Zack’s party this weekend. It was an invitation to a very exclusive party—Brad was one of a select few that even knew about it. Surely, she’d be interested, Brad thought. Brad hoped.

He marched toward her, but his confidence faded as he neared. Amy didn’t notice his approach, and instead her eyes were fixed on two guys walking down the adjoining hall.

“Mike!” she yelled out sharply, at the exact same time Brad called out her name. She didn’t hear him at all. He watched her smile and wave at the two guys who walked by. They were juniors named Mike and Joe. Mike just nodded back at her in mid-stride, with a nonchalance that Brad couldn’t fathom in such a situation.

His timing was all messed up, so Brad kept walking straight past her, moving casually as though nothing had happened. He stopped after a while, in the middle of the hall, and turned around. He looked back at Amy, as though it was in his mind to try another pass, but he was too late—she’d already shut her locker and was walking away, chatting with some of her friends.

Having seen his opportunity come and go, Brad paced miserably back toward Clay, who’d been watching all along. Clay was utterly speechless, just wrecked with laughter.

“Shut up, man,” Brad said.

Clay wiped away tears. “Hold on, dude, I gotta collect myself.”

Their other friend, Zack, emerged from the crowd of the early morning rush through the halls. They stood in a circle, each of them sophomores, united in their awkwardness: Brad Martin, tall and gangly, with a thick mop of dark hair; Clay Roberts, short and freckled; and Zack Huchzermeier, heavyset and plodding.

“What just happened? What did I miss?” Zack asked.

“Just Brad getting awkward with the ladies,” Clay said, still laughing. “It was priceless. It really might have been the highlight of my entire week.”

“Aw, man, I missed it. Can you do it again, Brad?”

He gave them both the obligatory middle finger.

“Seriously, how stupid do we look?” Zack held out a bag of flour he carried in his right hand.

“No kidding,” Clay agreed. He also held a bag of flour. “This flour baby project is so lame, dude. I’m so glad it’s finally ending. As soon as class lets out, I’m gonna spike this thing like a football, straight into a trash can, and be done with this fuckin’ faux-parenting.”

“If your bag lasts that long. Your shit is leaking, yo.” Zack pointed at Clay’s flour bag.

“No, it ain’t.”

“Yeah, it is. I see little puffs of flour in the air, man, each time you take a step.”

“What does it mean if your bag is leaking like that?” Brad asked. “Your baby is hurt? You better patch that up, Clay…you negligent bastard.”

“Yeah, Coach will take points off, you know, if your bag is messed up,” Zack said.

“I should have just bought a new bag.”

“Nah, Coach stamped these, remember? We can’t replace ’em.”

“You really think he’s gonna check?”

“Probably.”

“I see you guys are learning all about parenthood,” Brad said. “You’re really grasping the exercise.”

“All this is gonna do is make me damn sure to wear a condom next time I’m in bed with a chick,” Clay declared. “Because the last thing I want to do is carry one of these little fuckers around all the time.”

“Well, first of all, mission accomplished, because we don’t need your ass procreating,” Zack said. “Second of all, stop pretending like you getting in bed with a chick is like some kind of event that’s always about to happen.”

“Screw you, I’ve gotten some.”

“No you haven’t.”

“What’re you talking about? I had Jackie Bertuzzi in bed that one night.”

“Yeah, at a party. With all your clothes on. The bedroom door was wide open. People could see you guys. We were all laughing.”

“Still.”

“Man, don’t even talk. You’ve never even whiffed pussy.”

“How about you, Zack?” Brad asked. “Sarah’s been giving it up?”

“Yeah, she has.”

“B.S.,” Clay said.

“Hey, you don’t know, man.”

“So, you’ve hit it, then?”

“Well…almost. I’m knocking on the door and this weekend is it. We’re doing it. My parents out of town, my fridge already loaded with beer—it’s all set up nicely.”

“Yeah, hopefully, we’re all gettin’ some this weekend,” Clay said.

