hopeless romantic

When I was thirteen, I used to be a hopeless romantic, a vague concept with an abundance of moodboards on Pinterest to back it up. If you want to get a general sense of what a hopeless romantic is, I would suggest you watch "(500) Days of Summer", although I've never watched it, I've watched some video essays dissecting Tom's character. As a kid I used to want to become an author and I wrote many short stories. The writing is obviously subpar since I wrote the majority of it in 7th grade (skull), but the contents of this semi-long story are reminiscent and portrays strongly the ideals of hopeless romanticism and pining after random guys who won't throw back a second glance. This is possibly my strongest short story in terms of plot, although I did not finish it (because as Callie says, I have no committment).

Sometime mid-May. (May 18 th)
Why would he choose her? Why was she better?
Could I ask him that and pretend that I’m fine—and be a psychopath, huh? Do you want to be a psychopath and pretend that you’re okay with this the whole way through, pretend to ask so casually like you were his curious friend—his friend, and nothing more?
(And watch him smile as he talks about her, THE SAME WAY HE USED TO SMILE
WHEN HE TALKED TO ME, and pretend that you’re fine with this?!) Psychopathic, is
what I call it. THIS, is what I call it. THIS, because there’s no other explanation. THIS,
because who on Earth could explain why he would choose her. Why would he choose
her?
They all like the pretty girls, and when you’re not pretty you don’t get anything.
Why was it that after you turn thirteen the love stories in books and movies become true?
Why wasn’t there any boy who wasn’t superficial like everyone in those stories? Why can’t there just be someone who’d hold
me when I need him, even now, when I’m sad about someone else? There’s no one like
that, no one to comfort you whenever. That’s all you need.
I thought I understood him, Simon. But I was just another girl he liked for a
short while, while I liked him for so long. Why do I care so much about him when he
cares so little about me? WHY?
It hurts to even say you have a girlfriend to my parents. Even if really, I don’t care
that much. Do I really not care that much?
She’ll probably understand you better than I do, Simon, but she’ll never have as
strong as a desire to before; as I did.

Part I
A very warm Friday at the end of May. (A week later)
It’s really weird to think of Simon again. Because right now, I don’t care. I don’t care
who Lauren is, or which Lauren is it, or la di da di da. (Honestly, there are probably a
hundred Laurens out there.)
But then again, I do. I do? I did, for like three days. I have no idea
what my feelings are.
And at the same time, I’m trying to find Runn.
“Trying” is right. Trying to find him, trying to talk to him.
Isn’t it strange, how I can talk freely with everyone else at school besides him? I chat
with the other girls, join in their conversations, roll my eyes at the boys from my
elementary school who try to be cool in front of everyone. But I can’t seem to talk to
him.
He probably thinks I don’t care about him anymore, that I only stroked up
conversation once to be nice. But that’s not true. And to think that this is exactly the way
I thought of Simon. (“Some people are too friendly to everyone, you don’t know who
they like.”) And now I’m being like Simon. And I get it. You can’t really show your
feelings. It’s weird.
But I don’t want to be like Simon—someone who just breaks people’s hearts.
Because I do care for Runn. And I don’t know if Simon ever cared for me.
Some days I think I like the boy from my math class. Other days I look for the boy
who I played Balance Squares with on the way to Band. I don’t think I really like Runn.
(But you’ll say you keep coming back to him after. And such déjà vu, isn’t it. You kept
going back to Simon, and you never got anywhere. And just like with Simon, you won’t
get anywhere now, with Runn.)
But some days, still other days…
I think he remembers. Who I was. Or maybe he doesn’t. We catch each other’s eyes
across the room. Maybe that’s because I keep looking at him. That’s the thing—when
you like someone you always think they like you back, because you’re looking at them all
the time and all you notice are the things they say to you, and only you. You don’t notice
the way they look at anyone else. You study everything they do and believe distortedly
that they like you. Mistakes I made with Simon, and literally everyone else.
At another angle, you won’t see anyone else. Looking at you.
But I don’t want anyone else. I only want Runn Simon Runn.

I go to the creek and see Levi.
“Hullo,” he says.
“You’re not British.”
“I know. But salutations anyway.”
I sit down by the clear water and catch a tadpole.
“I miss Runn.”
He takes a breath, almost says something, and then doesn’t.

Friday, the next week.
Last day of school.
Brown hair, freckles, and those bright green irises. His eyes flicker up to see me.
And unlike the others, he holds them there for a second longer before looking away.
He’s gone again, Runn.

“There was another Simon at that camp, too. Simon R., not Simon H.”
At tennis camp. I tried to talk to him, Simon R., about backspins and tailspins and
whatchamacallits, but it didn’t work very well.
“See, you spin your racket a bit farther to the right, like whoosh—it’s not really
spinning, you know, just swooping it up…”
“Jeez, Calista, you really don’t know what you’re doing…”

Sometimes I want to go call Simon Rowen and just randomly talk to him about
things. For example, math class.
“Why don’t you ever say anything?” He’ll say.
“About what?”
“About slopes, of course…”
Simon R. plays on the basketball team. I’m hoping he’d see me play next year and
want to scrimmage together. I’ve heard some people like jocks. Simon R. isn’t really a
jock… Then again, what is a jock? “I just imagine them with muscles and play on the
football team.” Josie shrugs. “Not my type.”
Not mine either, but still, the boys that play basketball…
I don’t like Simon R. like I liked… Simon H. But we still hang around.

