Free Sidelined by Emma Hart Page A

pretty fucking fucked.
    Fabulous.
    This is why everyone hates procrastination. Unless you’re in the process of procrastination, of course. Then it’s great.
    I dig my folder from the depths of the rack at the end of my sofa and slide my notepad from it. After flicking to the latest page used, which is helpfully marked by a magazine cutout bookmark in the shape of Channing Tatum a la Magic Mike, I note the title of the essay. Then, regretfully, I tuck Channing back into the notepad, close it, and type the title.
    And I stare at the page.
    I sigh and grab my book. I aimlessly flick through the pages. Whatever motivation I had several weeks ago to restart college with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds has most definitely faded quite significantly.
    I should have taken my forensic science degree and applied at CSI as a fact-checker or something.
    I blow my bangs up and sit back. More page flicking ensues until I find the right chapter and I can read. My eyes skim over the words, and I sure hope my subconscious is taking them in because I can’t say that I am.
    Maybe I should turn off the Gilmore Girls reruns.
    Oh, interrupts my heart. But this episode is when Rory kisses Jesse!
    Ohhhhhh, flutters my body.
    Dammit. Why does it have to be this episode?
    I mute the sound instead of turning it off and pull my laptop onto my lap from the coffee table. With my book open on the cushion next to me, I grab my folder and apply the notes and arguments from them both to the essay question.
    And type.
    And type.
    And type.
    With occasional looks up to the TV so I don’t miss the Rory-Jesse kiss. Because. Priorities.
    Thankfully, I’m fast at typing, so as soon as Rory and Jesse kiss, I should be able to get this done in time to get the new episode of New Girl on catch-up.
    Again: priorities.
    Mine may be slightly skewed.
    At around two thousand words and some hour and a half later, my phone rings from the sofa arm. I cancel the call without checking it and continue typing. I’m in the zone, dammit. Why do people always have to call when you’re right there and the words are like, “Heytypemerightnow?”
    I hate that.
    Second note to self: Put phone on silent before you do schoolwork. Idiot.
    Third note to self: Get Post-its to write down these notes to self.
    I brush my bangs from my forehead as my phone rings again. This time, I ignore it, letting it buzz-buzz-buzz incessantly. Every now and then, the buzzing stops, but within ten seconds, it starts again. I manage to claw another five hundred words from my brain over fifteen minutes before the buzzing finally drives me crazy and I save the document.
    “Fuck me. What?” I snap down the line.
    “Baby, you offerin’ again?”
    Jack. My skin tingles.
    “Not in the slightest,” I reply. “Why are you calling me?”
    “Been five days.”
    “Great to know you have stellar timekeeping.”
    “You haven’t called.”
    “You know, for Christmas, if you’re lucky, I’ll buy you a shirt that proclaims you Captain Obvious,” I mutter. “I’ve been busy, and if you didn’t realize, you were in Boston this weekend.”
    He laughs low, and even down the phone, it makes me shiver. “I know, M. But I’m back now, and I don’t see any calls from you on my phone.”
    “So, you’re taking matters into your own hands, huh?”
    “Sounds ‘bout right.”
    “Well, I have a long-ass essay due tomorrow, so kindly unhand those matters so I can finish my work. Thank you and goodbye.” I hang up and put the phone facedown.
    But I forget to turn it to silent, so it’s completely fucking useless, because he calls back instantly.
    “Jackkkkk,” I groan into the phone. “Seriously, I’m trying to work here.”
    “I know, M. Can I finish before you hang up on me?”
    “I didn’t realize you were starting anything,” I sigh.
    “I’m always starting something with you, baby.” His voice rumbles down the line, seductive and full of promise. “And now, I’m giving you fair warning.