“Just don’t tell anyone, man,” Zack warned. “I’m serious. Only just the few of us, and like I said, you can each invite one girl over. That’s it.”

“Yeah, all right, I know.”

“Cool, man, I’m down. What’s the plan?” Brad asked.

“Here is my vision for the night, yo. The master plan, if you will. Everyone comes over, and there’s like eight of us, or ten, max. We start off real fun and social, you know, some quarters or some cards, or whatever drinking games the girls want to play. We all get a nice buzz on, everyone in a real good mood. At some point, Sarah and I will break off. That will be the cue for the rest of you. Hopefully, the ladies will especially take note. We go from there.”

“Word.”

“And who knows, Clay, if we do this right, and we all break away, whatever girl is left over will have no choice but to get with you!”

“Screw you.”

“Who’d you invite, by the way?

“Nikki Felton.”

“Oh, all right, there you go.” Zack nodded. “Nikki’s cool, man. Is she coming?”

“She said she would.”

“That sounds like a no. What about you, Brad?”

“Well…I was wanting to ask Amy.”

“Amy who?”

“Amy Weaver.”

“Amy Weaver? Goddamn, dude, you setting your sights high. Did you ask her yet?”

“He just tried,” Clay remarked. “It was so hilarious.”

“Shut up.”

“What happened?” Zack asked.

“He aborted in mid-approach.”

“Incredible,” Zack gasped, with an awed look on his face. “Brad’s the only guy I know who can strike out before it’s even 8 a.m. You’re unbelievable, man.”

“Yeah. Shoot for the stars, Brad,” Clay added.

“Screw you guys.”

“Try again in class, dude.” Zack suggested. “She’s in Psychology with us.”

“I will,” Brad replied. “Well…if I get the opportunity.”

“Dude, you got to make your opportunity. That’s the only way you’re gonna get with a girl like Amy Weaver.”

“Yeah, but what if she’s with her ‘husband’?” Brad made air quotes with his fingers.

“Who’s her husband?” Zack asked.

“Rob Smith.”

“Oh, that sucks,” Clay said.

“Yeah, I was hoping like hell to get matched up with her when Coach was drawing names. What better way to flirt and stuff, you know?”

“So instead she gets Rob Smith.”

Brad shook his head in disgust. “The world isn’t fair, right? Amy is as spectacular as I don’t know what, and he’s the biggest a-hole in the whole school. He’s like…the aging bully whose glory days are quickly passing by, you know? So, he’s even more of an asshole than usual, sensing his time is nearing an end. And he’s the one who gets matched up with the hottest girl in the tenth grade? That ain’t right.”

“Easy, man,” Zack began. “He and Paul sell some good weed. How many times have they come through for us?”

“Product aside, he’s still a dick. Fuckin’ dimwit, wannabe gangster motherfucker. It makes me sick.”

“Damn, dude, tell us how you really feel.” Clay scowled.

“Yeah, Brad, what the hell? This is like the worst I’ve ever heard you talk about anyone,” Zack said, grimacing.

“I’m just sayin,’ that dude is gonna be behind bars in… What? T-minus twelve months or so, right? Amy deserves better.”

“Well, prove it to her then.”

“Yeah,” Clay agreed. “You got to try again, Brad. And this time, take a swing, would you?”

“Seriously, man,” Zack added. “Even I’m starting to feel awkward, just by association with this.”

Brad again gave them both the obligatory middle finger, and then they started walking toward class.

In just a minute or so the door to Psychology was in sight. Coach West stood beside it with a clipboard and students were lined up at the entryway, each with their bags of flour.

“Let’s see ’em,” Coach said, with the same intensity he might use when addressing the football team. Both the pen and the clipboard looked tiny in his giant hands.

Brad, Clay, and Zack displayed their flour bags and Coach made marks on his clipboard. As they were about to walk inside, Coach said to them, “Don’t forget. I’m gonna be watching. All day today.”

“All day?”