After sixth period, I go to the pick-up place and call Josie while walking home.
“How was the English final?”
She laughs. “Terrible.”
“What did you get?” I don’t have the strict English teacher, Ms. _____, who Josie
and Oliver have.
“Forty out of forty-five. Not bad. Have you heard that Simon—you know, the one
from our elementary school—might get contacts?”
My stomach flips for a second at the mention of the name. Josie doesn’t know about
what I think of Simon; she just brought him up because she always knows things.
I try to regain my cool. (A.k.a. pretend nothing’s wrong) (A.k.a. pretend that pause
right there wasn’t because of Simon but because a bee was circling me and I had to
dodge away for a second)
“Wait, which Simon is it?”
“Simon Hockenberger-Harris, of course. What other Simon do you know?”
“There is a Simon R. in my… never mind. Go on. Why’s he getting contacts?”
“I dunno. Maybe it just looks better.”
“But glasses were his style! He looked like a dark bookboy, who could talk at length
about Greek mythology or philosophical politics or Dungeons and Dragons. One of the
three.”
Her laugh was genuine. “Well, he is.”
I sighed. “It’s the end of a year, Josie.”

“Simon?”
“Yeah,” I say, not really knowing why.
“You’ll see him again next year.”
“I know.”

Exactly mid-July (7/16)
“Why do you always complain when we go to tennis?” Cloris has asked, though she
was not as concerned as their dad would’ve been.
They were at the park now, the June sun making the white concrete pathways
between the tennis courts blind Callie’s eyes, like snow under the same circumstances.
Callie wished she had a pair of sunglasses. Never before had she realized the importance
of them, or their purpose—she’d thought it for stylish reasons only, because she’d seen
her sister wear them, or at least for combating the bright reflections of the setting sun on
a car’s front glass. 
“Because I dislike it, and the only reason I play is for Dad.” Callie answered her
sister’s question.
Cloris didn’t respond, because that was her manner of dealing with situations when
she believed—and rightfully so—that the other party was not worth responding to.
And Callie wondered if Runn would be there, at the tennis courts. He said he played
tennis in the summer. But where? How much she wanted to see him again, and those
translucent green eyes.
Because tennis was repetitive and thinking about actual winning strategies made her
brain exhausted, she thought about Runn while she played a 3-set singles game with
Cloris in the blazing sun. There wasn’t much to think about, really. Callie just liked the
thought of him. She barely knew him at all, but that’s exactly what she liked about it.
When she looked at him there was no reminder of their history, the times they’d had
together. There was nothing, no moments, no gestures, to overthink or obsess an
unhealthy amount of times over. Thinking about him didn’t hurt. Like thinking about
Simon did.
Runn was a pure soul. A clean conception. A dream.
Was he even real?
Then, just for the fun of it, Callie asked questions about who Runn really was, and
then made up the answers to them herself.
When was his birthday? (February 27th—he seemed like an Aquarius. (Everyone
Callie liked seemed like an Aquarius)) Does he have any siblings? (An older brother
named Devin) Pets? (A dog) What are his parents like? (They’re moderately
nice) Is he the video games hermit who lives off political memes on Reddit and finds
comfort in his home that is Discord? Or the socially-sensitive, people-pleaser jock with a
fragile masculinity? Or the-
She could name a billion stereotypes, but that was the trickiest part. And that was
when Callie decided she was being really, really strange and told herself to stop thinking
about boy she met for one day.
By then the game was over and Cloris had, obviously, won all three sets. There was a
unexpected guilty voice in Callie’s stomach as she went for water with Cloris that
whispered: “you just wasted a bunch of time, you’re psychotic and should stop being so
moody”, but she ignored it.
Just let me be sad, please.
“Lord Almighty, it’s Cloris Tuttle!”
The two sisters turned to see a girl with a pixie-cut and bangs that went from purple
to blue to pink, like a galaxy.
“Denny!” Cloris exclaimed, the same time Callie said, in an awed whisper:
“Your hair!”
The girl who was Denny turned to Callie, and smirked good-naturedly (if that sort of
smirking was possible), so that Callie was almost intimated by her for a moment. “What
‘bout it?”
“How is it so... glittery?”
The girl who was Denny snorted. “With the power of hair glitter!” And with a
flourish she brought a tiny bottle the size of hotel shampoos out of seemingly nowhere.
“Wanna try?”
Callie struggled to think of anything to say. So she just did the first thing she thought
to do, which was to grab the bottle out of the girl who was Denny’s hands and pour a
handful of that magic onto her head.
“Calista Juniper Tuttle!” Cloris cried, looking shocked. “That’s going to take weeks to
get out!”
Callie shrugged and turned away. Denny just laughed. Cloris looked like she wasn’t
sure of whether to be angry at her friend or laugh at her sister.
“So, Cloris,” Denny said pointedly, “this is quite a big a favor to ask, but do you want
to play a game with me?” She gestured to her tennis racket.
“Sure! Let’s go,” Cloris agreed, and then looked at Callie.
“I’ll be fine. I need a break anyway. Maybe I’ll practice some serves?”
Cloris still looked hesitant, but Callie already was heading away with her bag in hand,
so she went with Denny to the other court.
Callie was not going to practice serves, obviously. There were better things to do
with her time. She set her bag down by the fence, under the huge oak tree that cast a
shadow over half of the court (so that the person playing on that side was slightly more
advantageous as they won’t potentially catch heatstroke). Then Callie took out, from the
bag, a pair of roller skates. They bore the same pastel pink color as cotton candy or
strawberry Kit Kat’s. The laces were white like baby powder, the Velcro’s and wheels
blue, and on the sides were minimalistic drawings of roses. Callie looked at them proudly.
Lex had once called them “sick”. That had been a great compliment. Any compliments
from Lexlan Lucas meant a lot, because Lex was an optimistic person, and since
optimistic people saw the good in almost everything, they must really mean it if they
thought something was “sick”.
Callie knew that there were no shoes other than tennis shoes allowed on the court,
but she didn’t care. This was, in some symbolic way, her defiance. She put the roller
skates on, her Dollar Store airbuds in, and began twirling around in her own little world.

