Broken shoelace, split pants, nothing ever changes for Debacle

As I made my way to services, the heel of one of my shoes kept slipping
off. Moving to the edge of the sidewalk, I started kneeling down to
retie it.

I froze in place as soon as I heard the unmistakable sound of fabric
tearing.

A woman walking in my direction snorted and covered her mouth. There was
a young couple behind her pushing a toddler in a stroller. The horrified
mother quickened her pace and veered her child as far away from me as
possible.

This was not just a rip. Rips don't cause women to rush their children
to safety. My pants looked like tectonic plates that had last fit
together millions of years ago. There was a massive fissure just below
the fly that ran the length of the crotch. The world no longer had to
speculate -- as anyone in the vicinity could tell you -- our hero wore
briefs.

I had to get home! But how? I couldn't casually walk down the street
with the front of my tightie-whities exposed to the world -- that was
borderline indecent exposure!

People kept snickering to themselves as they walked by and I made it
worse by standing there in a frozen half squat.

After using my healthy wrist to fold the exposed area shut, I stood up.
Of course, holding a hand over the crotch of my pants drew more
attention to my predicament, but at least my undies were no longer visible.

A guy with short greased up hair, giant grey sunglasses and orange
tanning-salon-skin took one look at me and shouted, "Look at his pants!"

My whole side of the street broke into hysterics. The commotion was so
loud that a small group gathered across the road. Thankfully, their view
was screened by the cars parked along the street.

Too bad I didn't have a plastic cup. Then I could pretend I was a street
performer and not some idiot who didn't recognize that his pants were in
danger of splitting when he put them on. At least this hadn't happened
in the synagogue...

As I held what was left of my khakis together and headed back towards
home, I no longer had enough fabric to work with in order to take a full
stride. Leaning side to side, I had to prolong my public humiliation
with agonizingly tiny steps. I have no doubt that Kiddo-style hickeys
were out in force. After all this time, why hadn't I learned how to
recognize when my pants were too tight!?!

I took a deep breath.

What was I so upset about? I knew better than to take myself too
seriously. Still, why was it that these sorts of incidents only seemed
to happen to me?

Regardless, retelling this incident to Jen was guaranteed to make her
forget how weary she was from her miserable ride home. Let's face it,
there were few funnier, harmless calamities than someone with split
pants. Still, good thing she was generally tolerant of this sort of
thing.

Scheduling heartbreak

Looking at a calendar, I decided to break up with The Death Star after
work on Friday, November 4th . It was a bit further off than I would've
liked, but it was the first date that worked. I wanted to avoid ending
it on a weeknight because we'd both be far too physically and
emotionally drained for work the next day. A Friday night was ideal
because it gave The Death Star a full weekend to recover. I would've
selected the weekend of October 23rd , but I'd made plans that weekend
to travel to a Great Lakes game against the Corn Hawks with my old
friend Baloo. The weekend of the 30th was out because I'd acquired
tickets a while ago to see Star's favorite singer, Bernadette Peters, on
Tuesday, November 1st . That concert was as important to her as a Great
Lakes/Mordor State game. I'd feel awful devastating her a couple days
before it.

On our way to the Bernadette Peters concert, The Death Star mentioned
that I'd been distant lately. I told her that we'd talk about it later.
She tried to bring it up when we got back to her place afterwards, but I
knew that if we got into it, we'd break up that night. Not only was it a
weekday night, but dumping her after the concert might cause her to
associate Bernadette Peters with heartbreak. I pretended to be overtired
and suggested we go to bed and get into it another time.

The next day, I called The Death Star and asked if we could "talk" on
Friday. While the can we talk bit was necessary to avoid pulling an
Axis of Evil and catching her completely off-guard, the
pre-breakup-breakup was not a great alternative because she'd end up
worrying herself sick over the next couple days. Unfortunately, there
was no good way to ask, "Hey, can we schedule some time for me to
devastate you on Friday?" As expected, The Death Star broke down from
the very suggestion, begging me to at least sign up for relationship
counseling. I lied, claiming that I'd think it over.

On the day before the breakup, Xena called me shortly after I got home
from work. Apparently, The Death Star had been repeatedly calling her
cell, hoping that Xena could provide the necessary magic formula to
avoid losing me. Behind the scenes, Xena supported my decision, knowing
how bothersome I found The Death Star's anti-social grumbling. After
Xena relayed The Death Star's desperate messages about how much she
loved me and wanted to be with me, I encouraged Xena to remain friends
with The Death Star. She had a way of bringing out Star's old charm.

