Few things are as tentative as a male during their teenage years. Jerome wasn’t any different.
It’s a fucking telephone. Pick up the thing and dial the seven digits, and the other person will answer. Maybe she won’t, his nervous little pessimistic pea-brain screamed. What the hell did he know? What the hell did any 14-year-old really know? Turns out, not much.
That day in October 1995 had the seconds tick slower and slower. Beginning of the day, fine. Middle of the day, why is the sun hanging in the sky so fucking long? By 4pm, the freckly white-pink mess that found every reason to do everything else that day finally sacked up. Of course, when you’re that age, your sack is pretty hard to find at times. It seems like it’s getting away from you.
She just has to answer! She just has to! What the hell else would a girl like her be doing at the moment I take the time to call her? Nothing! Ridiculous justifications of this sort blasted through his head and trainwrecked themselves against each other.
Teen angst, what seemed like gallons of sweat, years of pining away for this girl, all of it…melted away as Jerome fumbled a stubby finger across the keypad of his parents’ AT&T cordless phone. Seven buttons pressed, unlocking a type of goodness he had only experienced vicariously up until now.
Hi, this is Marci. May I ask who’s calling?