school lottery and gotten a single. My roommate was decent, but I didn’t need him to walk in on anything.
I’d been nervous once we entered Tyler’s dorm room and regretted not wearing the good cologne I had gotten for my last birthday. I hoped Tyler wouldn’t notice I was wearing the Fruit of the Loom underwear my mom had sent. Then we began making out again, and I couldn’t focus anymore.
By the next morning, everybody seemed to know we were a couple. Everybody, that is, but Tyler.
“Selfish ass,” I said now, remembering it all. Tyler had been hot and cold with me for a month afterward. We’d be kissing one minute between rehearsals for Othello , and then Tyler would ignore me the next. How I hated waiting for Tyler to decide; it was a going-crazy kind of waiting. Unlike me, Tyler never wanted to talk. Not even when I asked him for some honesty. He only dismissed it as “no big deal.” I’d linger after classes to be near him, hovering uncertainly, smiling extra big, and careful not to bring up anything too serious when we hung out, trying all the time to hold on to him. Tyler made me desperate, and I hated that the loser side of me was so desperate.
We went on to do a second play together, an original one written by an up-and-coming graduate student, who was also our director. Tyler was cast as the lead; I, the villain. Hope caught in my throat every time Tyler looked my way, but I reminded myself of what a good actor Tyler was. If only I hadn’t made a fool of myself in the cafeteria. Nobody else would have assumed that we were having a huge lover’s quarrel. But I’d confronted him because it was hard for me to leave things alone. I should have done anything else—shoplifted some crap from the Family Dollar, smoked a few thousand cigarettes, gone to a raging fraternity kegger—but I wasn’t that bright. No, I had to go and make a scene in the middle of the hot-food line.
“I don’t understand,” I had begged. “Are you mad at me?”
“What’s to understand?” Tyler countered. “I know you’re a drama major, but don’t be so melodramatic. I was horny. You were horny. Let’s just be friends, all right? I’m a better friend than hookup. Trust me on that.” Tyler lowered his eyes.
Yet it had happened a few other times, and I wished it hadn’t. It was embarrassing now. But we’d fooled around some more. Tyler would tease me, kiss me. I’d become hopeful all over again. It was like a bad shampoo cycle: rinse, dry, repeat. There would be some groping. Then—nothing. Tyler would disconnect. Look bored. I knew the best option was to keep silent about it, but a few more scenes in the hallway between us fed the continued gossip. I wanted to shake him. I wanted to stop feeling anything. No, if I’m being honest, what I truly wanted was for him to feel something back.
After Thanksgiving, rumors began to spread that Tyler and the grad student director were fucking around, and everybody wanted the dirt. They wanted me to tell them if it was true or not, and why Tyler and I were over—which was ironic, since we’d never actually gotten started.
“Almost” boyfriends are the worst. Trust me on that.
Still, I remained dignified. I refused to flounce out of the room when the two of them entered. And I refused to quit the play. Theater is my dream, and screw Tyler for crapping on the one place I’d always been welcomed. I’m slight and fair, and I’d been an easy target all my life—except when I was onstage. For that reason, I held it together at rehearsal. But when rehearsals were over, I went back to my dorm room, climbed into my unmade bed, and curled up into a tight, miserable ball. It was hard to be lonely, especially after you’d liked somebody.
Hamilton, the graduate student and director of our play, was from England. He had that cool accent. He wore these tweed jackets and a loosened tie as he stood in front of the wide-eyed freshman drama class, talking about craft and
I’d been nervous once we entered Tyler’s dorm room and regretted not wearing the good cologne I had gotten for my last birthday. I hoped Tyler wouldn’t notice I was wearing the Fruit of the Loom underwear my mom had sent. Then we began making out again, and I couldn’t focus anymore.
By the next morning, everybody seemed to know we were a couple. Everybody, that is, but Tyler.
“Selfish ass,” I said now, remembering it all. Tyler had been hot and cold with me for a month afterward. We’d be kissing one minute between rehearsals for Othello , and then Tyler would ignore me the next. How I hated waiting for Tyler to decide; it was a going-crazy kind of waiting. Unlike me, Tyler never wanted to talk. Not even when I asked him for some honesty. He only dismissed it as “no big deal.” I’d linger after classes to be near him, hovering uncertainly, smiling extra big, and careful not to bring up anything too serious when we hung out, trying all the time to hold on to him. Tyler made me desperate, and I hated that the loser side of me was so desperate.
We went on to do a second play together, an original one written by an up-and-coming graduate student, who was also our director. Tyler was cast as the lead; I, the villain. Hope caught in my throat every time Tyler looked my way, but I reminded myself of what a good actor Tyler was. If only I hadn’t made a fool of myself in the cafeteria. Nobody else would have assumed that we were having a huge lover’s quarrel. But I’d confronted him because it was hard for me to leave things alone. I should have done anything else—shoplifted some crap from the Family Dollar, smoked a few thousand cigarettes, gone to a raging fraternity kegger—but I wasn’t that bright. No, I had to go and make a scene in the middle of the hot-food line.
“I don’t understand,” I had begged. “Are you mad at me?”
“What’s to understand?” Tyler countered. “I know you’re a drama major, but don’t be so melodramatic. I was horny. You were horny. Let’s just be friends, all right? I’m a better friend than hookup. Trust me on that.” Tyler lowered his eyes.
Yet it had happened a few other times, and I wished it hadn’t. It was embarrassing now. But we’d fooled around some more. Tyler would tease me, kiss me. I’d become hopeful all over again. It was like a bad shampoo cycle: rinse, dry, repeat. There would be some groping. Then—nothing. Tyler would disconnect. Look bored. I knew the best option was to keep silent about it, but a few more scenes in the hallway between us fed the continued gossip. I wanted to shake him. I wanted to stop feeling anything. No, if I’m being honest, what I truly wanted was for him to feel something back.
After Thanksgiving, rumors began to spread that Tyler and the grad student director were fucking around, and everybody wanted the dirt. They wanted me to tell them if it was true or not, and why Tyler and I were over—which was ironic, since we’d never actually gotten started.
“Almost” boyfriends are the worst. Trust me on that.
Still, I remained dignified. I refused to flounce out of the room when the two of them entered. And I refused to quit the play. Theater is my dream, and screw Tyler for crapping on the one place I’d always been welcomed. I’m slight and fair, and I’d been an easy target all my life—except when I was onstage. For that reason, I held it together at rehearsal. But when rehearsals were over, I went back to my dorm room, climbed into my unmade bed, and curled up into a tight, miserable ball. It was hard to be lonely, especially after you’d liked somebody.
Hamilton, the graduate student and director of our play, was from England. He had that cool accent. He wore these tweed jackets and a loosened tie as he stood in front of the wide-eyed freshman drama class, talking about craft and
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