I hooked up a lot in high school, nothing significant. But I ended up dating one girl for the majority of senior year. I might have even loved Megan Briggs. She was popular, beautiful and the life of the party. Unfortunately, she planned on carrying on that tradition throughout her college years and decided she wanted to do it without a boyfriend to drag her down. For the first time in my life, I felt heartbroken. It’s not like I’d expected to carry on a long distance relationship and marry the girl, but I did think we’d have the summer to say our goodbyes.
In a way, Megan did me a favor. She prepared me for the next girl to come along. The next girl that would undoubtedly steal my heart. And right now I hate thinking about Megan Briggs while staring at that girl. Thank you very much, but screw you too Megan Briggs.
Without sounding schizo, I tell Mia something about voices in my head urging me to talk to her. She giggles, sending my heart into funny samba-like moves inside my rib cage. When she registers the contentment on my face she asks, “What is the voice in your head telling you now?”
Here’s your chance, Declan. Say it now or risk dropping the ball, fumbling the pass, dodging the...Yeah, yeah—the voice is getting fucking annoying now. I lean back in my chair, praying to baby Jesus that I look calm and cool, instead of all worked up and nervous as hell of rejection. “It’s telling me to ask you out.”
Her eyes brighten again, but she’s silent. She takes a long pause. The library becomes painfully quiet. My mouth itches to say, “You’re killing me, Smalls.” But instead I come up with something a little more charming than a quote from The Sandlot.
When her mouth forms the prettiest damn smile I’ve ever seen and she speaks the spectacular three-letter word, “Yes!” I resist the urge to jump up off the chair and pump my fist in the air, like fucking Rudy did at the end of the big Notre Dame game. What the fuck’s with my head and all these movie references right now? This is real life! And in real life the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever laid eyes on has just agreed to go out with me.
“Favorite color.”
“Purple.” I’d pegged her for a pink girl. “My turn. Favorite ice cream flavor?”
“Mint chocolate chip.” We’d covered birthdays, colors, and subjects in school, but I still wanted to know more because I had a plan for a first date that would knock her socks off. “Enough with the girly crap, important stuff now. Favorite band.” If Carl were here listening to this shit he would have hurled, or hired a stripper to fuck the man back into me. I never pictured myself as one of those guys talking to a girl for hours over the phone, lying on the bed, staring up the ceiling, but that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. I’m one step away from doodling little squiggly hearts in a goddamned notebook. Shit! I’m fucking doomed.
“Oh, that’s easy. Third Eye Blind. Stephen Jenkins is hot!”
I know she’s talking about a celebrity, but I don’t like her thinking another guy is hot. “Oh, really? Can’t be that hot, I haven’t even heard of them.”
“Are you serious? Jumper, How’s It Going to Be, Semi-Charmed Life? You’ve had to have heard at least one of those.”
Of course I had, but I liked hearing her this worked up—so passionate about something. “Nope.”
“Wow, Declan. Are you living under a rock? You’d love them, they’re very alternative/grunge-inspired, so…sexy. Ohmygod, me and Grace went to their concert over the summer and it was like, life-changing. When he sang The Background we both cried like babies.”
“Over a song?”
“Oh shut up! I take it you’re not a music lover then, huh?”
That’s where she’s wrong. I fucking love music—listening to it, singing it, playing it. I could sit there and fiddle with riffs and chords on a guitar all day long and be content. But she didn’t need to know that yet. It was all part of the master plan. “No, I like music, but usually when a girl talks about how hot the lead singer is that really means they’re some bubble-gum boy-band with a one hit wonder.”
And that’s where I was wrong.
After that phone conversation and hearing her talk about how those songs made her feel something, I ran out and bought the CD. To my surprise, aside from the popular radio hits I’d known, the band started to grow on me. Especially one track in particular. The track that brought it all into play.
My plan all along was to take Mia to The Alibi for our first date. My buddy Travis’ band headlines on Saturday nights. For the layman, that translates as: my roommate’s older brother—who has the most kick-ass band on College Row—has agreed to let me sing a song for my date. Before I knew about her favorite band, I’d asked Travis’ advice for a song that would make a good impression but also send her a clear message. His suggestion was predictable, way too karaoke-ish. After nearly giving in and settling on the Bon Jovi ballad, I’d come across track number eleven, I Want You.