The Water Leak

Apart from Xena and Star, who had become really good friends themselves,
I didn't surround myself with anyone else. How could I make new friends
when I spent my days fearing that I wouldn't be able to sleep? Sure, the
person who woke up everyday and went to work had my history, my face, my
friends and my background. However, the real me joked around and had a
laid-back disposition. I didn't want people to know me as a shell of my
former self.

The only significant additions to my life were the two kittens I'd
adopted. They were brothers with medium length black hair. I named one
Mazel -- Yiddish for luck. I'd need plenty of it. The other I named
Strider, because looking at his thick pitch dark fur reminded me of
Strider from The Lord of the Rings silently sitting in the shadows at
The Prancing Pony. I knew that dudes with cats had a negative cultural
stereotype and that naming a cat after a king from a fantasy series was
super dorky. However, I had companionship. In the loneliest hours of the
night, Mazel was always up for being scratched behind the ears and
Strider could be counted on to flop onto his back and request a belly rub.

Friday October 22nd started off as one of the most promising days in a
while. I only took half a sleeping pill, but I still managed to get a
long, sound night of sleep. One of Star's friends was throwing a party
that night and I told Star that I didn't care how late we stayed. In my
former life, I'd been out late plenty of times and I'd be damned if any
of this sleep stuff was going to hold me back. It was the first time I
felt empowered in a long time.

On the way home from work, I relaxed into the back of my plastic bus
seat and took in the start of the weekend. As always, my body ached, but
I was determined not to let that dampen my enjoyment.

My cell phone rang. It was Xena. She probably wanted to know what Star
and I were up to. "Hey, what's up?" I said.

"Heyyyy," she said. "I don't want to alarm you, ummm... but there's
water leaking out of your room."

"What!?!" The woman next to me shot me a look and got up and moved to a
different seat. Ugh! I'd become that guy who shouted into his phone...

"The carpet's wet in the hallway outside your door."

"Is it leaking into your room?" I asked as my heart thumped away.

When I lived with Clark Kent, our room had flooded. On a winter morning,
the next-door neighbors' window had blown open. The sprinkler pipes had
frozen, causing water to explode out of the damaged ducts. We got off
easy, as only our carpets were soaked, but none of our belongings had
been ruined. However, a waterfall soaked our downstairs neighbors in
their beds, destroying many of their possessions in the process. The
crooked management company had claimed that the windows couldn't have
opened on their own (even though they did all the time) and they'd tried
to get anyone whose property had been damaged to sue my neighbor.

How could I have been so stupid? I didn't have renter's insurance to
protect me from a lawsuit. If I'd flooded other apartments, I could be
out tens of thousands of dollars that I didn't have! Still, it was
relatively warm out. The pipes couldn't have frozen. In fact, the only
time I could remember turning on the water that morning was when I took
a shower. Whatever was going on, this couldn't have been my doing.

"No, it isn't leaking into my room," said Xena. "Do you want me to open
your door?"

"Yes, please do." I'd given her a spare set of keys to feed the cats
when I went home over Labor Day weekend.

"Okay, I'm going in," said Xena. I could hear the door creak open, and I
was pretty sure that Xena gasped. "Debacle, don't panic."

"What?" I asked, shifting in my seat.

"The bathroom sink was on," she said. "I just shut it off."

Oh shit! That sink didn't drain well. I'd been meaning to mention that
to maintenance for a few weeks. Why was it on? I must've forgotten to
shut the water off after I'd brushed my teeth. "How bad is it?"

"Well..." Xena hesitated. "Don't panic."

"How much water's in the room?"

"It's about an inch deep."

An inch!?! If an inch was standing in my room, my downstairs neighbor
must've been experiencing a torrential downpour!

"How are the cats?" I asked.

"They're on the desk. They look upset, but I think they're okay."

"Oh my god!"

"It'll be okay. I'm going to go get someone. I'll see you soon. Don't
worry, it'll be okay."

Pain exploded across my neck, chest, jaw and upper back with a
vengeance. So much for feeling empowered. It wasn't until just before I
got off at my stop that I realized I'd been rocking in place. No wonder
there were so many people on the other side of the bus.

I raced home and found Xena standing outside my open door with a
maintenance man. Beside him was an industrial sized water suction device
that resembled R2-D2.

Xena gave me a hug. "It'll be okay," she said.

"This room yours?" asked the maintenance man with a thick Eastern
European accent.

