Diary Friday

Most of my recent Diary Fridays have been from when our family was in Ireland. But now I am going to bring it back to the United States, into my public high school days, and post something which I can barely read, it is so embarrassing.

I think I’m a junior in high school here. I am 15. Here we go. This is so embarrassing. The last sentence in particular.

OCTOBER 18

The PSATs were so hard. [This is written in the teeniest lettering possible. I am trying to convey my emotions in my handwriting.] I can’t believe it!!! The Pretest was so easy! I did so bad!!! But they were over in 2 hours. That was it.

I was in a classroom with Beth, Laura C., Crissy Judge, Andy Wright [ahem. Spitball.], and Chris W. Chris W. NEVER stops talking or moving. We sat next to each other. He was adorable! When we had to meticulously fill out those pain in the butt forms, he was always peeking over at my paper – every single time – even when they told us to fill in the little dot next to our race. He was like, whispering to me, “I’m white and Caucasian, right?” I just laughed. On the bottom of the page were these little computer things that said, “For ETS use only.” Chris leaned all the way across the aisle, and grasped at my paper, murmuring, “That’s for ET to use.” Then we had to fill in whether or not we wanted colleges to send us stuff. I said Yes. Chris looked over at me. “What did you say?” “Yes.” He grinned in that disheveled little-boy way. “Yeah, me too.” [Uhm, Chris W. is cracking my heart right now. I remember him so clearly. He was a NUT. He was very cute, and he literally had blonde RINGLETS. Like Peter Frampton or something. But his curls were natural. And CRAZY. Any girl would wish for hair like that.] Then we had to check this long list and fill in what career and major we were thinking of. [God, I’m getting into a test-panic, just remembering all of this shite.] I checked Drama for major, Actor for career, and put the numbers in the spaces. I saw that Chris had filled in the dots but not written the numbers so I, the helpful Samaritan, leaned closer, straining my arm to show him. I must have looked rather odd. [I was very self-conscious, as a teenager – always aware of how I must appear to others. Ick.] But he saw and went, “Oh! Oh yeah!” He wrote the numbers and grinned at me. “Thanks.”

[I have no idea why I am writing in such a minute way about Chris W. I have no idea. Maybe because he was kind of a bruiser, a crazy popular kid, not in my crowd at all … and he was a GUY, and I was used to rejection from guys … and so him suddenly needing help from me, and being nice to me, was memorable. I’m only guessing here. I’m guessing that’s what’s going on. But still … look at the level of detail! “Then Chris smiled. Then he breathed. Then he moved his arm. Then he filled in the dot.” I mean – what??]

You should see this guy’s face. First of all, his hair. I swear, he has blond ringlets. But he looks masculine. All the curls are tousled, like he just woke up. When he grins, his mouth spreads out wide, his eyes squint up – very real smile. He must be hyper-active or something. Through the whole test, his right leg jiggling, enormous untied white leather sneakers tapping.

He asks questions, he doesn’t really think things through. The lady would explain something, and he would then ask a question that she had just explained. She told us to read the directions – the front page of the test booklet – he just read the steps and missed the bottom part. Up went his hand. “Hey, uh … are we supposed to take a guess if we don’t know it, or …” Suddenly everyone was just laughing. He looked around, that sort of puzzled smile on his face like, “Ha ha ha what is so funny ha ha”. Everything he does is funny, actually.

I showed him the section at the bottom where his question was answered. He saw it, smiled, laughed, looked around and said to everyone, “Oh well … you said to just read the directions, I mean…”

Then – we had just started the test, about 10 or 15 minutes into it, and all was silent. Suddenly Chris threw his head back in agony, crying out, “OH, MAN!” I swear the whole class leapt a foot in the air.

The teacher pounced on him furiously. “SHUT UP, YOUNG MAN. TO SOME PEOPLE THIS TEST MATTERS.”

During the break between Verbal and Math, I said to him, “Chris, what was it that made you go —”

He buried his face in his hands laughing. “Oh God, it was on that part when you had to find the opposite of a word and I was tryin’ to find another word that means the same thing. I was like halfway through the whole thing and none of ’em were workin’ out. I sat there goin’ – ‘What is happenin’ here?’ Then I went back and saw the stupid directions. Man!”

It was hysterical. He just could not read the directions. Couldn’t do it.

