Christmas Crush of 2002
Matt knew—scientifically, objectively, cosmically—that he was not cool. But he had also determined that if he played guitar in a punk rock band, wore enough black, and cultivated an air of general disinterest, people might start to doubt that truth. Maybe even he would doubt it, and then, by some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, become cool.
This theory hung by a thread, much like the shoulder seams of his favorite Ramones T-shirt, which had been washed to the point of transparency. Still, he wore it under his winter coat as he trudged into Ridell High School on the last day before Christmas break, tall and skinny and hopelessly lanky—like someone had assembled him out of spare broom handles.
His hair didn’t help. The brown mop of curls sat on his head the way discarded Brillo pads rest near a sink: unwanted, ungoverned, and vaguely damp around the edges.
Snow flurries drifted over the southern Philly suburbs, catching on the tinsel-caked trees and inflatable Santas that every rowhome had apparently purchased in a neighborhood-wide pact of questionable taste. Matt took in the festive ugliness with the dispassionate eye of a true artist—or at least a teenager who had recently read the Wikipedia page for “aesthetic irony.”
Today was the day. He was going to talk to Jamie Bennett.
Jamie, who was short, blonde, adorable, and had somehow developed an actual personality despite being both a cheerleader and universally well-liked. Jamie, whose laugh sounded like the audio version of sunbeams. Jamie, who once held the door open for him and said, “Merry Tuesday,” which he spent four days analyzing like it was a cryptic prophecy.
He saw her by her locker as he rounded the corner near the science wing. There she was—blue backpack, cranberry-colored sweater, hair pulled back with one of those little scrunchies he pretended not to know the name of. She was talking to her friends, but only lightly, the way someone talks when they are open to being interrupted.
This was density. Or destiny. Something like that.
He took one step toward her.
“DUDE.”
A body collided with his hip—because of course it did. Very few bodies were tall enough to hit Matt squarely in the shoulder. Ryan was not one of them.
Ryan Beason, best friend, guitarist, wearer of too many sweatbands, had arrived.
Ryan had the physical presence of a caffeinated ferret and the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who had just discovered that its tail was detachable. He stood a full eight inches shorter than Matt, spiky blonde hair shooting in every direction as though he’d been electrocuted for breakfast.
“Dude, we have a problem,” Ryan announced, grabbing Matt’s arm like he was dragging him from a burning building.
Matt, eyes still locked on Jamie, muttered, “Can it wait, like, five seconds?”
“Nope. Not even one. I restrung my guitar last night and I think I did something wrong. It sounds like a fucking fart. It’s just shitty.”
“How’s that different from any other day?”
“Hey!”
Matt pried Ryan’s hand off his sleeve. “Ryan, not now. I’m—busy.”
Ryan followed his gaze. “Oh. Ohhhh. You’re gonna talk to her. Big moment.” He nodded vigorously, then added, “Good luck, man. Don’t throw up. Or, maybe do? Maybe get some sympathy.”
“Good thinking,” Matt deadpanned rolling his eyes.
Matt took another step toward Jamie.
Ryan took another step with him.
“Why are you still here?” Matt hissed.
“I want a front-row seat. It’s like watching a nature documentary. ‘Observe the noble Lankyboy in his mating ritual.’”
Matt shoved him away. Ryan rolled backward like a small, enthusiastic tumbleweed.
Finally—finally—Matt made it to Jamie’s locker.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the metal door in a way he hoped looked casual and definitely did not. It was more “recently tranquilized giraffe.”
Jamie looked up, face brightening. “Oh! Hey, Matt.”
There it was. That little spark. The thing that convinced him that maybe—just maybe—Jamie Bennett might like him back.
He cleared his throat. “Sooo… last day before break.”
I am so smooth. Shakespeare would have wept.
“Yep!” she said cheerfully. “I still have half my holiday shopping left. My mom says it builds character. I think it builds anxiety.”
Matt laughed. “Yeah. My mom does this thing where she pretends she bought stuff all year, but really she panics on December twenty-third and ends up giving me things like socks with inspirational quotes.”
“Honestly? I’d wear those,” Jamie said. “I love a sock that believes in me.”
Matt felt his chest warm. This was going well. He could do this. He could absolutely ask her out.
He opened his mouth.
“DUDES!”
Ryan had returned. Of course he had. He skidded to a stop beside them, panting slightly. “Major update. I figured out the shitty fart noises. Turns out, if you tune all the strings randomly, it sounds bad.”
Matt blinked at him. “Shocking.”
Ryan waved dismissively. “Jam-Jam, you doing good?”
“Oh my God,” Jamie said, laughing. “Please don’t call me that.”
“Got it,” Ryan said. “J-Dawg? J-Bone?”
“Worse.”
Matt closed his eyes for a moment, possibly praying for strength, possibly considering a non-violent but firm way of removing Ryan from the premises.
Ryan clapped Matt on the back. “Anyway, carry on. Don’t mind me.”
They both minded him.
Jamie smiled politely, though her eyes flicked toward the clock. Class was coming. Time was running out.
Matt inhaled. “Jamie, I—”
Ryan cut in again. “ALSO, I had this idea for the band—”
“Ryan,” Matt said, voice dropping several degrees below human tolerance, “please shut up.”
Ryan blinked. “Shutting up,” he whispered, nodding like he’d been given a sacred charge.
Matt turned back to Jamie. “So I was thinking, maybe over break—”
The bell rang.
No. Not now. Not when he was almost there.
Everyone in the hallway jerked into motion like panicked cattle. Students surged around them, slamming lockers, shouting goodbyes, stomping through slush the custodians had given up on ten minutes after first period.
Jamie grimaced sympathetically. “I have to get to chem. My teacher docks points if we breathe too slowly.”
“Right. Yeah. Sure,” Matt said, blood turning to cold applesauce.
“See you after break!” she called, swept away by the tide.
Matt slumped backward into the lockers. Ryan clapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey, man. At least you didn’t puke.”
“Always the silver lining with you.”
They started walking to class through the thinning crowd. Matt kicked at a stray piece of tinsel someone had dropped. He pictured two long weeks without seeing Jamie, without another chance, without—
“Matt!”
He turned.
Jamie was sprinting back down the hall, dodging backpacks, slipping a little in the melting snow tracked inside. She skidded to a stop in front of him, cheeks pink from cold and speed.
“Almost forgot,” she said breathlessly.
Then—before Matt’s brain could fully reboot—she leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. A real kiss. Warm. Quick. Definitely intentional.
She shoved a folded napkin into his hand. “My number. Text me over break.”
And then she ran off again, swallowed by the hallway.
Ryan stared after her, mouth hanging open. Slowly, he turned to Matt.
“DUDE.”
Matt touched his cheek, still stunned. “Yeah,” he said. “Dude.”
Outside, fat-daddy snowflakes drifted past the windows, settling gently over the suburbs. It was possibly, against all odds, going to be a very good Christmas.