"Yeah," I mumbled. I poked my head in the open doorway and was assaulted
with heat. My apartment must've been 100 degrees! A light mist rained
down from the ceiling into the inch-high pool below. My pile of dirty
clothes in the middle of the floor was drenched.

The kittens sat wide-eyed at the high ground on top of my desk, their
hair sticking straight up and their tails wagging furiously. Strider
made eye contact with me and let out a soft, pathetic, mew.

Water sloshed against the maintenance man's feet as he wheeled the
suction device into my room. As soon as he turned it on, the grinding of
the motor caused both cats to curl back and lower their heads onto the
wood as if to say, Haven't we been through enough already?

A drop of water drizzled onto my head. Looking up at the wet ceiling, I
said to Xena, "The water must've come from upstairs."

"It was your bathroom sink."

"That's not possible! The ceiling can't get wet from the bathroom
sink!!!" No matter how upset I was, it wasn't right to take it out on
Xena. I couldn't imagine how I would have reacted if I'd opened the door
to my place without her warning. I sighed. "Sorry, I..."

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Bad Dates and Insomnia Too

I debated taking a sick day, but who knew when I'd start sleeping well
again. Perhaps I'd have to learn how to fight through the workday
without sleep. While no one seemed to notice that I was a little off, I
got little accomplished that day -- spending the majority of my time
obsessing about my inability to sleep.

While I wasn't feeling well during my date with Star, I blocked out my
issues well enough to go out for dinner, rent a movie and end the night
with a series of passionate kisses. Still, the experience was hollow.
Instead of becoming absorbed in the excitement of the moment, I was
merely going through the motions required to secure a wonderful
girlfriend. As soon as Star left, the anxiety returned and I knew I was
in for another rough night.

For the next month, I began living a dual life. At times I thought about
how lucky I was to be with Star. We were falling in love and even
beginning to openly wonder if we had a future together. At others, I was
overwhelmed with anxiety, fearing that I'd fall asleep at my desk one
day and find myself in an unemployment line. As the physical pain
worsened, spreading across my jaw, temples and upper back and sometimes
even muffling my hearing in one ear, I wondered how much my body could
take before it fell apart. Would the resulting anxiety not only rob me
of joy, but also shorten my life?

The worst part of my insomnia was that I couldn't take a break from it.
No matter where I went or what I did (shy of poisoning myself with
methamphetamines), I couldn't take time off from my circadian rhythm and
come back to it a week or two later. My days were haunted by fears of a
rough night.

Even though I can't imagine where I'd be without Star, I hated bringing
all this sleep and anxiety baggage into our relationship so early on.
What could I do? I couldn't pretend I wasn't going through a difficult
time. Apart from Xena, I had no one else in the city.

Star responded like a champion. When she wasn't spending the night, she
made a point of calling to talk for a half hour before I went to bed.
Once I shook this insomnia, pain and anxiety, I knew I'd be the kind of
boyfriend she deserved. The kind of boyfriend I would've been at any
other time in my life.

When Star asked about my past relationships, I told her all about The
Axis of Evil and The Gozerian. She thought the stories were funny, but
insisted upon hearing good things about my exes. I told her all about
the "endless" email I would trade back and forth with Goz and how Eve
and I spent long summer days in the Arboretum. Star seemed relieved that
I could humanize my exes. I appreciated that Star wouldn't let me get
away with just telling stories that painted them as one-dimensional
psychos.

As Star asked more questions about my prior relationships, I explained
that the biggest problem with both exes was their inability to deal with
stress. When adversity made them moderately uncomfortable, they became
emotionally incapable of handling themselves. "You're not like that,
right?" I asked.

