The Walt Way

one o'clock: bibbidi bobbidi boo

one o'clock: bibbidi bobbidi boo 

I sat in the middle of six other people, three couples. Once again, my friends had somehow managed to drag me along to the movie theater on a Friday night to watch a romantic comedy with their boyfriends. I was all for going out and I didn’t mind that they were all in relationships, but I was not about to get used to the seventh wheel life. They planted me in the center of all of the action because they didn’t want me to feel left out, but it only reiterated the fact that I was “available.” Whenever I said this to Donovan, who I was sure was gay, he would respond with, “You mean vacant?” They meant the same thing, but available made it sound like I was appealing and not a run-down apartment. Basically, I liked to have my self esteem boosted not shot down.

I hugged the popcorn container protectively against my chest. If they wanted popcorn, they could get their own. Right now, this bucket of artificially buttered kernels was the only thing I had. I was grateful that my friends weren’t the kind of people who thought that the only purpose a movie theater served was a spot to make out at. The worst that happened was a shared peck at a romantic scene, which made me want to cry because I heard Donovan’s words echo in the back of my head.

When the movie was finished, I gushed about how wonderful of a movie it was and claimed that it was one of my favorite movies, but it wasn’t all that different from any other romantic comedy. I was on that after-movie high where nothing could possibly beat what you’ve wasted an hour and half of your life watching. I was pathetic and lonely, two words that could be used to describe my Great Aunt Carol, who has kept her dead parakeet, Peck, for good luck. Quite frankly, I didn’t see how a shoebox full of maggots was good luck, but I wasn’t planning on visiting her anytime soon, so more power to her.

I wanted love, but not the crappy infatuation that seemed to have infiltrated any girl from the ages of fourteen to seventeen. I wanted true love. Was that so much to ask for? I disregarded the warnings from my parents and my friends and made myself an online dating account, but even that was a failed attempt at romance. Apparently being a full-time high school student wasn’t a proper occupation. I once let Catrine, my  eccentric friend who aspired to be a fortune teller, set me up on a blind date with one of her clients, and he turned out to be one of my dad’s co-workers. He was nice and took me out for ice cream, but the “date” and the ride home were awkward beyond belief. Needless to say, I gave Catrine a stern talking to the next day, hand on hip, disappointed head shake, the whole shebang. I needed to go to the experts for this, so I gathered as many Disney movies as I could and carried them up to my room. I felt like Gus from Cinderella when he was carrying the corn kernels. I didn’t have a Lucifer, but I did have Donovan, who was like a Lucifer in the sense that he wanted to inflict as much emotional harm as he could on me.

“You’re an idiot, Coralie,” he said, popping a chocolate chip into his mouth. “This plan is stupid and is destined to fail.”

“Stop being such a downer and take notes.” I thrusted a sparkly pink notebook into his arms. He eyed it with immense repugnance in such a way that made me want to smack him, so I did. “And here’s a pen. If you press on the slipper, it lights up.”

“Oh, goodie,” he deadpanned. “Are you seriously making me take notes on a Disney movie to help you find a boyfriend?”

About fifteen minutes into the movie, he realizes that I was being serious and started scribbling on his notebook. I snuck a couple of glances, but his handwriting was sloppy and illegible. There was no way I was wasting an hour decoding it, so I decided to force him to read it aloud once the movie was over. Once our ideas were voiced, we (I) made the plan.

“This is impossible,” Donovan said.

“Not impossible, impassable.”

“What movie is that from?”