Behind her closed eyelids she saw silver stars stickers pasted against a tangerine sky, as
space girl by Francis Forever played she bopped her head to the irresistible beat and
almost did a half-axel.
As the song progressed to its outro, she heard a familiar female voice, along with a
huskier, but still homely one:
It was Josie and Oliver!
They were on the sidewalk and hadn’t noticed her. Josie was walking Oliver’s dog,
Honey, and laughing with her eyes squinted shut at Oliver. Josie was wearing a bright
green sweater. In the middle of summer. Oliver was laughing too. Their smiles, Josie’s
freckles, Oliver’s red cheeks, looked even more vibrant under the cheerful sun.
Callie felt warmth spreading from her heart. Seeing them made her feel… hopeful,
like true love and soulmates really existed in this world that was not a movie. You might
just need to wait. And she wished, with newfound patience, that one day she’d find hers
too.

Exactly mid-July. (7/16)
“I KNOW IT’S MY FAULT! YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY IT AGAIN!”
I huff, and go pick up an astray tennis ball. My back hurts. I feel so tired, though my
mind is as energetic as ever. I don’t want to play with Cloris anymore. In the heat of the
moment I chuck the ball at the surrounding fence with all the power I can muster; the
fence rattles like broken bones and the ball boomerangs right back at my face. I dodge it.
“Calista Juniper Tuttle, what the hell are you doing?”
I recoil because when Cloris raises her voice, you better shut up, because Cloris never
raises her voice.
I choke back a pant. “I’m tired of tennis.”
“Okay,” She said. Though monotone, I detect disappointment and sadness in her
voice, and I feel my stomach turn sour.
I look away, but still direct my words at her. “Why do I dream of being that nice
popular girl when I’m not, on the inside? I’m so fake. If anyone gets to know me better
they’ll know I’m not that nice person I seem. How can I ever be with someone? Maybe I
shouldn’t even marry. I’ll just end up like Mom and Dad.”
“You seem more and more like Jo from Little Women,” says Cloris, though I can tell
she’s thinking over my words.
“No one will ever like me. I don’t deserve anyone. I’m just horrible.”
“Don’t be so self-deprecating, Callie.”
I turn away from her because I want to say it’s not self-deprecation because it’s true, but she
will just invalidate me with her positivity. She walks towards her bag to check her phone
and I distance myself by going to the farthest court away. Pacing back and forth along the
baseline, I play “21” by Gracie Abrams in my head, which makes me want to scream and
fall on the floor and watch all my intestine fall out. If there’s an anthem for this summer,
this would be it. And then I think of Simon because I always do; and it’s like that
calamitous day in May again, when I almost broke my piano turning Beethoven’s Tempest
into cacophony and almost crumpled up the first song I wrote and sat there staring at
nothing in my room for at least an hour. This is what heartbreak feels like.
I don’t even want to be in a relationship with Simon; I just think about him because
he’s what keeps me going.
I see the look in your eye and I’m biting my tongue
You’ll be the love of my life when I was young
When the night is over, don’t call me up I’m already under

I get a little bit alone sometimes and I miss you again
I’ll be the love of your life inside your head
When the night is over, don’t call me up I’m already under
August 3rd
I think I’m in love with Timothee Chalamet. I think I am. Hah.
Later, August 3 rd
I’m writing a song for Rowen (that’s what I call Simon R. these days, to not mess
him and Hockenberger-Harris up). The song’s called Olivier O’Connell, not that I know
anyone named Olivier with the last name O’Connell. It’s quite a silly song; I think I’ll
show it to him once we go back to school. I haven’t seen him at all this summer; I don’t
know if he signed up for that tennis camp we did last year or not, but I’m still on the
waiting list. My only social media use this summer is texting my girl groups and scrolling
through Instagram every once in a while. I’m not a social media person, not really. The
only thing I imagine myself doing there is creating a website for my books and tweeting
random epiphanies that pop into my mind. I call them “my books”, and I haven’t even
written any. I can’t stay committed to anything.
Today I just thought to borrow To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before by Jenny Han from my
eBook app. I’ve joked to Josie about watching the Netflix show before, but I’ve actually
neither read it nor watched it. I don’t know if it’s gonna be too romance-y or “Young
Adult”-ish, since it’s labeled both of those things, but I’ll see. Before, though, I did feel
inspired to write something to a certain someone…

Dear Simon,
I’m seeing you in nine days. Can you believe it? Nine. School starts on the twelfth. I
haven’t seen you in so long. I wonder what you look like now? Messy, curly, dirty-blonde hair.
A bit like Edwin Hoot’s, you know that Minecraft YouTuber who we both really like? (Even if I
don’t play, I still like his music) Brown eyes. Glasses? Josie said you got contacts. Is that
true? I guess I’ll see.
I’m sorry. I’ve written so many things about you, and I know this won’t
A very smoky, orange-clouds-sky type of August 6th – from a fire some miles away
Oh, pooh. See? I can’t stay committed to anything. I can’t even finish my letter to
Simon Hockenberger-Harris. But that was because I had homework to do. It’s usually
because I have homework to do. Does that count?
I’ve read one chapter of Tatbilb and a bit of the second. I’ll try to finish my letter:
I’m sorry. I’ve written so many things about you, and I know this won’t
help. Made up so many characters with different names but with the story of us, written a
dozen verses that will never succeed to piece together into one whole song that I can sing to
you. Because I can’t stay committed to anything, Simon Hockenberger-Harris. I can’t stay
committed to anything, but somehow I still keep going back to you.
HAHAHAHAHA laughing at how cringy of a figurative language that was
It’s now August 6 th . I didn’t see you at school orientation. That’s because they separated
the eighth graders into two different groups by last name, and you’re in the A-N group. (Me, a
Tuttle, was obviously in the O-Z.) I went at exactly 11:00 just to try to catch you leaving but I
still didn’t see you. I saw Josie though—you know, Josephine Gideon?—and asked her what