Bubbles lasts only one round

Oh no.  Was I excited because I liked Bubbles or because I’d kissed a girl who wasn’t The Axis of Evil? 
I was hit with a dizzy spell and got off the phone shortly thereafter.  After laying down on the bed, I closed my eyes and replayed my evening with Bubbles.  At dinner she’d brought up how homeless people seemed to single her out when they asked for change, her gay dogs and her concern that her computer might have been haunted.  
Bubbles seemed nice enough that if we’d met under different circumstances, we probably would’ve been friends.  However, had she not contacted me on Tribe-Date via her haunted computer, I doubt I ever would’ve considered going out with her.  
The excitement of having someone to flirt with was what had made the night enjoyable.  Instead of asking critical questions about whether this was someone I wanted to be in a relationship with, I had let my hormones turn me into a conquistador with the absurd end goal of proving I was over The Axis of Evil.  
I’d thought that my recently adopted Fiddler on the Roof Czar policy would forever keep The Axis out of my head.  At the beginning of Fiddler, the rabbi claims that there’s a blessing for everything.  Some smart aleck asks him if there’s a blessing for the Czar.  The rabbi replies, “May God bless and keep the Czar… far away from us.”  While I wished The Axis well, her immature batshit breakup had stung so badly that I wanted as much distance from her as possible.  However, based on how I’d just kissed a girl I had no feelings for, I had no business laying claim to the moral high ground.  
Nonetheless, it was time to take down my Tribe Date profile and end this blind dating experiment.  Choosing a girl based on a picture and a couple of paragraphs was too unnatural.   
As for Bubbles – how to end it?  In fact, what was ‘it’?  We weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend.  What were the rules?  It would feel strange to call, have her get all excited and then tell her I was out.  Based on how our date had gone, there’s no way she could’ve guessed that I was having second thoughts.  Bubbles probably drove away in bliss, anxiously awaiting round two.  
What should I do?  A non-breakup, breakup phone call sounded miserable.  An email was almost as bad as using IM.  I decided to stop fretting about it – it wasn’t like I had to get in touch with her that night.  In the meantime, my housemates were still up.  There was some rotten fruit in the fridge.  I grabbed a baseball bat and headed downstairs.  
“You’re such a spaz,” said Indiana Jones.  “Just a minute ago it was Bubbles, Bubbles, Bubbles time.”
Setting down the bat and sprawling out on the living room couch, I said, “But I don’t have any feelings for her at all.  I only kissed her—” 
“How much can you really tell about someone from a single date?” he asked.  “If you liked her at all, you should go out with her again.”
“I’d be stringing her along.”  
Indiana sighed.  “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Maybe I am, but I don’t want to date anyone again until I’m in a situation that feels right.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time.”    
“Then I’ll wait.”
             *            *           *
I kept putting off getting in touch with Bubbles.  
After a couple of weeks, I knew I’d waited too long.  A non-breakup-breakup call would probably only insult her further.  Thus our hero joined the cowardly club of weak sauce dudes who kissed a girl and never called her again.     

Buttercup to Bubbles in one date

After putting it off for almost a week, I finally picked up the phone to call Buttercup. It was weird not being overwhelmed with anxiety. Maybe this was to my advantage. Since I'd never met Buttercup, it was impossible to come to the conclusion that she was a goddess who belonged on a pedestal. All I knew about Buttercup was that her roommate went to high school with Indiana Jones.

I read over my pre-written answering machine statement one last time and punched in her number. Our hero had entered the game again.

"Hello," sang an angel. With a calming phone voice like that, I could talk to her all day!

"Hi," I said. "Is Buttercup there?" Please be Buttercup! Please be Buttercup!

"One sec, I'll get her. Who is this?"

"It's Debacle." Damn, there's no way Buttercup could compete with that voice. I preferred her roommate already!

"Buttercup, Debacle's on the phone!" announced the voice of sweet Rapunzel.

"I'll be right there," replied a troll. I imagined an eight foot tall Buttercup wielding a club in one hand and yanking the phone away with the other. "Hi Debacle, how's it going," grunted Buttercup.

Buttercup's voice really wasn't so bad that it sounded like she belonged under a bridge. However, compared to her roommate, it was deep and coarse. Why was I making such a fuss about what she sounded like? I guess there wasn't anything else to be over-analytical about... yet. "Not bad. How about yourself?"

"I'm good," said Buttercup.

What was I supposed to talk about? Should I have been making idle chit chat? Is this a getting to know you call or should I just set up a date and bail? "So, how's the Ace Deuce treating you?"

"Getting used it."

"That's good," I said. This was brutal. What are you supposed to say to someone you've never met? Maybe I was jumping the gun, but it was time to wrap this up. "Ummm... so do you want to grab lunch on Sunday?"

"Sure. Can we get it near south campus? I have a study group in the afternoon."

"No problem," I said. "Let's see... over there you've got China House, Pizza Gate and Great Lakes Deli."

"Those all sound good."

"Where do you want to grab it at?" I realized the double-entendre as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

Buttercup laughed uncomfortably. Our hero was back in familiar territory.

* * *

I was glad that Buttercup selected China House. Its quaint but crowded atmosphere gave it an informal feel, making it an ideal location for a blind lunch date. The only complaint I ever had about that restaurant was that after you finished eating, the wait staff would sometimes give you dirty looks until you gave up your table. I supposed that wasn't so terrible - if Buttercup displayed any troll-like tendencies, I'd have an excuse to head out.

