Zeppelin isn’t played with any real regularity around our house, but my dad taught us to pay due respect to the legends.
Still, my memory didn’t do it justice. If it were anyone other than Vada, I’d assume she’d chosen it for the title. Obvious enough. She was grateful for the night out. But it was Vada, and admittedly, we only had our first real conversation recently, but I’ve been reading her blog for years, and I know she knows exactly what she sent me.
What I don’t rightly know is how to take it. There’s how I want to take it, and how I need to take it, and I was awake a long, long time trying to decide which one was going to win out come morning.
Spoiler alert: Neither. Or both.
I’m fucked.
But also a little bit happy?
By the time I reach my lunch hour, I’ve completely missed my morning classes. I was there, and I took notes, but it would go like this:
American Lit Teacher: What are your thoughts on the symbolism of the color red in The Scarlet Letter?
Me: Maybe Hester Prynne was a ginger. Like Vada.
Geo Trig Teacher: Solve for B in this quadrilateral equation.
Me: Why don’t you solve this relational equation?
PE Teacher: Suit up for dodgeball!
Me: I hate gym.
Okay, so not the last one, but you get the idea. It’s been useless. I slide my tray down the line and choose a breaded chicken sandwich, plopping a bunch of extra sandwich pickles in a small cup and grabbing two mayo packets, distractedly.
“Hey, stranger.”
I swallow. “Hey, Lindsay. How’re you?”
I feel, more than see, her long, pale hair flash over her shoulder in a rush of great-smelling shampoo. That’s one thing I’ll say for Lindsay, she always smells good. Though I’ve yet to find a girl who doesn’t smell awesome all the time, so it’s hardly a point in her favor.
“Not bad. We missed you last night,” she says conversationally, ladling a healthy scoop of fake cheese sauce on her french fries.
I slide a little farther, picking up an empty cup for water. “What was last night?”
“Basketball game?” she says. “Zack was awesome. There’s talk about the state championship.”
“Ah,” I say, inwardly cringing. Shite. I forgot about the game. Not that I make it to all Zack’s games, or even most of them, but I pride myself in at least knowing what’s happening in his Sportball world. “I had plans.”
We’re halted at the checkout, and I shift my stance, trying to appear open but focused on my tray. Lindsay deftly maneuvers around to face me, blocking my view of the rest of the cafeteria.
“That’s too bad. Maybe next time. Anyway, I was wondering what your plans were for the prom?”
I clear my throat. “Prom? Isn’t that in May?”
She shrugs. “It’s eight weeks away. Lots of people have dates already, though. I thought maybe we could go?”
I try to keep the confused look off my face, but I don’t think I pull it off. I nudge at my frames with my shoulder, nearly upsetting my sandwich, and I move up in line. “Wouldn’t you rather go with someone who didn’t break up with you?”
Her face falls. “Well, sure,” she says, a blunt edge to her voice. Somehow, we’re side by side now. “But we’re still friends.” She says it like she’s willing it to be true, but I’m not convinced we were friends to start with. Sure, we’ve hung out in the same group before, but we barely know each other. Maybe if she had known me better, she wouldn’t have posted videos of us kissing on social media.
Or maybe if I had known her better, it wouldn’t have gotten that far in the first place.
To be fair, I did say we’d “stay friends.” That one time. When I broke up with her. (I’m rubbish at boundaries.)
We make it to the checkout, and I hand my student ID over to be scanned. When she does the same, I break away, but Lindsay is fast on my tail as I fill my cup from the water dispenser.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I say, answering her. “But I’m not sure I’m even going to the prom, and anyway, I’ll bet there’re loads of guys who want to go with you.”
“Your brother was homecoming king,” she says. “Of course you’re going.”
I narrow my eyes as I try to make sense of that statement, skimming the room for Zack. “I didn’t go to homecoming either. It’s not really my scene. Much more his.”
“So, you’re telling me