she was doing there. It didn’t matter much, I guess, the two groups. But you, secretly smart
and never a rule-breaker, probably went at exactly your time of 10:00 as well.
So now, all the other chances are gone. It started when you were first placed in Group A
and I was placed in Group B for going back to school last year. And now the other chance,
Orientation, is gone as well. Do you know how I laughed when I saw that Orientation was
being separated by last name? I think I jinxed it that day when I wrote down this idea for a
story called “Ari”. The main character didn’t see the boy she wanted to see at Orientation, but
that was because there were too much people and she just didn’t catch him. (Obviously as
you might have guessed, that story was also based on you.) I really did jinx it, didn’t I? I don’t
know if the other orientations in the past years had to separate people like that. If not, it’s
probably because of Covid this year. I don’t know. Still feels like I jinxed it.
Six more days until school—less than a week. Will start counting down with Josie. Hope
you see you then.
YOURS,
Callie
First day of school. (Thursday, August 12 th )
Last night I had a dream. I was standing on the side of one of the sloping, hanging
hallways of school and was attempting the great feat of stuffing my books inside my
backpack when my ears caught the voices of some boys. I knew who they were without
looking up.
“repeats a joke”
“You use everything again, huh.” I murmured under my breath, but they still heard
me.
“You’re always right, Callie, huh?” Captain Heartbreak Boy, stylish blonde who uses
conditioner in his hair, came over. Though he wasn’t smirking like his tone suggests him
to be. I knew this trick. He always finds ways for people to hate him enough so that the
fine line is broken and they find themselves in love with him. Lennon is someone who
you never should fall in love with, but you don’t know that until you have.
I looked up at him for a second, then continued to stuff my binder. Talking to
Lennon is not high on my list of priorities (or any list at all, though I know for a fact it
belongs on lists titled “Goals for Life” for some people), especially because the hallway
was mostly empty and I was going to be late for class if my time was going to be wasted
on trying to find words for Lennon Sieminski. Honestly, I could just grab my books and
shove past him if I wanted to, but no. I don’t care for Lennon at all (“it’s not love it’s not
hate it’s just indifference”), but I’m not rude. I still care about how other people take my
actions, and do not want to be seen as an aggressive sociopath.
Lennon said something else that I don’t take in as I finally zip up my backpack and
heave it onto my shoulder. He looks me full in the eye while talking, like he always does.
It makes people think he likes you when he really doesn’t. Another thing is that he moves
on too fast. One day he likes Camryn and another day he likes me and another day he
likes Alissa. How are you ever supposed to know?
“Callie, hey,” he’s showing just a bit of his frustration. “Were you listening to me?”
“Well—” I say. “No.”
“Crikey, Callie. You don’t ever take me seriously.”
I sigh, “It’s not that I don’t take you seriously. It’s not me disparaging you and
thinking I’m so great or whatever. It’s just… I know that you aren’t serious. You’re never
serious. I just don’t take you... I just don’t take you. At all.”
“Well, okay. I guess that makes sense.” He grins.
“Well, to be honest, I don’t take you seriously sometimes, but not like that. It’s just
that you pretend so much, you know? Actually, you don’t. I don’t know. You’re a good
person. But sometimes that making-people-like-you thing feels a bit fake.”

Great of me, to tell the boy himself his shortcomings.
“Sorry,” he apologizes. So sincere, but is he really?
“I don’t get it, sometimes, you know? That day when you drew a car and...”
“I take art, Callie.”
“You do? Oh yeah, Thiere told me.”
He stares at me.
“I’ve got to get to class,” I say hurriedly. “See ya.”
He’s left standing alone the hallway. Then the bell rang.
The next day at school. (Friday, August 13 th )
Another day of not talking to you.
Calvin Carter doesn’t even talk to me now. See? I was right, he’s another Lennon
Sieminski and I’m doing the right thing by not striking up conversation with him.
Honestly, I sometimes want to—just to get the thrill of it, just to wish that you’d walk
past the hallway at that instant and see me with him. But you don’t even see me now, do
you?
I saw you when I was in History. We were playing a name game (God, don’t you just
love how “name” and “game” rhymes?), and the teacher was talking to someone who
wasn’t paying attention (but he was engrossed in our History textbook, which made me
impressed because that book cannot hold my attention for even a minute). And then I
saw you, walking (probably to the bathroom), through the window that was directly
facing me on the other side of the room. You were looking in my direction. I raised my
eyebrows. You didn’t raise yours back. But I think that’s because there were so many
people in my class and you didn’t see me. No, Simon, you never do. It’s like I’m literally
invisible now or something. After lunch, you walked past me with a couple of your
friends and I was so nearby, so nearby, Simon, and I joked something extra loudly to my
friends so you would look over, just so you could finally see me. And you did, Simon, you
did look over, but only for an instant. Are you ignoring me, Simon? Are you afraid to talk
to me?
Because I am, too. Because I’m afraid we’ll have nothing to say.
And I’ll find out that we really aren’t ever going to be anything. That I was wrong
and my mother was right.
I know you have a girlfriend now, that’s probably why. I keep forgetting. I’m sorry, I
probably shouldn’t keep trying to talk to you. That’s why I didn’t send you a “Yoooo
what’s your locker number” text today on Discord. I was going to. I was thinking over it,
over and over, in the shower after I got home, saying yes and then no again. In the end, I
decided not to. Again.
The goal of today was to talk to you. But guess what, I saw you even less than I did
yesterday.
Great. Never gonna break that record, am I?
Sunday, August 15 th
Simon Hockenberger-Harris,
I don’t think I love you anymore.
I’m sad. But the thing that keeps me from going back is the thought that you
definitely aren’t.
I can’t believe this. After almost a year and a half of not talking to you, and
discovering I missed you, and so many days of looking forward and counting down to
the day when I’d finally see you and joke like we used to—