As I approached China House, I spotted a short girl with frizzy dark hark standing outside the door.
"Are you Debacle?" she asked, voice sounding far more normal than I'd expected.

"Buttercup?" " I asked.

She nodded.

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending my hand. Maybe you weren't supposed to start a blind date with a handshake, because she hesitated for a moment before clasping my hand. Ugh, Here we go again...

Thankfully, at barely over five feet, Buttercup bore no resemblance to a troll. I like to pretend I'm not overly superficial, but I doubt it would work with an eight foot tall woman who looked like an evil fairy tale creature - especially if she ate General Tso's chicken off her club.

Once we'd ordered, I asked Buttercup all about the school of Public Health. She went over all kinds of horrible scenarios in which super viruses and bacteria could mutate and destroy us all. Eventually, Buttercup wanted to get a job with the CDC where she could help to prevent the destruction of civilization.

I wasn't particularly attracted to her, but that could change as we spent more time together. Did I want to? Apocalyptic diseases made for interesting conversation. Around the time the waitress dropped off the check, I decided that Buttercup had made it to round two.

She looked at her watch. "I've got to meet my group soon."

"Okay," I said as I inspected the bill. Paying for a first date could be awkward. Some girls' egalitarian sensibilities would be insulted by a guy who insisted upon picking up the check. Others would accept nothing less than a chivalrous treat. It was up to the dude to figure out the least offensive way to handle the bill.

I pulled my wallet out.

"How much do I owe?" Buttercup asked. Her polite opening was as standard as leading with the king's pawn. The payment dance was on.

"I've got it," I countered. Her next move would show her hand.

She shook her head. "No, that's okay. How much do I owe?"

Egalitarian it was. "It's 16 total," I said. "So, eight each plus tip. Tip is ummm... about three bucks"

"But mine cost more - yours was vegetarian."

"By less than a dollar," I said. "We can call it even."

She yanked the bill out of my hand and poured over it. Geez, she could've just asked me for it.

At least I could still take care of tip. I threw down two singles on the table.

"Now you're paying more than me for tip!" she exclaimed. Buttercup got up and darted to the register, dodging waitresses and patrons along the way. I wasn't sure what to do, so I followed. "We want to pay separately," she said, startling a waitress as she ran a customer's credit card.

If it was this difficult to figure out a check, I hated to think how Buttercup would react if I burnt some popcorn or left the toilet seat up. So much for round two. Oh well - I was planning on going out with Bubbles soon anyway.

I was a bit embarrassed about how I met Bubbles. After returning from The City of Wind, I put up a profile on this online dating website called Tribe Date. When I first heard about Tribe Date, it seemed like a place for desperate losers to advertise how lonely they were. Still, I felt that the best way to get past The Axis of Evil was to put myself out there - even if it meant joining the ranks of the desperate losers.

The opening of my two paragraph long profile had turned into an all Saturday afternoon activity. I tried to think up clever ways to make myself sound like an easygoing, nice Tribal dude. After numerous attempts, I gave up on trying to be subtle and settled on:

I've been described as the quintessential nice Tribal boy. I work really hard, but make a point of enjoying the hilarious moments that make up each day.

From there - I went into how I'm looking for someone who can challenge me, put up with my college football obsession and tolerate how I relate every waking moment to a Seinfeld episode.

Giving money to a service in order to get a date was a little too close to prostitution for my taste. I went the free route which allowed me to get emails from paying members, but didn't allow me to contact anyone. Even though there was no way to get in touch with anyone on the site, I spent a while looking at profiles. How was I supposed to determine if I wanted to date someone from a picture and a few paragraphs? Low maintenance could in reality be absurdly high maintenance. What if their face had been touched up or the picture had been taken before they began eating half a dozen doughnuts for breakfast every morning. Would someone who claimed to be down to earth realize it if they weren't? How did I know I was actually looking at a girl's profile? Some dude could be playing a practical joke. For that matter, who's to say the MCP from Tron wasn't having a little fun?

physics exam

The night of the exam, I arrived half an hour early.  While I’d planned on poring through the book, trying to absorb one or two more nuggets before go time, my heart was beating so fast that the words were impossible to read.  I was as ready as I was going to get.

