Dear Albert: Fictionally Taken

I’m late for lunch. I slam my locker, but it swings back, stubborn and resistant. The Grapes of Wrath falls out.

“You SUCK Steinbeck!” I shout to no one.

I throw the book back in my locker hard. It falls out again. Agh!

“Anger is not a good look for you,” Braden says. “Don’t do that in front of people. That could cost you the election.”

I hadn’t even noticed him standing there.

“This book is ru-ruining my life,” I say, embarrassed.

Braden picks of the book, carefully places it in my locker, and closes the thing. It stays shut.

“Gentle, but firm. Works every time,” Braden says. “Now get ye to the newspaper room. You’ve got a column to write.”

Can’t a guy just get a chicken nugget around here?

“I’ll do it later,” I say.

“Now,” Braden says. “You have to turn in your best work for the next month.”

I’m sure Braden’s right. Braden’s always right. But—

“—Why?” I blurt.

“Because Dear Albert is going to endorse you for student council.”

Oh.

“I’m endorsing myself? Isn’t that... wrong?”

Braden looks me in the eyes.

“There’s morality, and then there’s politics,” he says. He must notice that I’m shocked to hear him say this, because he adds, “Sam, there’s no room for ‘wrong’ in ‘politics.’”

I mean, he’s got a point. Jeff Wellstone has recently announced his candidacy, and this is where the line of right and wrong gets blurry. Is it morally wrong to do whatever necessary to make sure that monster doesn’t get elected? Braden thinks not. He knows not. He knows so much I don’t.

I head to the newspaper room to write my column.

Dear Albert,

So there's three basic dating categories of relationship status in girl-world: 1. Single, 2. Taken, and 3. Mentally Dating a Fictional Character. I am the third. That is a problem, because I'm in love with characters that I CREATE. See, I'm a writer, and my protagonists' boyfriends tend to be a little - well, very - perfect. I'm NBK, so I guess I give my heroines what I apparently can't get in real life. Is this actually keeping me from getting a guy? Do I have too high expectations for myself? Help please!

-Fictionally Taken

Dear Fictionally Taken,

As a real guy who isn't a fictional character at all, my first reaction to your question was to run to the opposite end of the planet to save myself from falling in love with you and marrying you at the stroke of midnight on your 18th birthday, rendering you eternally unsatisfied and super bummed out.

But then I was like, shut up, Self. Self, you are the CEO of ButtClowns, Incorporated. Self, this girl is doing everything right and you shouldn't let your own self-esteem issues get in her way. Hit the showers, Self.

Two things, FicTak. One: Your expectations SHOULD be super high. Life isn't a race to see how many slobbery mouths you can get to nom you. Don't tell anyone I said this, but I think dating is about, ya know... that one word, um, erm, barf. Okay! I admit it, I can't think of anything better than falling in love with a person I really admire. *hides under a potato* Crap that was embarrassing.

Buttever, what I'm trying to say is that obviously you know that people aren't perfect, so try to find beauty in their realness—their struggle to do good in a really weird world. But beyond a healthy amount of empathy and understanding, BE PICKY, FicTak! You're doing everything right. SO GET IT, GURL. (Don't know why I just said that but it seemed appropriate somehow. Nope. It's dumb. Not erasing it, though.)

Thing Two: I hate to get all spiritual on ya, but there is a correlation between visualizing a scenario and having it come true. Call it science, call it magic, call it the collective subconscious that responds and reacts to the energy you send out, WHATEVER, it's real and it works. So actually, daydreaming is GOOD for you. Writing is GOOD for you. Creating your perfect world is GOOD for you—you're more likely to get what you want that way. Is this too hippy for you? Come on, Buddha, let's play bumper bellies.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

Albert

I finish the column with five minutes of lunch to spare. Maybe I have time to pour a bag of Cheetos down my face hole. Do classy, upstanding student council candidates pour Cheetos down their face holes? Probably not. Probably I shouldn’t, but my stomach rumbles and I head to the cafeteria.

On my way, I wonder how Braden and Gil have been getting along without me. They kind of need me as a buffer. And ever since Gil’s concussion, he’s been acting super weird. Not weird weird, but eerily normal weird. He still can’t remember the incidents of that night, and it’s almost like he’s been filling in that missing memory by creating a million new ones. With everyone.

Well, almost everyone.

Sure, he’s been, like, physically present, but he’s gotten so frackin popular since his concussion that we can’t have a conversation without some senior football player high fiving him, or Kelly Jenkins draping herself over his shoulder.

How come I didn’t get popular when I got plowed in the face with a stapler?

It’s all about charisma. Gil has it. I don’t. And lately, it seems like Gil’s Gil-ness has been turned up to 11. I try to think like Braden. Maybe this Gil nonsense is a good thing. I’m running for student council—with a freaking stutter—but I’m associated with the coolest guy in school. This could work for me. I picture Gil and Braden sitting at our usual lunch table, planning my campaign. How can I possibly lose when I’ve got a genius and a freaking celebrity as campaign managers?!

I stride into the cafeteria feeling a little bit better. Screw political correctness—I’m getting Cheetos.

The bag of Cheetos falls to the bottom of the machine, and I reach around unidentifiable dust and old pretzel bits until I get my hand on it. I pull it out. Look up toward my usual lunch table, searching for Gil and Braden. But nobody is there.

Maybe they’re making posters in the art room. Maybe they’re in the library, writing a speech. Maybe they—

—They. They are in the center of the lunch room, doubled over in laughter. But it’s not the “they” I was hoping for.

It’s Gil. Sitting with Jeff Wellstone. Red in the face. Cracking up.

I throw the Cheetos in the garbage and walk out.

DECISION TIME! Next week’s DEAR ALBERT will be in another character’s voice. Who should it be—Anna, Jeff, Braden, or Gil? Vote in the comments!

Don’t forget to leave questions for future Dear Albert posts in the comments below.

Click here to read Dear Al from the beginning!

Thanks to Performer_for_Life for providing this week's question!