I don’t think we actually have anything to talk about. And I don’t think you want to
talk to me, either. I think it’s actually better to not deliberately try to talk to you and just
let things flow. I think once we go to MathCounts, probably the only time you’ll actually
notice me the whole year, we won’t laugh like we used to do. We’ll smile, probably, but I
know there’s some other girl who makes you smile bigger than that.
But I’m not saying all this as a sudden change of mind. I don’t do that. If I hadn’t
gone back to school, I never would have had this. I’m not the type of person to keep
New Year’s Resolutions, even less come up with one in the middle of the year and stick
to it as my new mindset. I think of this, because, maybe…
It’s the start of something new.
Wednesday, August 18 th
Simon—
Okay, okay, okay.
I think we are legitimately IGNORING each other, and we both know it.
Fine. Maybe you’re not. But I saw you twice today, and I feel like you saw me too,
and you just TURNED AROUND AND STARTED TALKING TO MY FRIENDS.
Okay, so basically, my friend group from the elementary school I graduated from has
these little separate groups now, even if we still hang around altogether (not split up,
goody, like those “middle school friendship” drama you hear about). And I’m not with
“that group” that hangs around with you, so I have no idea how to talk to you, and ugh
ugh ugh ugh ugh yeah.
LORD!
(I am saying ‘lord’ a lot lately, and Lorde the singer’s album is coming out in 2 days,
so – !!!!!!)
Honestly, this is stupid.
Okay, Callie. Okay. Imma hand you this task: if you see Simon Hockenberger-Harris
at school tomorrow, at a time where you can talk to him easily, GO FREAKIN TALK
TO HIM. BECAUSE, WELL, JUST BECAUSE HE’S IGNORING YOU, THAT
DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN’T BE NICE AND PRETEND EVERYTHING’S FINE
BETWEEN YOU TWO AND GO UP AND TALK TO HIM.
ALRIGHTY, CALLIE?
See, on the first two days I wanted to talk to you. I even waved and said “Hi,
Simon!” But for some reason that weird epiphany I had on Sunday has gotten me
introverted and now I’m ignoring you as well. And I don’t want to do that. I’m not gonna
be a coward (like you). I’m gonna say hi to you tomorrow. Or this week. I’ll go up to my
friends and say hi to you along the way.
Okay… (I am sure saying that word a lot too)
Updates on Calvin Carter:
Okay never mind, I don’t want to call it “updates”. That’s kinda weird. Pretend I
didn’t say that.
I have him in my Spanish and History class, so I’ve got him in both block days. Same
with Runn. How nice. Not really, but you know.
Also, yeah, his locker is next to mine.
(Oh, so my locker partner finally showed up today! I don’t know him; he might just
be starting a few days late. Might talk to him tomorrow.)
So at some break (it might be after SSR, ‘cause I was carrying a bunch of stuff and I
asked Josie to carry some for me, so she went to my locker), he (Calvin) was there too,
and I was waiting around or something, and there was a bump (of course, hallways are
crowded), and he turned to me and said, “oh, sorry!” or something like that. And then I

said “it’s fine, it’s fine”, sort of quietly COMPARED TO THE LOUD HALLWAYS, but
whether he heard me or not I don’t think it matters because this random girl just ran past
and punched him lightly (sort of like how I used to taese Lennon) on the back, just below
his neck. And then he ran off to her, or something. That also happened a few days ago,
on Monday, or something, but it was __, who I know. He also ran to her. I’m fine
with _. I’m fine with all of that.
Calvin Carter might have nice hair and nice hands, but I don’t think I’ll ever end up
with him, so I’ll just sit and watch their popular group flirt around.
He has blue eyes, though. Pretty.
Remember in fourth grade when I said I wanted to be a redhead ‘cause they were
cool and unique? But that was because I liked a different person. Weird this is how I’d
end up now, huh?
Yes, I do see him tomorrow. Block day schedules – dumb and confusing.
Thursday, August 19 th
Been at school for a week? Cool.
I always see Rowen in the hallways. He’s as “jock”-y of a jock as he can be. Blue
basketball sweatshirts, Giants jackets, long socks and athletic shoes. He literally resembles
E.J. from High School Musical: The Musical: The Series, with his perfect golden-brown
hair and his greenish-blue eyes. He recognizes me, yes, but never says anything. That’s
what they all do.
We don’t have any classes together this year, not even Math—same teacher but
different periods—which makes me a little bit sad. My Math class is great, but I just
wished more people would be in it (though that would make an already super-crammed
classroom explode), like Simon. Hockenberger-Harris, I mean. Not Rowen.
Calvin didn’t talk to me again. As usual. When I think about somebody so much
because they surprised me that day by saying/doing something that I wasn’t expecting,
and then I think the next day they’re going to be amazing as well, but they never are.
Disappointing, almost. But that’s life.
I watch Calvin with his friends. He ignores me in Spanish when I make a joke.
(Though he did look over when the announcements said “did you know… today was
National Potato Day?” and I said “well that’s useful”.) I think he’s lost his initial
“interest”, and to be honest, I’m relieved about that. I’m not being self-deprecating here
and saying I’m not interesting; I can be if I want to be, but if I show my “interesting”
side to Calvin it’ll seem like I’m flirting with him, and that’ll make all the other girls mad
and, well, it’s just going against the rules of popularity here at this school. Unpopular
people—or, at least, people who’re not exactly in the top tier—can’t flirt with popular
people, or else they’ll look like a tryhard and a douchebag.
As for Simon H.? Well, today as I was getting lunch with Josie and Theire, and he
went past us and was directly in front of me in line. Guess which song was playing on the
speaker right then? “Déjà vu”, by Olivia Rodrigo. The same song that played just before I
got off the car at drop-off this morning. He saw me, I know he did. I know you did,
Simon. And then I yelled to Theire: “Hey, you have to grab a full meal!” Extra-loudly,
just to catch his attention (honestly, that’s my main tactic of getting people’s attentions
lately), but he didn’t look over. At all.
Simon, I’m going list all the times I’ve seen you, and by the time I finally talk to you,
tell me:
Do you keep track of these things too?
 Yesterday, after lunch: This was the thing I ranted about yesterday, about you just
turning to talk to my friends: I and a bunch of other people were waiting for the vice