Just before the exams were handed out, I put away my book and notes and took out several mechanical pencils, a graphing calculator and my 3 by 5 inch note card containing every possible useful formula in the tiniest print I could legibly produce.

As soon as we were allowed to start, I flipped through the test packet, looking for an easy question to give me a confidence boost.  Our hero went through all 20 problems without finding a single gimme.  Four of the questions were so foreign that they might as well have been asking me about Sumerian philosophers.

As I struggled to figure out which formulas applied, I couldn’t help but curse myself for wasting a week on this crap.  Frequently the result displayed on my graphing calculator wasn’t anywhere close to any of the potential choices – sometimes by a factor of a hundred.  My only solace was that since the exam was multiple choice, none of my incorrect answers would be so outlandish that Dr. Wiley would feel the need to pin them to his fridge and laugh at my stupidity each day as he made breakfast.

Walking home from the exam, I faced a harsh reality.  Our hero wasn’t cut out to be an engineer – at least not at The University of Great Lakes.  At best, maybe I’d gotten lucky on a few questions and wound up in the D range, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I ended up getting more than half of the problems wrong.  My only hope for a decent grade was if there was any truth to the old adage about ‘c’ being the most likely answer on a multiple-choice test.  On the four “Sumerian philosopher” questions, I’d circled ‘c’ and hoped for the best.

A week later, I received the bad news at the beginning of physics lecture: 65%.  The most disturbing part of my score was that it could’ve been a lot worse.  I’d been correct three of the four times I’d blindly picked ‘c’.

A lump formed in my throat.  While I’d expected that college would be tough, I never imagined that it’d be so relentless that I’d work my butt off and fail.  Our hero considered leaving the lecture, throwing my test in the trash and dropping physics.  Would I retake it again the following year?  Maybe I should drop out altogether and join the Peace Corps or live on a farm until I found something I was good at.

Before I had a chance to get up, Dr. Wiley turned on the slide projector.  On the screen was a picture of a bell-curve showing an average of 41.2%.  According to Dr. Wiley’s scale, my dismal 65% was an A.  He said that a number of people had sent him emails complaining about the difficulty of the exam.  It may have been tough, but it was clearly a fair test because the scores lined up with a normalized distribution.

How did a bell-curve make it okay to fail an exam?  What about learning the material?  I still sucked at it.  Did it not matter how well I understood the concepts, but rather how well I matched up against my peers?  All that separated me from the center of that curve was my faith in the letter ‘c’ – without its help, I would’ve gotten a 50%.

Once you accounted for the mean, I’d aced the exam.  Still, was I actually supposed to feel good about my score?  College was shaping up to be an awfully strange time.

My life in front of a firing squad

During gym, I took my usual seat on the bleachers next to Kiddo, Koopa and Mega Man. On any other day, I would’ve attempted to think up a funny anecdote to add to their conversation. However, I wasn’t sure how to act around Kiddo. Had Greedo spoken with her yet? Did she confess her feelings for our hero? What if Greedo forgot or if Kiddo refused to tell Greedo who she liked? I needed to relax. Everything was guaranteed to work out – this was the day that the basketball had chosen.

During our lunch touch football game, I was so distracted that I dropped two perfect passes thrown by Mega Man. After the second one, he tried to trade me to the other team. Ugh, there was still no sign of Greedo.

After lunch, I opened my locker to put away my mud-stained jacket and grabbed my black L.L. Bean backpack overstuffed with books and loose papers. Before I could get my hand into the strap, Greedo tapped me on the shoulder.

“I spoke to Kiddo,” he said.

“Oh!?!” I exclaimed, dropping my backpack to the floor. His face conveyed neither excitement nor disappointment. Why would it? He was only a mercenary.

“She wouldn’t tell me who she liked, but it isn’t you.”

A dizzy spell came over me and I braced myself against my neighbor’s locker. Wait a second, this didn’t make sense. “How do you know it isn’t me? You weren’t supposed to tell her that I sent you.”

“Because she asked if you put me up to this. She just wants to be friends.”

How was this possible!?! I hadn’t mentioned my feelings for Kiddo to anyone else. “But—”

“She said that your face turns red whenever you talk to her.”

“Oh.” I clenched my jaw.

This wasn’t fair. My pasty complexion had undermined my Bogart-like stoicism. If I had been running Rick’s bar in wartime Casablanca, I would’ve blushed and ruined everything. Instead of walking off into the sunset with Louis to begin a beautiful friendship, the movie would’ve ended with The Nazis in possession of the transit papers while I begged for my life in front of a firing squad.