Be More Chill Read Free Page A

that I might be imagining.
    See, when I’m talking to girls, I develop an out-of-body consciousness, or unconsciousness. Everything means so much more. My posture, which is hopeless, gets a temporary lift as I arch my
back. I can feel all my organs stacked in place and eyeball with pinpoint accuracy how far Christine’s leg is from mine, and when they touch just for a second I wonder if it’s her doing
or my doing or chance. How can she
not
notice if our legs touch? How can she not notice my extremely unslick peripheral vision? How can she not notice my white socks, showing between my
pants and shoes? (I have to fix that.)
    “Lysander!” Mr. Reyes snaps again halfway though some scene with fairies. I scramble with the script. Christine smiles, which doesn’t help me, and I try to smile back even
though she might not be smiling at me, or she might be smiling at me in the wrong way, the eunuch way.
    This is good. This is a step.

“‘Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends,’” Christine reads. The end of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
is empty
without applause. It’s 5:30 and I’m sweaty in bad places.
    “Reagggggh…”
The cast collectively stretches, inching our chairs back. Some people have left during the reading, but there are still a dozen of us in the circle, including a
napping Mr. Reyes.
    “Right, hmmmm,” he wakes up. “So that’s the play. Tomorrow we’re going to do scenes with Lysander and Demetrius.
Maaaaaaaaa!
We need everybody here, and
blah blah blah
—”
    Scraping, chatting, yawning, we drown him in the dive for our backpacks. Here’s my last chance to talk with Christine. I’ve got to (1) give her the chocolate Shakespeare and (2) be
slick about it—like I’m her friend, but I could be more—and (3) leave the theater with a
flourish
.
    “So, um, Christine,” I manage before she gets off stage, talking to the back of her head. In my left pocket, a fist clenches and unclenches. In my right, Shakespeare stands tall.
“Did you hear anything about me, ah, giving you a letter?”
    “Mm?” She faces me. That doesn’t sound like a good
Mm
.
    “A letter, like…Well, in my math class this morning Jenna, who sits next to me, y’know, Jenna Rolan, said something about me giving you a letter, and, like, I don’t even know
you that well, so there might be, or have been, a misunderstanding.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    I don’t either, and that’s what I just said. Doesn’t she know what a misunderstanding is? I don’t say anything.
    “You want to make sure that you
didn’t
give me a letter?”
    “Well…”
    “Why? What’s this about?” Christine leans her folding chair against her hip.
    “Well, I just hate when rumors get started because they’re really hurtful, you know, and—”
    “You didn’t, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “You didn’t give me any letter. Are you happy?”
    “Well, I’m pretty happy—”
    “Are you
proud
about not giving me a letter?”
    Uh-oh. Against her hip, her chair twitches.
    “Is that like your big accomplishment of the day? Not giving me something?”
    “No, actually, I was—”
    “Whatever.” Christine walks off stage and gets her backpack. I reach into my pocket for Shakespeare but—ewwww—fingers grab mushy chocolate head and sink into soup ringed
by foil! Abort mission! Chocolate filth!
    “Wait, Christine—”
    But she’s already on her way out of the theater. She seems to walk slow, saying something to herself, maybe about Mr. Reyes, but more likely about me, I hope/fear, and then suddenly
she’s at the door and she scowls back once, as if thinking, Well, figured as much—his name’s
Jeremy
. And then she’s gone as if, you know, a giant dragon coiled its
way up from the floor of the theater and decided to take her for its mate.
    Fuck.
    I should be pissed, right?
    But, well…I’m weirdly relieved. It’s like I knew this would happen all along. It’s like I