Never Been Kissed Michigan: Part 9!

thenameselodie is live-blogging her plan to get Spencer's number. Could this be any better? Only if we had popcorn.—Sparkitors

SPECIAL NEWS BULLETIN: Elodie is currently sitting in the library, having arrived much earlier than she usually does, so that she can live-blog what is sure to be either a) a disaster of epic proportions or b) a perfectly successful, well-executed Plan, by the end of which she will have attained Spencer's phone number. The following may or may not make any chronological sense, because Elodie will be typing and making discreet observations simultaneously, and she failed Multitasking 101.

But enough of the third-person narrative. I’m at the best possible table (ergo, the one right up front so the only way he could miss me is if he sneezed and, during the instant in which he sneezed, I turned invisible). My objective? To get Spencer to sit with me, as opposed to his other friends with whom he now sits all the time. For this, I blame Liam. He’s the one who imposed the isolationist policy so we could work on our project. We’re done now, but Liam’s reign of terror still lingers. (He likes to do homework in silence.) And I can’t execute The Plan (which I mentioned in my last post but didn’t explain) if Spencer doesn’t sit with me.

I have concluded that pursuing a guy is much like being an expert military strategist. I had to map this all out. I had to claim this particular table. I had to get here before Spencer, but after my friend Hailey, so she would sit way over there and I could avoid casual (but lengthy) chitchat with her. I am aware that this was an assy move on my part, but Hailey literally repels guys because she’s seven different kinds of pretty and she scares them and her hair looks really good today and… forget it. I suck, I know it. In my defense, her hair looks really good today. I also had to convince Liam to go talk to our Anatomy teacher about the project, which would guarantee me about fifteen minutes of Liam-less time so Spencer would see me sitting alone and feel obligated to sit with the friendless loser.

Okay, I admit, it’s not exactly Apocalypse Now-worthy strategizing—AHHHHHHHH. Spencer’s posse has entered the building. Spencer is not among them. He usually arrives on his own. And they’re walking. Slowly. They’re… still walking. And they are… traipsing to the very back of the library. Great. Now he's going to have to make a very definitive choice.

Aaaand that’s the bell. Spencer should be here by now. Waiting. So much waiting. Where is he? Should I talk about Tristan? There’s not much to say about Tristan. Tristan is confusing. Tristan is the Rubik’s Cube of guys. I decided I didn’t need to play that game, and I almost just deleted his number, but then I considered the idea that his vast knowledge of 80’s TV shows might come in handy if I ever get in the Cash Cab. (That was seriously my reasoning.) But then, just the other day, he texted me! “Hey Elodie, what’s up?” Does he have multiple personalities? Should I recommend he watch Sybil? And what’s the deal with—AHHHHHHHHHHHH. SPENCER. HAS ARRIVED. Must deploy “look down really fast and avoid awkward eye contact” maneuver, because there’s a good twenty feet between me and the door, and I w—crap. Crap. I looked up anyway. Don’t you hate that? When you’re walking down a hallway or something and you make eye contact way too early, and then for the kh23jt2yt2htlh24t98efjf7w6WKTH#HK#33.

tk2hthk. tlhhththhh. flj3lht2khyjk444j.

If you’re wondering what that was, it was me pretending to type intently while Spencer approached. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I had to stop typing, which is kind of a good thing, because I can't imagine I would've written anything coherent. But I'm getting ahead of myself. He was standing there. I said hi, and he said hi, and then there was silence, and then I said, “Someone puked in the east wing,” which is always a great conversational opener. Feel free to use that gem anytime you like.

“I know, I saw it. It's gross," he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

I can’t even explain to you what happened next, because the chances of this happening are so infinitesimal that my calculator would explode if I entered so many zeroes. It didn’t have to do with Liam, or even Hailey. My English teacher of all people came swooping in from out of nowhere, brandishing an essay in my face. I immediately slammed my laptop shut (thus, the circumstances) so she wouldn’t see this. She then sat down (bad sign) and began talking about my less-than-stellar conclusion, at which point Spencer gave me the raised eyebrows and “sucks to be you” look and scurried away.

I can’t even believe that just happened. I really can’t. What are the odds? I had my mind set—I figured if I live-blogged along with The Plan, it would be a good incentive not to wimp out. But The Plan has been foiled—by my teacher. Talk about a letdown. Seriously, I’m still in shock. Did that really just happen? Really? I guess I can try again next week, right? But JEEZ.

P.S. Thanks for all the birthday wishes! It was wonderful. I ate lots of food, and I went shopping, and at one point we lost my grandpa, but he turned up in the end. Also, I feel there are two pressing concerns I must address:

inordertofly wants to know which I prefer: toast, bagels, waffles, or pancakes. The answer is that I’m a fantastically boring person. I eat chocolate chip Eggo waffles for breakfast every single day. I’m not kidding; I never kid about waffles. I eat pancakes for dinner on a regular basis, though. I have a theory about why pancakes taste better at night, but it’s a work in progress and I’m not ready to share.

WiseKnowMonsters is dying to know what I put on Liam’s calculator. I imagine this curiosity consumes your every waking moment. If you or someone else tells me a really good joke, maybe I’ll spill the beans.

CURSE YOU, ELODIE'S ENGLISH TEACHER! YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU DOOOOO.

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