Wednesday 9/27

Guess what day it is? Day 34!!! Yay! FINALLY!! I have been so, so patient and calm, (well, calm) and now it will PAY OFF! I wonder what time the break-up will happen? Statistically speaking, it should be at 2:45—which is the time the two of them got off the airplane from Rome that day my life changed—but seeing how it’s almost 2:45 right now, and Brady and Giulio aren’t even together, it would be hard for them to break up. Ironic, isn’t it, that you have to be together in order to break up.

(We reviewed literary terms in class today, which is why I am so up on my irony at the moment. English teachers always seem to find a way to teach about irony, every year, and I always seem to forget what it means within a matter of minutes.)

On second thought, you actually can break up when you’re not together, like by phone, or a letter, or, say, text message. Who knows—maybe Brady has already done the deed, and Giulio has a message waiting for him to read after English class. Assuming she’s the one doing it, that is. I can’t get a read on that, seeing how they get along really, really well, and there’s no sign that either might not like each other anymore.

(I think that might be another example of irony. This particular ironicality is, I believe, something called “situational irony,” because it happens in situations, I guess.)

If she is the one, I hope Giulio doesn’t take it too hard. He’s not had the best day. In his bio class, he got his test back—the one I “helped” him study for. And let’s just say the letter grade he got on it could start spelling the name of a certain cute girl he knows. (And I don’t mean Brady.) I told him I’d try to find him a new tutor.

Our first football game was yesterday afternoon. (Football being in my life may be an example of “cosmic irony,” which sounds very cool, but really isn’t, since it has a whole lot to do with bad luck, which pretty much defines my football experience.) Everyone kept calling it a scrimmage, but it sure looked like a game to me. The other team came to our school on a bus, they had uniforms on, they played football against us for two hours . . . I don’t know much about sports, I realize, but I think that’s what happens at a game. Also, just before it started, Coach tossed me the scorebook, and said, “DELIA! FIVE MINUTES TO GAME TIME!”

Because I’m sure my look of fear was classic retro horror movie (eyes open wide, mouth in a large “o”—I think my hands may have been on my cheeks, even), Coach began quickly explaining the scoring system. This is what I heard:

BLAH FIRST DOWN BLAH SECOND DOWN

BLAH BLAH BLAH THIRD DOWN BLAH BLAH

BLAH BLAH BLAH FIELD GOAL BLAH BLODDY

BLAH PENALTY BLAH BLAH TOUCHDOWN

BLIPPITY BLOPPITY TACKLE AND BLAH

BLAH BLAH.

Then he scurried off, screaming at the top of his lungs, “ALL ENDS OVER HERE!”

“How rude,” I said to the (usual large group of unusually large) players who were hanging around me. “I really don’t think employees of a high school should be calling students ‘ends.’”

“He’s referring to players who are defensive ends, because I think they’re working out the quarterback-rush plays,” I heard someone say, and since that didn’t sound like the typical response of a person on the team, I looked over and saw that it was Richard.

“There are also tight ends on the offensive line,” he went on. “But I don’t think Coach is calling them, since we’re starting on defense today.”

Then the whistle blew, and I think Richard noticed the look of terror on my face, because he started explaining things to me as they were happening.

“Okay, it’s first and ten, and yada yada,” he began. “Yards rushing, yada, number 86, yada, the blitz is on . . .”

“Blintzes!” I said. “They’re yummy with cream cheese.”

“. . . third and eight, na na na na, sack, na na na na, he’s a good receiver . . .”

“Well,” I said, “how hard is it to receive, really? It’s giving that’s tough.”

“. . . long pass, blah blah blop, touchdown!”

After which there was some cheering, and many of the guys on the field held their arms straight up in the air.

“What horrible pit stains,” I commented. “That must be embarrassing for them.”

“So, Delia, you mark down six points for the Cougars,” Richard said, pointing to the book.

“Is that us?” I asked.

“Uh, no, we’re the Titans,” he said patiently, but with one of those looks you would give someone who, standing at an ice cream truck, orders a Big Mac.

“Oh, yeah, I knew that,” I said.

“I tell you what,” Richard said, “I’ll enter all the numbers this time, and you can watch.”

“Oh, thanks, Richard. I love it when you speak math,” I said, my sweetest, most appreciative smile on my face as I handed him the book.

This action made him turn quite pink (a very pretty shade, though—my lip gloss color, actually). “Not much chance I’ll be playing any time soon, anyway.”

“I don’t get why they put, like, twice as many people on the team as they need,” I said. Then, tapping his shoulder pad, I added, “But you do look kind of cute in this get-up, Richard.”

Then his skin tone changed to something VERY close to magenta (definitely NOT my lip gloss shade), so I figured I better just keep quiet and let him score. He tried to explain the game as he went along, but I couldn’t see much of what he was scribbling in there, since I didn’t want to scooch too awfully close. And it’s not because he smelled of B.O. like the other players—a benefit of not playing is not reeking—it was just because he seems to get so embarrassed when I’m too close that I was afraid he might turn so red he’d burst into flames. Which wouldn’t be good. For either of us.

Soon I got to thinking about something other than the game that I was (not) scoring, and I asked him, “Are you good at bio, too?”

“Pretty good, I guess,” he said.

“Someone I know needs help,” I told him.

“Someone?” he asked with that tone that suggests that YOU might actually be the “someone” you are talking about.

“No, I don’t need help,” I said. “Or, I mean, I do need help with bio, but I’m kind of BEYOND help.”

“So who is it?” he asked.

“Giulio, the Italian exchange student,” I said.

“Why doesn’t Brady help him? She’s probably better than I am at science,” he said.

“You know Brady, the super-jock,” I said. “She doesn’t have a whole lot of time. I don’t know why she even decided to have a boyfriend, with how busy she is. I mean, a person needs to pay attention to another person if they’re together, you know? They need to make time so they can be close and help each other. You know, be touchy-feely—uh, I don’t mean ‘touchy’ as in TOUCH, or ‘feely’ as in FEEL. I was talking about emotions and time, and, uh, NEVER MIND.” And I shut up before I said something stupid(er).

Richard, as I feared, was probably experiencing record core temps in his body, judging by the new color he was displaying. I vowed to myself to never again speak a word to this poor, kind boy, lest I mar him for life.

Guess what? I’m .5 pound heavier than last weigh-in!! This is great! I feel the power! I’ve been exercising like an exercising MACHINE. I thought I was getting tumors in my calves, but— according to Brady—there are actual muscles in those parts of the body, and mine are getting big! Wow!

(That may be an example of irony, but I no longer have any recollection of the meaning of that term.)

Lucky 34, HERE I COME!