“Until the final bell. I’m going to be walking around the halls, even the grounds around the school. If I catch any of you without your babies in hand, you’re down a letter grade in the project. I know it’s Friday, and you all want to drop the charade, but you can’t. I won’t let you. A real mother and father can’t ever take a break from their kid just because it’s getting on the weekend.”

“This is lunchin,’ Coach,” Clay grunted.

“There’s that word again. It’s like that’s all you kids know how to say.”

“That’s because the word just always fits, Coach,” Zack said.

“Yeah,” Brad agreed. “It’s so all-encompassing.”

Coach West grinned dubiously. “Go sit down.”

They took their seats, each of their desks adjacent to one another in the back of the room and waited for class to start.

Brad perked his head up as he saw Amy Weaver enter the room. She had her bag of flour in a baby sling, as many of the girls had opted to do, so they had their hands free. One guy used a massive baby carrier that wrapped all around his entire torso, more for hilarity than anything else. Brad saw this guy enter the room also, and he couldn’t help but laugh, but his eyes went quickly and eagerly back to Amy, and he watched as she removed her flour bag from the sling. It was swaddled in a baby blanket, and Brad could not take his eyes away from everything he saw happening there as she placed the wrapped bag carefully on her desk and then sat down.

“Dude,” Zack whispered, leaning in. “You just gonna keep staring, or you ever gonna grow some balls?”

Brad could only sigh. His friends constantly pestering him—it would go on forever, it seemed. He didn’t dare tell them what he’d already did, so they didn’t know that he was trying. In the most elegant way he knew. The letter he’d written to her said it all. That she hadn’t even acknowledged it was killing him.

Zack seemed to be reading his angst. “Aaaand it begins,” he sang.

“Screw you,” Brad replied automatically. But then he asked, “What begins?”

“I can already tell…Amy Weaver’s next in line, huh? The next girl you’re gonna sit around and pine for, day after day, week after week? You’ll dream about her, and…whatever the hell you do…give her a bunch of mix tapes and shit…while never actually hooking up with her. You know I’m right, too.”

“Screw you, man,” Brad snapped.

Zack went on, undeterred. “It will be the Ashley Carpenter experience all over again, right, Brad? Or… Who was before that? Kendra Dumont?”

Brad couldn’t reply.

“Take a page from my man Clay’s book. This dude here leads the league in strike-outs, but…at least he’s trying. And that’s why he gets a hit every now and then. It’s sheer volume.”

Clay nodded in tentative agreement. “It was a solid double against Jackie Bertuzzi,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I was rounding nicely to third, but got cut-off when people kept turning on the damn lights and messing with us.”

“See?” Zack said. “That ain’t bad. She may have lobbed him a nice slow ball, right over the plate, but still…my man got on base. You’re still in the fuckin’ batter’s box, Brad.”

Brad only exhaled, as though defenseless.

“We’re just messin’ with you, bro, don’t worry about it,” Zack added, slapping him on the shoulder. “But still, if you want us to shut up, you gotta go talk to her. It’s the only way, man.”

Brad actually looked like he might stand up to do just that, but then, the bell rang.

“I’ll get her after class,” he whispered, falling back in his seat.

“Yeah, if her husband doesn’t kick your ass first,” Clay replied, looking toward the front of the class.

“Speak of the devil,” Zack said.

Rob Smith made his entrance, followed by Paul Lee, the two of them cackling as they crossed the room toward their desks. Clearly, they thought they belonged somewhere else, like they were much too good for this nonsense. Rob carried his bag of flour with one hand, like someone might palm a basketball. He looked like he was somehow ten years older than everyone else. His sidekick Paul was strangely quiet compared to Rob, but Brad nevertheless assumed he was cut from the same cloth. Brad eyed them both with distaste.

“Sit down,” Coach barked, glaring at them.