principal to unlock the E hall doors and get to our lockers, since we’re not allowed in
the hallways during lunch. I was hanging out with Josie and Theire, waiting, singing
some “digits of Pi” song or some line from a commercial (“O, O, O-Reilly—Auto
Parts”), and you were there, closer to the doors, with my friends and your friends,
and—yeah. You know the story.
 Yesterday, after lunch and trying to get to the next “class” of SSR: So after the
doors were finally opened, I got my stuff from my locker and went to class, but after I
sat down in my seat I discovered that I forgot my book, so then I headed back. By
then the hall was mostly empty except for some people here and there, and after I
got my book I went back the way I came. And you were there, going the other
direction, and I know, I know that—I’ve said this so many times already, but honestly
did you really, I don’t know—you saw me, ‘cause there weren’t that much people
there. But I—oh, stupid, stupid, me—didn’t say “hi” to you, didn’t even WAVE,
because of that mindset you put me in. But, well, there was somewhere I had to be
and I didn’t want to be tardy, so please just take that as me trying to hurry.

• Monday/Tuesday (but I think it was Monday): I was skipping (yes, I was literally skipping) down the hall to the bathroom, and you walked by. And you saw me. (I’M SORRY, I KEEP SAYING THAT. MAYBE YOU DIDN’T) And, well, you know the rest of the story.
• Monday/Tuesday: I know which part of the school you hang out now. So when I was with some people and we put our stuff down to go to the bathroom, I looked over. But then they discovered the bathroom had a line, so we left for the other one.
• Monday, during break: Break again. Kaylin was trying to find Alexis so we went over to your group to look for her. We were so near each other. But Lexi wasn’t there, so we left.
• Tuesday: I saw you History class again. Nice hoodie. (Blue and pink and—I think?—purple squares) Friday, August 20 th I feel like no one likes me. My friends do, yeah. But the boys? The new people? The people who I like (cough cough, Runn, Calvin, the two Simons?) never—I repeat, never—even talk to me, and the people who are nice to me (Adam, Nico) get nothing back, because, for some reason, I can’t be funny now. I really don’t want to go through all the relationship stuff. That’s probably why I don’t belong in the popular group. All the liking someone, and then them liking someone else, and then trying to be nice to that someone else because you guys are in the same group? Nope. I can’t deal with that. I can only focus on one person at a time. (Simon, I’m talkin’ to you, in case you haven’t noticed—which, honestly, that’s weird that you haven’t by now) I can like multiple people at the same time, though, but none of them ever likes me back, so that’s fine. Unlike the popular people, no one ever likes me back. (Except this one person in third grade, but that was a long time ago). I think I’m getting too into this popular stuff. This never bothered me before. But for some reason, in middle school everyone’s just suddenly got interest in relationships or whatever. And if I pretend I don’t care, I’m even lower. SO WEIRD. Sunday, August 22 nd

Cloris is making her own lunch in the kitchen while Josie and I are making PB&J
sandwiches. We’re talking about school while Cloris half-listens, half-lost-in-her-own-
thoughts, but really there’s nothing to talk about.
“You know that Landon Conley guy?” I bring up.
“Who?” she asks.
“I think he went to CEACS.” CEACS is the elementary school Josie got in by lottery
when we were in fourth grade. It’s only for fifth- and sixth- graders, and it pulled kids
from many elementary schools into it. I was sad when I didn’t get in, but now I’m glad I
got to spend more time with my ____ friends.
“Oh, maybe. What does he look like?”
“He has blondish hair, and a quite uninteresting face, though apparently he’s now
very popular, and the girls in Science just giggle with him in the back of the class.”
“All the Landon’s have blonde hair.”
“Really? The Landon from ____ has black hair. Well, dark brown, maybe.”
“Brown? Well, that’s a first.”
“Really?” I say again. “You know, all the Landon’s are popular.”
“I know, right? I would name myself Landon if I was a boy.”
I laugh. “
Monday, August 23 rd
“Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to-you
Happy birthday dear Tay-lor
Happy birthday to you”
Today was Taylor and Tyler’s birthday. They are not twins, despite the similarity in
their names. The popular girls sang the song to Taylor in the hallway and I told Adam
that it was Tyler’s birthday in Spanish, because he’s his friend. But the reason why this day
is so important is not because of Taylor and Tyler (though they are too) but because I
FINALLY TALKED TO YOU.
Wednesday, August 25 th
Today I got to school kind of late, so the halls were mostly empty as I put my stuff
into my locker. It was fine, though, the actual bell hasn’t rung yet, just the five-minute
warning one. And where I’m heading, Math, is almost directly across the hall. Mrs. Fong
is super nice.
Just as I pick up my binder and Chromebook and start walking across the hall,
Calvin Carter comes with Airpods in his ears, slides, and a cup of Starbucks coffee. What
a show-off.
“Nice coffee,” I call to him as I walk towards Math, but he doesn’t hear me. Maybe
he is actually using his Airpods to listen to something instead of just for show. I shrug
and run to Math.
Thursday, August 26 th
Today the hallways are crowded even if I arrived late. Calvin and this other girl
named Brianna with two n’s (because my other friend Briana with one n is ahead of her)
are at their lockers, so I can’t get to mine. When Brianna with two n’s leaves Byron,
whose locker is under hers, comes, and I sigh. I squeeze in and get my stuff. Calvin still

