Free Miss Taken by Sue Seabury

say, ugh. I am not interested in
dating advice from the 1950’s.
    How to end this conversation? Attack her on
her own ground. “What’s so great about Kyle? Is his mom CEO of some
company you’re looking to exploit or something?”
    “There is no call to be rude,” Mom replied,
clearly annoyed. I must be right. “But, as a matter of fact, Kyle’s
mother has offered to donate a sizable amount of time to a
fundraiser we’re holding for the foundation and I won’t have you
messing it up. So at the very least, you will remember your manners
and be friendly to the boy. Do you understand?”
    “Got it.” At least I was allowed to
leave.
    My first impulse was to go down to the
laundry pile since I do my best thinking there. But since Trey was
watching a game that seemed to have no end, I was forced to go to
my room. The problem with my room is that it’s such a mess, it puts
me on edge. According to Sassy Classy magazine, the arrangement of
one’s external space reflect one’s internal space. I could
definitely see a correlation between the wadded up tights sitting
on top of the lamp and my mixed-up thoughts.
    In spite of shoving them into a drawer,
thereby cleaning up one bit as well as allowing more light to shine
on the situation, my opinions stayed muddled. I didn’t have the
energy or patience to do more.
    I flopped down on my unmade bed. Having my
mother practically order me to date Kyle definitely turned the
attraction meter back down to ‘low.’ But when I didn’t think about
her motives, it was pretty exciting to have someone tell you flat
out that he liked you. I felt shivery all over just replaying that
scene and not just because a mound of mismatched socks was pressing
into my sciatic nerve. I shoved them onto the floor and happened to
brush my thigh in the exact spot where Kyle had rested his hand. It
felt a little warm. I patted my leg. A little squishy. It feels
like the fat cells on my thighs have been multiplying and expanding
to their maximum capacity.
    Maybe I’ll do a few leg lifts this evening.
You never know when another person might touch your thigh,
accidentally or on purpose.
    I smacked myself in the head with a stray
sock. Leaving it hanging in front of my face, I sat up and asked
the image in the mirror, “What the hell is the matter with
you?”
    As I contemplated all the different possible
answers to this question, I noticed a funny smell. Apparently the
dirty and clean socks got mixed up. Tossing it aside, I ordered
myself to do the same with Kyle. There was no good reason to be
getting all worked up about him. I have Ned and he’s great. Why am
I so willing to screw things up?
    It’s all Hannah’s fault. I couldn’t get her
advice out of my head: keep ‘em guessing.
    Ugh. I absolutely cannot think clearly in my
messy room. No room to do calisthenics either.
    I went downstairs again to see if the
interminable game had finally finished, and thanks be to someone,
it had. The basement floor is too hard to exercise on, though, so I
arranged the clothes into a contour shape on the couch and lay
down. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply to allow the soothing scent
of lavender clear out any remaining scent molecules from my dirty
sock and/or Kyle’s cologne. I felt more relaxed immediately, if not
more clear on what to do. Maybe I could talk to Miss Kindley about
my dilemma. She has a boyfriend. She might have some insight into
these important issues.
    Sunday was a long and boring day made
extra-long and boring by thoughts of how I could be passing the
time with Ned if he wasn’t eternally grounded and/or running off to
New York all the time. Thinking about my homework just reminded me
of Kyle and how I could have spent a pleasant afternoon at the
library with him. These were not productive ideas for me to be
having.
    True to the rule of boredom: the more time
you have on your hands the less you get done. It was late on Sunday
night before I realized I hadn’t even begun my homework.