Coach lectured for a while before they broke off into groups and worked on their project. Brad had been matched from the beginning with a girl from El Salvador, and so she was his ‘wife.’ She was very quiet, and Brad was never really sure how much English she spoke, or if she had any clue at all what the hell was going on in the class. While doing his best to converse with her, it was impossible to keep from occasionally glancing across the room. Each time he saw Rob, sneering like a jackass, way louder than anyone else. It pained him to see Amy often laughing with him. He felt searing jealousy.

Of course she laughed, though. She would do this for Rob, whether or not she actually thought he was funny. Because Amy was different. Amy was special. Of this Brad felt certain.

He dreamt once more of what he’d yearned for the most—Amy finding his letter and reading it while becoming more and more moved, her emotions brimming, overflowing. It was a deep and meaningful interaction he had attempted with her.

Brad couldn’t stop himself from doing it. He’d penned the letter with great enthusiasm, and put his whole heart onto the paper, expressing quite eloquently his feelings for her. While he did go on some tangents and included some humor, mostly he spoke of how much he admired her grace and her maturity, as it was far beyond the level of most anyone else in the sophomore class, and he respected that so damn much. She didn’t get dragged into the stupid and immature games everyone else seemed to want to play. She was honest and forthright, and she was respectable to everyone—from the teacher, to the bully, and all the way down to the quiet and shy kids in the class with whom she always spoke to without a hint of condescension. Indeed, she treated everyone the same—kindly—and it was very admirable. Oh, and on top of all that, she was so very beautiful, a beauty accentuated ever more so by her inner kindness. Seeing her each day was like a ray of sunlight falling upon him, and it left him speechless.

These were all things he had told her.

It had been exactly one week ago, on a Friday morning, when Brad had summoned up the courage and dropped the letter into her locker. Instantly he’d felt shockwaves ripple through his body as he dashed off amidst a powerful adrenaline rush.

She had to like that letter, Brad thought. She just had to—if she was the girl he thought she was.

He’d included his phone number in the letter, but he hadn’t expected her to actually call—that would be his job, to call her, in the following days, when the time was right. But still, he thought there was an outside chance she’d be so moved that she might dial nonetheless. Throughout the weekend, each time his phone rang, Brad perked up and imagined it was her. It never was, but it was fun to dream.

By mid-morning the following Monday, after he’d seen Amy casually going about her day, he’d felt the first twinges of doubt creep in. These twisted into outright anxiety throughout the week as Amy gave no reply to him at all—written or verbal. There was no indication whatsoever that she had even received his letter. Brad began to think that maybe it had fallen deep into her locker, and that she just hadn’t noticed it yet, because she certainly would have at least acknowledged it—of this, Brad felt certain.

But at the same time, a scary question crossed his mind—what exactly was he expecting from her as a response? He wasn’t sure—and this was a bit alarming.

The bell rang to end class and Brad snapped out of his deep thought. As they stood and began filing out the door, Zack was in his face once more, picking right up where he’d left off.

Here we go, Brad thought, miserably.

“Dude, it’s going to be a phat party tonight,” Zack whispered solemnly. “Perfect opportunity to mack on her.”

Brad didn’t reply. Instead he stood there, wondering just how much more of this he could take before he snapped.

Zack continued, speaking with more fervor than ever. “If you don’t ask her now, Brad, she ain’t comin,’ and you’ll be kickin’ yourself in the head later! You know I’m right, too. C’mon, man, this is your last chance.”

That actually struck a chord. He had to admit it—Zack was right. Brad would beat himself up all weekend if he didn’t try this now. The burning regret would murder any fun he might try to have.

So, it was time, he decided. It was happening.

Without any more words Brad turned away from Zack, took a deep breath, and caught up with Amy in the hall.

“Amy!”

She turned and saw him.

“Hi, Brad!” she said, while offering a light smile.

“Hey, Amy.”

Brad had practiced the way he’d ask her to the party. It was casual and witty, and he had it well-rehearsed and ready to go—but before he could deliver it, she shattered everything he had planned in a mere instant.

“Thanks for your letter, Brad. I loved it. You’re such a great writer.”

For a moment Brad saw stars and worried he might actually pass out.

