Randy White And Growing Up

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
Melody Way is caught between growing up and staying a child with no male contact forever, and why? Because the star soccer player of high school and hottest boy on earth, Randy White, has given her his number.

Submitted: October 25, 2008

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Submitted: October 25, 2008

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I don’t know how I ended up with a phone number scribbled on my hand with red ink, but there it was. It was bold writing, and may have even looked neat on paper, but on my hand, it was slippery like a snake, the sevens looking like ones. For some reason, I also had my phone out, set on a page for a new contact, the cursor blinking in the name blank. My mind cooed over and over ‘Randy White’, but for some reason I wanted to just punch in a girl’s name, like Ashley or Natalie. It seemed so much safer, or normal.
Never before have I had a boy’s name in my cell phone memory. I guess I never wanted to talk to a guy, and they didn’t want to chat with me, for just my name was enough to have a boy cringe and the thought ‘Oh lord no’ come to their mind. Melody Anne Way. It sounded much like a prissy princess, or maybe a famous actress, and I never liked it. I always wanted a bold, catchy name…like Roxanne, or Tracy. Something more adult then Melody, but Randy likes it.
I don’t really know Randy, and he doesn’t really know me. The one time I talked to him was when he passed by me at lunch and said “Hey, you want your muffin?” All my friends would ‘eek’ and ‘aww’ after he left with my blueberry muffin top, but it never really caught my mind, until maybe a week ago when he transferred into my math class. I sit in the very back of my class, and usually keep quiet since nobody I know is in that class, and there really aren’t a lot of people in the room, but still, of all the empty seats, he picked the one right in front of me.
Dropping his binder and spiral, he plopped down in the creaky orange seat, and glanced back at me with a sheepish grin, before he started to lean back and forth, making the seat groan and squeal with these horrible squeaks until somebody tossed a gum wrapper at him, making him laugh, running his hand through his shaggy hair. That was the first time I saw that Randy had dimples.
I guess you could say Randy is popular. He is in plenty of sports for a freshman, like basketball, baseball, but mainly soccer. He told me to watch him practice the second day he was in my class, and all I could do was stare blankly in surprise, my pen in mid-write. “Whaaa?” I said, straightening my back and flipping my black hair from my face, now with my full attention on him. “You heard me,” he said with a half-laugh. “I want to know what some people think of how I play. So, come and watch. Right after school.” I couldn’t help but smile and nod, going back to my notes to show him I understood. I was going to go. I had to.
Randy looked so natural and in place when he played soccer. His hair would swing around as he would bounce the ball off his knees or head, grass and dirt going perfectly fine with his dark tan skin. A smile was plastered on his face the whole time, the big blue eyes more serious than anything I’ve ever seen…like if you tried to stop him from playing he would be furious. Randy was awfully fast too, come to think of it. Like a dog, he would run, roll, dive, dip, and tackle for the small black and white ball, the grass stains streaking across his white Adidas like a comet as he kept playing. After practice, he glanced over to the stands where I was and with a grin, I would simply reply, “You’re ok.” As if I was barely interested, when really? David Beckham would kill for skills like that.
Now, Randy is a ladies’ man, so that must mean I must be drop dead beautiful to get his attention. Wrong, awkward is more like it. Of course like every other girl I would think of myself as a Charlie’s Angel in my spare time, being able to wear some cocktail dress and heels, making every man’s jaw fall to the tile floor. Of course they would only get a teasing laugh in response as I flipped my hair, continuing on with my life, when really I am all but. I have been told I have great legs, but really, it’s not so. I’m lanky and awkward, my hair is down to my butt, and worst of all, I stick out like a sore thumb in my school with my black hair. I mean every freshman girl other than me has wavy, luscious blonde hair you see in Cover Girl ads. But of course, I get the long black hair that’s pin straight and has more dead-ends than hair itself. I have no idea why Randy ever came up to me. Maybe it was because of pity, or maybe because of that muffin top, but still. I’m grateful.
I have never seen a boy cry before. Alyssa, my best friend on earth, always said boys don’t have tears. “Melody, really!” she would say, rolling her eyes. “No man cries.” But Randy did. Two days after I saw him practice, I was walking down the hall to my locker, when I heard something like a whine from the Janitor’s Room. Curious of who in the world would be in a janitor lounge, I glanced from side to side before peaking in the room to see the one and only Randy, his legs criss-crossed, his head in his hands. “Randy?” I said softly, now stepping into the room as he looked up, the obvious tear-trails down his cheeks, his face, made for a smile, locked in a serious look. “What’s wrong?” I asked sadly, sitting down alongside him, forgetting about how I was going to my locker to get my spiral for English class. “I hate myself.” Randy said softly, dropping his head back into his palms. For some reason, it made me want to cry, too.