has his Airpods in like yesterday, but without the drink. He’s so close to me I sigh again.
He smells like coconuts, or something other that’s sweet. Does he put on cologne?
What’s even cologne again?
I grab my stuff and go to Spanish. Shoot, he’s in my class. Good thing he doesn’t sit
next to me.
Friday, August 27th
Okay, Calvin Carter has nice hair, but I still wish he cut it just a bit shorter so that I
can see his eyes too. Because, honestly, he also has a nice face.
Sunday, August 29 th
I like green bananas. Yellow bananas are too sweet.
Monday, August 30 th
Ughhhh. My mom just canceled my German lesson because my dad said that we
should go play tennis with Henry and Helen from four to six because we haven’t been
around them for long, and my German lesson is from four to five, and it’ll take fifteen
minutes to drive to the club court where they reserved a spot, and then I’ll only have
forty-five minutes to play. But it was my mom who canceled it. And now she was yelling
at my dad like a maniac before I grabbed him away to the car.
I tell this all to Adam in Spanish. “Why can’t she just be content with her decisions?”
“Decisions are hard to make,” he says.
I want to scream, I know, you douche, like my mom, but of course I won’t. “But she
didn’t have to yell so much.”
He’s silent. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I say. And this would just be another conversation. I want to tell him
more, but the only good it’ll do is burdening him with the task to help me, to find
reassuring things to say. And though that sounds easy, searching for gems of syllables is
possibly the hardest thing sometimes. I know what to say then, “you are already doing
the best thing to help me, and that is being here.” But I don’t want to go through all the
trouble. So I just say, “How’s Cooper’s leg?”
“It’s good. He’s back at school now. You’ll see—do you have any classes with him?”
“P.E. He’s in my flag football team. That’s why I know.”
He nods, starting to fidget with his binder again.
“Do you like green bananas or ripe ones?” I ask.
He looks up, smiling. “Green.”
“Me too.”
Friday, September 3 rd
I have not mentioned Simon H. for fourteen days. This is a record. But I need to
talk about him now, because I have time to write today.
I finally talked to him on August 23. I’m not actually super sure of the date (I do
regret not writing it down) but from some context clues from my memory of what
happened each day, I think that is roughly correct. It was after school and I was walking
to the CEACS parking lot where I get picked up, and Simon was walking straight at me.
Well, not at me, but we were going in opposite directions. So he saw me, he finally did.

There’s no way you can ignore me now, I thought. He had just gotten his trombone from the
band room, so when we walked past I each other I waved, “Hi” straight at his face.
He said, “Hello.” A bit surprised, I don’t know why. And then he was gone.
I’m glad I waved. Otherwise, we would’ve just ignored each other and walked past
each other again. Because, I know now, he would not be the one to say ‘hi’.
Saturday, September 18 th
Today is Julia’s birthday party. It’s supposed to be from 12:30 to 3:30 p.m., and we’re
supposed to go to the La Cantera pool, which is also where I play tennis, but turns out
today, out of all days, is the coldest day of the week. No, seriously:

I’m not even going to swim. I’m just going to have lunch there and talk with them,
and then at 1:45 or something I’m going to come back to attend my Vocabulary class. On
the Evite it said “don’t bring anything, just your presence please”, but still my mom
might go to Ross to see if she can find something, and I’m going to make a card.
I hope my mom finds a good pair of shoes at Ross. I really want a new pair of
Converse because all the pairs I’ve had before are now in some weird condition: the
“vintage” white one of my mom’s was drawn on with these terrible-quality fabric
markers, and now they’re used as gardening shoes for my mom; the black one with the
neon red laces that always remind me of fourth grade and Gavin Banovich-Gary and the
silver fish-scale high-top that looked similar to one Nell also had both look great with
outfits but are now a bit small. So the only pair of Converses I wear comfortably are the
low-top iconic white ones—you know, with the red stripe? I really want some dark green
high-tops.
Friday, November 5 th
I have not written here in so long.
Saturday, December 11 th
Isn’t the concept of showers so weird? You go into a stall, and then you stand there
for a couple minutes letting the water wash the dirt and germs away. That’s supposed to
be the purpose of it, but many people—including me—romanticize the idea of showers,
and I am completely not criticizing it. Showers are a place of enjoyment: you can have a
jamming party to a song stuck in your head, you can simply relax and close your eyes and
pretend you’re in a spa while letting the warm water and soap suds caress your fresh face.
Or, like me, you can ponder.
Yesterday I had MathCounts, and we played a couple games because it was the last
session before Winter Break. After, Lauren said that she was riding home with who other

but Simon Hockenberger-Harris and his father. Then she’s going to spend five hours
with them—having dinner, I suppose.
She’s so lucky. She should know that.
But I’m not even mad at her, because she’s my friend. I think she deserves Simon H.,
and that they’re a good match.
And so I think: why do I still like Simon?
I just finished reading P.S. I Still Love You the other day, and it said that if you loved
somebody once, you’ll always have this tie to them, or something. I guess that’s what it is.
An entry in the shower
and the last entry I’ll ever write about
Simon Hockenberger-Harris
At least for now.
“Dear Simon,
I’ll say I loved you to an extent where—
You know I’m the type of person who doesn’t listen to playlists. At least not the
whole thing, ever, or in order. I’m the type of person who makes them, and never look
back. And obviously I rarely listen to other people’s playlists, maybe only a song or two.
But I’ll listen to every song if you wrote a hundred of them down on paper, and I’ll
search all of them up, and listen to them.
I’ll listen to them until I know them all, until I’ve memorized their lyrics, and then
I’ll sing to you, and you might not even recognize some of the songs I sing because they
didn’t have to be your favorites. They could’ve been any song, ones that you didn’t even
know, and I would still have listened to them.
But I can’t sing to you, when you haven’t even given me a list.
And now I understand that I can’t force you to do that. Especially when you’ve
probably already made a playlist for somebody else.
Maybe we’ll become close friends again in the future, and I hope I’ll see you then.
But for now, enjoy the music.
Yours again,
Callie.”

