flawed genetic makeup has a way of thwarting my attempt at a good time. Sometimes I get so busy daydreaming, I forget the little chores I should be tending to, like remembering to shave both legs when I’m taking a shower.
As embarrassing luck would have it, Oliver’s hand keeps trying to touch my right leg. And I keep moving it away—I don’t want to gross him out with my cactus thigh—but his hand is like a man on a mission. The more I move my leg away, the more his hand pursues me. It goes on and on until I’m slouched so low in my seat, I might as well be sitting on the floor.
“What is your deal?” he finally whispers, kind of annoyed.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nothing? You’re practically on the floor, you little freak,” Oliver says, looking down at me as my ass hovers three inches above the candy-sticky floor. I search and search for some excuse that might make sense, but all I come up with is—
“I just, um, I don’t . . . want my leg touched right now. Okay?”
“Oh,” Oliver says, and then after a long, uncomfortable pause, “Look. If you don’t want be here, I don’t want to force it. You don’t have to get all weird and sit on the floor.”
Oliver sits up and removes his arm from around my shoulder. The minute he takes it away, I feel like I’ve been thrown into a snowstorm without a coat. It’s freezing. It’s amazing how fast you can get used to someone’s arm embracing you.
I was just trying to spare him the grossness of my unshaved leg, and now he thinks I hate him. My heart sinks and races in the silence until I finally blurt out, “I totally like you. It’s justthatI didn’tshavemyrightlegandI didn’t want to gross you out, okay?”
Oliver stops and gives me a look.
“What?” he says.
“You heard me,” I say. “I forgot to shave. I’m a total Sasquatch leg.”
“Wait, you forgot to shave one of your legs?” Oliver laughs. “Man. You are a piece of work.”
“Sorry. I know it’s gross,” I say as he runs his hand over it.
“Ooh. Prickly. That’s cool. If my hand itches, I’ll just rub on your leg to scratch it for me.” He smiles. We’re in the dark, but I can already hear what his words sound like when he smiles. I love that.
I like that he makes fun of me—in a good way. I decide that’s a very important trait to have in a boy you make out with and secretly hope will officially become your boyfriend.
I had no idea a guy could be this cool about a chick with hairy legs. I expected him to retch and run for the exits. Is that just an Oliver thing, or are all guys that laid-back about this kind of thing? It’s weird—nobody tells you that stuff.
Oh, and on the movie front, just so you don’t think I’m totally lame, I highly recommend seeing Breathless, as it is probably the coolest black-and-white French movie ever made. I can’t tell you what the plot is (I was sort of distracted), but it was shot in Paris, and the clothes are to-die-for mod. Trust me. If you have the chance, you should see it for the fashion-gasm alone.
This Is Not My Beautiful Life
O n the Roller Derby front, I’m happy to report that after our loss against the Sirens, the Hurl Scouts have been on an undefeated tear. We’ve taken down the Cherry Bombs, the Black Widows, the Fight Crew, and tonight we get a second chance against the Sirens.
Between Malice’s and Emma Geddon’s fierce blocking, and Crystal Death’s and Babe Ruthless’s killer jamming (hello, that would be me), those bad cops didn’t know what hit them.
Even Blade can’t keep his jackass dance moves in check when I take a hot whip off Emma’s mile-long leg to score four points.
“Save it for the after-party, you freak!” Juana Beat’n shouts from the infield as several embarrassed skaters pelt him with empty water bottles. Not that it stops him from cabbage-patching. The dude’s got happy feet. Personally, I love Blade’s spontaneous bad choreography. Can you imagine any coach
As embarrassing luck would have it, Oliver’s hand keeps trying to touch my right leg. And I keep moving it away—I don’t want to gross him out with my cactus thigh—but his hand is like a man on a mission. The more I move my leg away, the more his hand pursues me. It goes on and on until I’m slouched so low in my seat, I might as well be sitting on the floor.
“What is your deal?” he finally whispers, kind of annoyed.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nothing? You’re practically on the floor, you little freak,” Oliver says, looking down at me as my ass hovers three inches above the candy-sticky floor. I search and search for some excuse that might make sense, but all I come up with is—
“I just, um, I don’t . . . want my leg touched right now. Okay?”
“Oh,” Oliver says, and then after a long, uncomfortable pause, “Look. If you don’t want be here, I don’t want to force it. You don’t have to get all weird and sit on the floor.”
Oliver sits up and removes his arm from around my shoulder. The minute he takes it away, I feel like I’ve been thrown into a snowstorm without a coat. It’s freezing. It’s amazing how fast you can get used to someone’s arm embracing you.
I was just trying to spare him the grossness of my unshaved leg, and now he thinks I hate him. My heart sinks and races in the silence until I finally blurt out, “I totally like you. It’s justthatI didn’tshavemyrightlegandI didn’t want to gross you out, okay?”
Oliver stops and gives me a look.
“What?” he says.
“You heard me,” I say. “I forgot to shave. I’m a total Sasquatch leg.”
“Wait, you forgot to shave one of your legs?” Oliver laughs. “Man. You are a piece of work.”
“Sorry. I know it’s gross,” I say as he runs his hand over it.
“Ooh. Prickly. That’s cool. If my hand itches, I’ll just rub on your leg to scratch it for me.” He smiles. We’re in the dark, but I can already hear what his words sound like when he smiles. I love that.
I like that he makes fun of me—in a good way. I decide that’s a very important trait to have in a boy you make out with and secretly hope will officially become your boyfriend.
I had no idea a guy could be this cool about a chick with hairy legs. I expected him to retch and run for the exits. Is that just an Oliver thing, or are all guys that laid-back about this kind of thing? It’s weird—nobody tells you that stuff.
Oh, and on the movie front, just so you don’t think I’m totally lame, I highly recommend seeing Breathless, as it is probably the coolest black-and-white French movie ever made. I can’t tell you what the plot is (I was sort of distracted), but it was shot in Paris, and the clothes are to-die-for mod. Trust me. If you have the chance, you should see it for the fashion-gasm alone.
This Is Not My Beautiful Life
O n the Roller Derby front, I’m happy to report that after our loss against the Sirens, the Hurl Scouts have been on an undefeated tear. We’ve taken down the Cherry Bombs, the Black Widows, the Fight Crew, and tonight we get a second chance against the Sirens.
Between Malice’s and Emma Geddon’s fierce blocking, and Crystal Death’s and Babe Ruthless’s killer jamming (hello, that would be me), those bad cops didn’t know what hit them.
Even Blade can’t keep his jackass dance moves in check when I take a hot whip off Emma’s mile-long leg to score four points.
“Save it for the after-party, you freak!” Juana Beat’n shouts from the infield as several embarrassed skaters pelt him with empty water bottles. Not that it stops him from cabbage-patching. The dude’s got happy feet. Personally, I love Blade’s spontaneous bad choreography. Can you imagine any coach
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