Millie Carson likes Randy. Actually, it’s more than a like; it’s more of an obsession. Occasionally when I stroll down the hallways, I’ll see her clinging to his arm like a tight-knit sweater, giggling like a Barbie doll. I know that Randy hates it, but still, he sucks it up, smiling back to her slightly. Of COURSE she takes it like a marriage proposal and is sure that they will be engaged within a few weeks, and having her in my History class, I know this from firsthand experience. “Do you talk to Randy?” she asked me one time, looking to me the minute…no, second I set my stuff down. “Yeah, I suppose.” I said, picturing him crying. “Ohhh, isn’t he charming? I find him so charming. A real nice guy, if you ask me.” She said with a smug smile, continuing on with her ‘paper’. Of course it was bait for a conversation, but I, being a bit fired up, bit it. “Oh yeah? How so?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips. Turning her head back to me as if she was SO shocked that I asked, she looked me up and down and smiled. “Well, apparently he doesn’t mind admirers.” This set me off. It had already been a bad day, failing my science test, but to have her make me sound like a swooning lunatic for Randy had veins popping. “YOU cram it.” I said coldly, now having her on her feet and in my face, her breath reeking of tic-tacs. “Oh yeah? Why not you, and while you’re at it, stay off my boyfriend!” Then, with all my might, I SHOVED her out of my face, and back into her seat, where she continued to slip off it and onto the hard tile floor, landing with a nice thump. Of course the teacher didn’t take it well and I was sent to the office, and really, I didn’t mind it one bit, but it surprised me because of who I found in a big waiting chair, and a bigger grin. “So, she started something with you to?” Randy said. I think that’s the hardest I’ve ever laughed in my life.
It sounds really nerdy, but my mom works at Taco Bell. People have always thought from my name, personality, even clothing, that my mom would be a lawyer or something super successful, but no. She makes nasty burritos for obese men that think she’s hot. After my dad ran off with his secretary when I was six, my mom always told me to stay away from men. “They are good for three things, Melody. For a showcase, a security guard, and a bank.” She said, putting on her Taco-vest as she called it, her long red hair wrapped neatly in a bun. I would always nod and smile, but really, I never paid attention. Being into princesses back when I was a kid, I always thought she meant something other than my prince. Now I’m beginning to wonder if my mom was right. When I told her about why I went to the office, she only shook her head, one single strand falling from her perfect bun. “I tell you, Mel. Nothing but trouble.”
Now, here I am, I week from when I met Randy, feeling more content and nervous then I ever had in my life. All through math period, I knew Randy was staring at me, his serious, blue eyes focused on me like I was his target, his black and white soccer ball. I would glance back to him and smile, but he would only look away, until finally I asked him what was wrong. “Oh, nothing.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I…just haven’t talked to you in awhile. Since the whole Millie thing.” We both laughed subtly. “Well, then come up to me more.” I said with a grin, leaning on my desk while I talked to him. He only shook his head. “You know how crowded it is. That’s impossible, Mello.” Yeah, that’s really what he calls me. “Well, here! I’ll give you my number.” He said happily, pulling out a red pen from his pocket, then taking my hand and scribbling his big numbers from my palm down to my wrist, making it utterly as bold as could be. At first, I jerked back slightly in surprise, but it brought me comfort to have my hand in his, my mind wandering off until I was snapped back to life when Randy said something. “…Okay?” he said, looking at me with a questioning look, his hand now off of mine. “Huh?” I asked, blinking the dryness out of my eyes. Randy laughed, leaning back into his squeaky chair. “I said call me tonight, okay?” Okay?? That was more than okay. That was great.
Seven thirty-two p.m., and still I have yet to even try to save Randy’s number. I’m not too sure what is stopping me, but it feels like something will change, like the little kid inside me that’s always been there will somehow fly away like a eagle, and will never come back again, though, maybe it’s time to let go. It’s freshman year. Maybe I need to grow up. Looking down to my wrist, to the big bold red letters of Randy, I smiled, and entered it into my phone, but didn’t save it. Instead, I pressed the call button, dropping my wrist to my lap as the dial started, though only for a few seconds. “Hello?” Randy’s voice said, apparently out of breath, from a sport I would guess. “Hey, Randy. It’s Melody.” I said in reply, getting a laugh and sounds of movement. “Hey Mello! Thanks for calling.” I smiled at the stupid nickname. Maybe we never grow up. Maybe it’s okay for me to be Mello.


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