Girls Don't Know Jack

Our Lord and Savior, Celine Dion

♫ Figure It Out - Blu DeTiger

On Friday, I finally catch a break.

It had been a rough week, the taunting from the other girls was relentless—mostly at the mercy of Emma McKinney and her goons. And while Jack never joined in on their name-calling, he never shut it down either.

Although, we aren't exactly friends, so I'm not sure what I was expecting. I, however, have been waiting for the opportunity to prove my remorse to him for days and finally, Ms Hailey offers it up to me on a silver platter.

"Good morning, everybody," Ms Hailey sings to us. "I'm assigning you all an essay which you will complete over the weekend, and present to the class Monday morning."

A few groans scatter the small room, but not from me. Turning my body, I make contact with the slumped boy seated next to me in the back row.

He frowns at me as I wiggle my eyebrows, reminding him of our little agreement days ago.

"You are to write a five-page essay, the topic? Your hero," Ms Hailey explains as she paces the aisles, passing out a rubric for the assignment. "You'll find all the details here. Now, let's move on to our lecture for the day."

I snatch the paper from the girl in front of me. Now, I should be dreading having to spend my entire weekend writing not only one—but two essays, but a little wicked plan has popped into my head.

So for now, I'm grinning ear to ear like a mad man.

....................................

Last bell rings and I sprint out of the room, dashing down the long corridor past snickering girls, making a beeline to Jack Moody's locker.

He slams the glittering silver door shut, just as I pop up behind him.

"Jack," I say with a devious grin.

He grimaces at me, stepping back into the metallic surface of the lockers to escape me. "Molly?"

"So, about that English assignment," I begin.

"Right...you're doing mine for me, yeah?" he replies as he begins to walk past me towards the exit.

My little legs break into a jog, patent leather shoes pattering across the waxed floor to keep up with him. "Uh, sure, but I was thinking we should probably meet up to work on it."

That makes Jack stop in his tracks, turning slowly to meet my face. "Uh—why? Just pick someone. I don't care who you write about."

Tilting my head at him, I narrow my eyes. "Celine Dion."

He frowns at me. "What?"

"I'll write your report over Celine Dion. And on Monday, you can stand in front of the class and tell them all about how she's your hero. Your Lord and Savior."

The brooding boy lets out an exhaustive sigh, rolling his eyes. "Oh-kay...point taken. Where should we meet up?"

A bit surprised he agreed to my ploy, I find myself at a loss. I hadn't thought this far ahead. Sheepishly, I smile at him as I say, "I guess Burger Shack is out of the question?"

He does not appreciate that call-back.

After a skin-melting glare, Jack asks, "Can we meet at your place? Maybe tomorrow?"

"Uh—yeah, yes of course," I stammer, all of the air seeming to leave my lungs.

Jack Moody just invited himself to my house.

"Kay, see you then," he replies turning on the heels of his signature black converse to leave. It's a nice view, his long body in black jeans sauntering down the hall, messy brown hair bouncing as he moves.

Unable to stop the words from tumbling out, I call to him, "It's a date!"

The boy keeps walking, but says just loud enough for me to hear, "Don't call it that."

............

I set two alarms for 5:00am this morning. On a Saturday.

Because the Jack Moody is coming to my house today and I need it to be perfect. He never actually gave me a time, and it's not like I have the boy's phone number, so I've just been nervously pacing for the past two hours.

Already this morning, I've showered, shaved, straightened my hair and attempted makeup. I've cleaned my entire room, including washing my sheets—I don't know why that felt necessary, but I don't know proper protocol in these scenarios.

I've never had a boy in my room.

Quickly, I scan the bedroom once more. The small twin bed in fresh teal sheets and purple comforter, piled with pillows and stuffed animals.

Is that too kiddish?

Yes, I should get rid of them. In a haste, I snatch the stuffies and toss them into my closet. It's a cramped fit since I've already stashed all my dirty clothes and other embarrassing remnants in there.

Slamming my back against the white closet door, I give it a firm push to shut it tight behind me.

There.

Now, my old dirty, lame room is spotless and sterile. Only a bed, empty white wooden desk and dresser are present.

The sound of a car motor makes me jump, and I sprint over to the window above my desk to look out. Down below, a small red car has pulled into our small driveway. A familiar mop of dark hair behind the steering wheel.

My heart begins to patter against my rib cage, and I quickly turn to the mirror in order to primp myself one last time.

There are too many freckles on my skin, peeking out from the foundation I tried to apply. My green bug eyes are too big for my face; the mascara I added only emphasizing that more.

And my hair—I can't even process that mess right now.

Ding Dong.

Our doorbell chimes from downstairs as my dad calls up to me, "Freckles, your friend is here!"

My legs grow roots and plant myself into the floor. I can't move. I can't function.

Oh my god, Jack Moody is at my house.