We Real Cool 5 Big Small Talk

As luck would have it, I am not blessed with the gift of flirtation. And so, as dumb as it may seem, the first thing that came to mind was to raise my brows and roll my eyes while saying, "Yeah, right." An act that only a cla.s.sic unromantic would do in response to the sentiments of a cla.s.sic romantic guy.

"I'm serious," he says as soon as I turn my head towards the window after my little brow-raise and the eye roll.

I look back at him—shoot daggers at him, actually—and give him a look that I've never mustered since I defended a cla.s.smate from a bully when I was in pre-school.

"You don't even know me," I tell him, still giving him the I'm-tough-guy kind of look. "And I don't know you. I know you helped me up from my clumsy fall earlier, but that doesn't change the fact that we're not friends who can casually grab dinner together. We're strangers."

"Isn't that how people make friends?"

"Are you seriously going to argue?"

He nods, smiling. Okay, Red, I'll give it to you. You're cute. But if this is some sort of test that proctors give to random pre-college students to see if they're easy to sway, I won't give in to your charm; sorry, brother. The dinner is not going to happen. Not easily, rather.

"Look, Red; you're a proctor," I tell him, this time, with more swag and conviction. "You're basically here to be like a parent to me who's supposed to go on and on about budgeting my money by having my meals at the cafeteria or whatever. You're not supposed to be a friend who'd buy me some overpriced popcorns and hot-dog sandwiches at a Red Sox game. So, no. Unless it's graded or a program requirement, no, thank you."

He sighs. I look at him, and he actually looks convinced with what I just said.

"Good," I continue. "I'm glad that you're finally seeing my side of things."

"I never said I completely agree," he answers. "In my defense, if that's the reason why you're saying no to my offer, you are, in equal parts, right and wrong."

I give him a look of exasperation. I no longer want to argue. I want to spend the little energy I have left, thanks to the unplanned run and fast, for the game. I heard that a lot of really cool things happen during a baseball game, and boy did I want to see and take part in any of them by cheering my heart out for the players – a thing, which will only be possible if I take a step back from this pointless banter, recharge and doze off.

"Look, here me out," he says. "Please."

"Fine."

I lean back as I look out of the window. The bright lights lining the streets of Boston look spectacular; as much as I want to see the game, I wish the bus ride won't be over. I feel drawn – in love with, even – to this bright and bustling city. While I listened to what he had to stay, I marveled at the buildings and landscapes we pa.s.sed through. I'm glad that he isn't entirely sensitive to this gesture – that I'm not looking at him as he speaks, that is. After all, I am still listening, just not looking at him while I was.

For the next few minutes, he tells me about how he's supposed to be a parent to us, pre-college students, and that as one, he should know what we needed without us asking for that need. For some reasons, he mentioned about how famished I looked and that I probably wasn't able to grab dinner at Annenberg before we left. I have no idea about how he knew this; it was, after all, true. I haven't had dinner. It was probably obvious. My seven-thousand-year-old haggard probably look gave it all.

He also mentioned that he wasn't going to buy me anything from Fenway anyway; everything was expensive there. He was going to get me something from Tasty Burger, which isn't exactly the cheapest, but is definitely cheaper than the 12-dollar regular hotdog sandwiches sold at the stadium. He explained that he wanted to treat a pre-college student because we didn't cause a lot of trouble. Also, he was getting a huge sum of money from the tuition we paid for, so he might as well be a good person by giving back to at least one kid. In this case, me.

"For starters," I speak up when he finally finished his little speech. "I don't know how you know about the fact that I missed dinner. Actually, I haven't only missed dinner; I practically have nothing in my belly because I literally buried my nose in books at Lamont the whole day. But since you do have a point because I'm probably the best student in this program, I low-key feel like I deserve a treat from a proctor who's high key making thousands of dollars from the fees I paid for."

"Amazing," he answered. "I'm happy that you're finally getting a sense out of all this and that you're finally saying yes to my offer. Besides, I'm sure you love Tasty Burger as much as I do, and the only reason that I'll ever be allowed to go there and leave the stadium is if a student asks me to accompany him or her."

"Evil!" I shoot back. "I genuinely thought that you were being a good and friendly parent, and now you're telling me that you're kind of a user!"

We both laugh. I'm glad that everyone else was preoccupied with their own conversations; we didn't seem to bother anyone at all.

"Hey," he suddenly said. "I didn't mean to creep you out; I just really wanted to do something good today. And something tells me that that "something good" is something you deserve."

"Relax, I'm not asking for any more explanation," I answer. "I'm just looking forward to getting there so I can finally have my first meal at Tasty Burger and my first baseball game ever. So yeah, you better not ruin it."

"NOOO WAY!" he practically shouted as though it was the most normal thing to do. "DON'T TELL ME THAT YOU'VE NEITHER HAD ANYTHING FROM TASTY BURGER NOR SEEN A LIVE BASEBALL GAME IN YOUR LIFE." I am now laughing. He looks like he's about to explode from both shock and pity for my Tasty Burger and baseball virginity.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr."

"Unacceptable," he answers with a funny tone, which makes me giggle. "Just simply unacceptable! I feel ever more responsible for you and your well-being, young lady. Where have you been living and what have you been doing your entire life?"

"I may have forgotten to tell you," I answer. "The reason why I've never seen a baseball game is because I'm not from around here."

"I figured," he answered in his normal voice. "So, which planet are you from?"

"I'm serious," I tell him. "Do you even have any idea how tough it is to be coming all the way here from-"

"Wait, hold on," he cuts me off before I could finish my sentence. "For us to kill time and for you to see that I'm awesome, let's play a game. I'll figure out where you're from, what you're studying, and a couple of other random things. If I guess it right after, say, three tries, I'll keep asking. If I don't, it'll be your turn to make guesses about me. Whoever wins makes the other one do a dare."