After the tests, Mere, Betsy, Beth and I walked up to McDonalds where I revelled in McNugget Heaven. [I am so sorry for that phrase. I “revelled in McNugget Heaven”?? What?] Then we went to Waldens where I revelled in Sting heaven! I bought a magazine TOTALLY on The Police – some great pictures and – IN SOME OF THEM (sit down) Sting is smiling. Now really. This is a very rare phenomenon. [How unbelievably embarrassing. I told my own diary to “sit down” because STING WAS SMILING?] They’ve got good intelligent articles too.

Sting’s really morbid, though. Some of the things he says are so depressing that it makes me feel like a raw wound doused in salt. [WHAT?? Put. The. Magazine. Down.]

This one quote – it’s got swears in it. [I never swore. Uhm, I got over that one pretty quick once I got to college.] Sting said, “I felt very strongly about Roxanne.” It is their best song! He said, “That was a serious song about a real relationship. There was no talk about fucking in it. It wasn’t a smutty song just because it’s about a prostitute. But write a silly song about fucking that hasn’t got the word ‘fucking’ in it and you’ve got a hit. It gets a bit depressing.”

I love the song Roxanne. It’s about a hooker, but Sting gives her humanity, even sensitivity. And his high-pitched mournful voice: “a voice that might’ve kept the Titanic floating” (I read that somewhere) He just screams: “ROXANNE! You don’t have to put on the red light. Those days are over. You don’t have to sell your body to the night!! His voice belts out really high and loud there. I like when he says, “You don’t care if it’s wrong or if it’s right.” His voice sort of tapers away there. He suddenly sounds wistful. One writer said, “One dull night Sting strolled (as they say) through a red-light district and wrote Roxanne. I don’t know what else he did, but that’s the way the story goes.”

And now just for kicks. I shall describe J’s and my locker. It’s great. It’s ours. We aren’t copying anyone else. [hahahaha People were actually copying the locker-decoration techniques of others? How lame.] It’s who WE like.

Okay, at the tippity top is the best picture I have of Sting. He looks really vicious, in a black fishnet sleeveless T shirt, arms folded – Then below that, I have one of him all bundled up in a leather jacket, fur collar, and a big plaid scarf. His hair looks normal – dirty blonde – he’s just looking at the camera blandly. His cheekbones look sharp, his expression clear. Then around that are little black and white photos – one of him playing the bass in these enormous baggy pants and a ripped T-shirt, and a tiny of him – hair wildly out – he’s wearing a blue and white striped T shirt, arms folded. I don’t really like that one, actually. [See? I was very discerning in terms of my Sting photographs. So this begs the question: why was it in my locker then? Was it one that my friend J chose?] We also have a great one that we cut out of People magazine – he’s walking along with his wife, he’s wearing a blazer and a tie, his hair is short and cropped. I love his face, he’s looking at the camera with just a glimmer of a smile. His EYES are smiling too. I notice these things. [I just need to interject myself here and say that I realize how ridiculous I sound. I am describing the photos of Sting I have in my locker in minute detail.] Then we have this hysterical maniac shot of him in Dune. He’s in this black armor, his hair straight up, all jagged – he looks like a nut. He’s positively screeching!! [As opposed to negatively screeching?]

Below all that is my favorite one of him: at home in a sweater at his piano with a cat on his shoulder. Great serious profile of him. The profile is just serious – not positively vicious [As opposed to negatively vicious?] or cannibal-like, or scowling like so many of his pictures are. It’s him just normal and peaceful.

Okay below that one is one of him in concert. Sting is known for his enormous leaps. [HAHAHAHA] In this picture he is leaping SO high in the air, knees bent, legs tucked up behind him, bass in his arms, head thrown back – he’s wearing Adidas shoes, white sweats, and a sleeveless white T shirt.

Then we have a gorgeous shot of a silver-gray Mercedes – the car we both worship. It’s riding along, shining in the morning sun. [Oh Jaysus.]

Then, just to be fair, beneath that, we taped up a pciture each of Stu and Andy. [This cracks me up. Throwing “Stu and Andy” a bone by putting up pictures of them in our locker.] Cause they are The Police, and I like them, too.

Then, for all of J’s drooling pleasure, is an advertisement for Godiva chocolates.

The End.

I could go on like that for pages and pages!!! [Please don’t, Sheila. Please don’t.]

I cut out trillions more from the magazine I just bought. In one of them, Sting looks like a cherub – this very peaceful angelic face – but he’s wearing a shirt that says, “I WISH I WAS DEEP INSTEAD OF JUST MACHO.” Bestill my beating heart.

I want to be kissed. I’ve never been kissed! Come on! My lips are corroding away right now from lack of use.