“No boy has ever given me anything like that. You’re so nice.”

There was an awkward pause, but she laughed it off. “Brad? Talk to me, dude!”

“Yeah, uh…glad you liked it.” It was all he could muster.

“It was so sweet. I’m very flattered.”

She laughed again during the silence, but in a kind way. It was enough to prompt him to finally say something.

“So, Amy, I was wondering…what are you doing this weekend?”

“Umm…I’m not sure yet.”

“Hey, if you want, Zack is having a party tonight. Zack Huchzermeier, you know him? He’s in Psychology with us.”

“Yeah, sure, I know him.”

“Keep it on the DL, though. He doesn’t want a lot of people. He wants to keep it chill. But…I told him I…I asked him if…”

“Hmm?” There was a hint of a smile on her face, a knowing, playful one, and it lit Brad up like fire.

“I asked him if I could…uh…if you would…”

The voice was loud and booming, and it interrupted everything.

“Hey girl, you cheatin’ on me?”

Rob approached them, loud and boisterous. Brad’s heart sank. He felt almost lost in Rob’s shadow as he towered over them.

“Amy, I’m sorry, but I’m so fucking done with this,” Rob barked, holding up his bag of flour to her. “Also, I think it’s leaking a bit. Do you want it?”

“No. Why? What are you going to do with it?” she asked cautiously.

“Throw it in the goddamn trash can? I don’t know.”

“Rob!”

“Sorry, I’m just through with this shit. I’m getting out of here soon, anyway. It’s Friday.”

She sighed, frustrated.

“Do you want it?”

“Fine, I’ll take it.”

Rob shoved the bag toward her. She handled it awkwardly, almost dropping it. “Shit, Rob, be careful. If this thing breaks now, Coach will see. He’s right there!”

Rob shrugged.

“And I’ll be very angry since we’ve been lugging these things around all week!”

“Hey, I’m sorry, honey,” Rob said in a mock husband voice.

Brad felt a rush of pure disgust. Then there was a moment of silence, during which time he stared at Rob with a look that could burn holes through a wall.

“What the fuck you lookin’ at, motherfucker?” Rob’s voice ripped loudly through the air. The atmosphere around them wavered almost visibly.

“Jesus, Rob, calm down,” Amy said.

Rob reached an arm out and shoved Brad violently. He hit the lockers behind him with a loud bang. Heads turned all around, the commotion attracting the attention of everyone in the hall who all sensed a fight. Naturally, they began to crowd around.

“What?” Rob growled, his voice like a pit bull. “What are you gonna say? Huh? What?”

Everyone was looking at him. Everyone’s eyes were on him. He felt Amy’s the most.

“Rob! Stop! He didn’t do anything!” she pleaded.

“What are you gonna say, huh? Nothing? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Just a scared little bitch.”

Rob quickly turned the other way and caught up with his cohort Paul, who had quietly watched the whole encounter. The crowd around began to disperse, disappointed that a fight had not broken out.

“Goddamn, Rob! What is your problem?” Amy shouted as Rob walked away.

He turned around. “I’m getting outta here, girl. I’m tired of you holdin’ me down.”

She watched him turn and walk off, and her scowl looked a little too friendly, like she again laughed at his joke—Brad saw a brief flash of her smile it cut him like a knife. But then she quickly turned toward him.

“Brad, are you okay? Oh, my God, what an asshole,” she remarked, shaking her head.

“Yeah…yeah, I’m okay.” It felt like it had been ages since he’d said something.

“Are you sure, Brad?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” But he wasn’t—he felt something deep within him rising to the surface. He was keenly aware of how he had just been made so damn weak, right in front of her. It was a nightmare.

He felt hot, dizzy. He didn’t know what the next words out of his mouth might be, or if, God forbid, even the slightest teardrop was the least bit visible in his eye. Either way, he had to get away.

Brad turned away from her, quickly shielding himself, and fled to the anonymity of the hallway traffic, out of her sight.