"Nope," I answer. "Not going to happen. I'm not going to do a dare. Ever. Especially if it's from you. No offense."

"None taken," he answers quickly. "You can make me do a dare instead. If I win, you tell me the deepest, truest, and biggest secret of your life. How does that sound now?"

"You do know that I could lie about that deepest, truest, and biggest secret of my life that you're asking for, right?"

"I won't be the one guilty," he answers nonchalantly. "Come on, let's just do something fun," he said as he held his right hand out. I look at it for a moment and notice a tiny tattoo on the side of his thumb. I shake his hand, smiling, as though we were making some pact or something.

"Fine." We let go of each other's hand, and he immediately commenced the game by saying "game!"

"So, where am I from?" I ask.

"Since you mentioned that you're travelled far, I'm guessing you're an international student from where a majority of people speak English because you don't seem to have a funny accent."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"Canada? Hong Kong?"

I shake my head.

"The Philippines, perhaps?"

I nod, smiling.

"That's unfair! You probably have a record of me on your phone when you checked my attendance! That's not recorded."

He just laughed. "Okay, now. The course you're studying," he continues.

"If you get it right again, I swear I'm a hundred percent sure that you definitely have a record about my application on your phone or something."

"CHILL!" he answered. "Cross my heart, I don't know anything about your application, jeez!"

"Fine, go ahead."

"You like to debate and argue a lot, so you're probably taking up something like law? Maybe an introductory course about the justice system?"

"Again, I'll take that as a compliment, but sorry, no. That's not what I'm studying."

"You seem to be above average in grammar for an international student, so I guess you're taking a course related to English? Maybe a course called Extremely Evolved English?"

"YES AND NO!" I answered, laughing. "I'm taking a course related to English, but it's not called How to Sound Like an American, weirdo. Also, this is my normal accent and besides, I sound way better than you."

He raised his arms as though to say.

"You didn't get that right, so you have to do a dare."

"Wow, you're really compet.i.tive, aren't you?" he says. "Go ahead."

"With pleasure," I reply. A bright idea just came to mind.

"Okay, for your dare: As soon as I play Don't Stop Believin' from my phone, you have to get up, walk to the front of the bus, and start lip syncing as you dance to the music. How does that sound?"

He looks as though he's seeing a ghost.

"Are you serious?" he asks.

"You know how a doctor tells a patient that he's diagnosed with some incurable disease and that he's got about two months to live," I reply. "Yeah, I'm that serious."

I take my phone and head on to Spotify, killing his positivity.

"Ready?" I ask him, trying so hard to stop myself from laughing at the look on his face. His macho charm suddenly disappeared; he looked so frightened he might actually cry.

I show him my phone, which displayed the song Don't Stop Believin' by Journey, just to prove that I was downright serious. I click play and the instrumental kicks in. It's a surprise that he stood up on his own without my having to push him.

I laugh so hard, and he looks like he's about to laugh, too. Just before the first verse was about to begin, I hit pause and grab his hand so he could sit back down. It was so cold and sweaty I laughed even harder. He was seated now, but I was still holding his hand.

"Dude," I say in between breaths; I was still laughing. "You're nuts. Your hand is crazy wet, too. Did you really think I was that evil to let you look like you've lost your mind?"

"Wow," he answered. I let go of his hand now and give him a friendly pat on the back.
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"Aww, that's okay," I tell him. "I'll make it easier for you. I'll think of another dare instead."

I think for a second. And almost instantly, another idea came to mind. "Why don't you just tell me about your tattoo?" I was expecting him to say something funny, but he suddenly looked serious.

"It's a long story," he answered.

"I'll listen to it anyway," I say.

"It's my sister's signature in her own handwriting," he started. "She died two years ago; it was an accident. I've always missed her since then, but I didn't get her tattooed on my wrist until this summer. You're the first person to have noticed it, actually."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say softly.

"We were so close that I didn't have to tell her that I had a problem when I had one; she just knew it. She knew me better than I knew myself."

I'm just looking at him silently, afraid I might say the wrong thing.

"She was going to college," he continued. "It's such a waste that Columbia didn't get a taste of the amazing things she'd had to offer."

I'm still dead quiet. I didn't expect him to be so open about it, and yet, here he is, telling me something so personal I feel like I've crossed the line one way or another.

"Hey," he continued. "It's okay; I'm okay."

"I'm so sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to get into something too personal."

"No problem," he replied. "I think I've moved on."

"She must have been very smart," I say. "And nice."

"She was," he answered. "She actually got into a couple of great schools, but she chose Columbia so it would be close to home."

"And here you are, a hundred miles away at Cambridge," I say, attempting to lighten up the topic."

He gives a small smile. "It's the university that fit perfectly with me and my interests. Besides, she would have been very happy to know that her jock of a brother would get into a place like this."

"She is happy," I answer. "What was her name?"

"Yvette."

"Well, I'm sure Yvette is very happy that you're here now and even happier that you're treating a friend to dinner."

"Oh," he answers. "So, we're friends now?"

"Only because you're Yvette's brother," I say. I want to know more about Red, but then the bus slows down, prompting the other proctors stand up.

"Looks like we're here," Red says, now all happy and perked up.

I force myself to smile while grabbing my bag before standing up. He must have noticed that I wasn't exactly as giddy as we both though I'd be. It's probably because of the fact that my hunger is now starting to kick in or that I didn't want our conversation to end.

Either way, I follow him and a dozen other kids out of the bus and into the glorious Fenway Park, excited.