Part II

December
“He’ll be escorting you to your room.”
I look up, and it’s Runn.
Brown hair, still in the same style, flaring freckles, and those green, green eyes. He’s
much taller than me now, in a black suit and black pants, and he looks much more
handsome than I last saw him. Much less a boy, but a man. My breath catches and, is it
my imagination, or so does his?
The manager leaves, and it’s just us two alone, standing in the lobby of this
prestigious hotel.
“Callie?” his voice comes out husky, and I can’t speak.
“Calista Juniper Tuttle,” he says. “Do you remember me?”
I finally get my mouth open, “Runn, of course I remember you!”
I’ve been looking for you since August, I want to say. Not even since August—since a long time
ago.

The next day, we go skiing. I can’t believe this. It’s almost like a dream. Every day is
exciting and I wake up with a smile on face, just from picturing in my head the boy I have
always hoped for. He’s such a gentleman, with polished manners, but also a sense of dark
humor that’ll get me laughing at the long dinner table and then have to stop immediately.
We’ll explore the place late at night, and go into the library and devour all their books on
mathematics, then sometimes on mythology for him, and fantasy for me.

“One day I’m going to forget how to wake up.”
Solitaire, Alice Oseman
Callie

The first day of school is as grey and asphyxiating as any other day in my life,
only it’s slightly worse, because there’s the weight of inevitable social interaction. Some
days I just wish I was a ghost so nobody will ever see me and I won’t have to make
conversation with a human being ever again. But then, other days, I just wish people
actually notice me for once. I am the biggest hypocrite of the century.
I set an alarm yesterday night, but I wanted to lay in bed well after it rang so that
maybe my sister will forget about me and go to school on her own. Except Cloris never
forgets about me. My parents do sometimes, but not her. Eventually, I got up, felt like an
a-hole for potentially making my sister late to the first day of her last year of high school,
took care of clothes and hygiene and packing in seven minutes, and then almost got
myself an actual reason for absence—that is, falling down the stairs.
In all honesty, the first day of school is better than the other days, because you
get no work and all you do in class are icebreakers. “Tell us an interesting fact about
yourself”: a golden opportunity to show off your humor and make a good first
impression, unless you’re someone like me who cannot think of anything funny when she
needs to. Or who thinks of some self-deprecating jab but doesn’t say it because, well, she
has no idea what the other people will think of her. So when it’s her turn, she’ll say, “Um,
I have a cat. Named Felix.” And then she’ll start questioning if what she said was
passable as an answer, because they had said “about yourself”, and since when did pets
count as something about yourself? But in reality no one even thinks a second thought
about it and the teacher nods with a smile she’d kept on since the beginning of the period
and moves on to the next person.
My face seems to be one of a mannequin—plastic with a perfectly posed smile—as I
pass other students greeting and hugging each other and approach F hall, but inside my
stomach is a mess of black scribbles. I try to ignore the acidic feeling of dread in my
stomach by distracting myself with my surroundings. It is truly a magnificent sight. Once
you make a right turn at the end of the hallway and step into F Hall, the scenery is no
longer one of decade-old lockers and tasteless murals, but one of actual art. The lockers
are painted with famous book titles on them—The Hunger Games, Of Mice and Men,
The Fault in our Stars—in all colors of the rainbow. There’s a tiny garden of greenery, a
bench painted with graffiti of the school’s name. And I know, instantly, that this is by the
kids who worked at the room I am headed to right now. Room 68.
The Art room.
I hate my phone and almost any type of electronic device except for when I
desperately need to watch a Netflix rom-com to ignore my problems and feel happy for
two hours. If I say my house doesn’t feel like an actual home—the place you can always
expect to have comfort after a tedious day—then Tumblr would be it. I like to go down
rabbitholes, scrolling endlessly through someone’s blog, falling in love with fanart and
feeling like someone actually understands me for once when I read some deep epiphany
about life. It’s like Instagram, but there are no people pretending to be perfect—or, on
the hand, deliberately quirky, because all the people on Tumblr are that by default.
There’s no obsession about numbers: likes, followers; there’s no comparison, which is the
tactic insecure people employ these days to make themselves feel better. There is just a
mass of people trying to get their voice heard while having a good time.
I look over at the pendulum clock hanging on the wall. 10:03 p.m. Time to sleep. In

fact, I should’ve slept earlier, but time is a forward motion and if you were ever able to
turn it back, you’re a genius. I go take a shower and then brush my teeth. In my mind I’m
reviewing a whirlwind of concepts. I hate doing this, but like many things, I have to.
After getting most of them taking care of (I really need to review sequences again
tomorrow. I don’t know why but I, Calista Juniper Tuttle, am abysmal at sequences, and
it’s embarrassing the heck out of me), I picture myself on stage tomorrow. Probably
sitting in the most uncomfortablest chair in my life, that’s metal and freezing my butt to
death. That chair will distract me. What else will? The other competitors, maybe, but I’ve
taken so many of these tests already that I’ve surprisingly gotten better at focusing with
people around me. And not noticing that the boy sitting diagonally behind me looks
wondrously like Tom Holland, and being unreasonably sad because this’ll probably be the
last time I see him… oh.
I know what will distract me.
Runn, of course. Who else could it be?
But unlike the other things, there was nothing I could do about it. He was on my
team and he was my teammate. I couldn’t ask him to drop out.

“Runn? Are you there? I wanted to say good night—”
I open a crack on his door and peek into his room. His room ___
“What’s wrong?” He’s sniffling, body crouched over on his bed. He’s covering his
face with his long, pinkish fingers. “Runn, are you okay?”

Plus, curly-haired people break your heart anyway.
February.
I stop by Mrs. Fong’s classroom before I go to Science. We have another discussion
about slopes and then, at the very end, a bit about Schrödinger’s cat. When I pack up my
scratch paper into my backpack and make my way to the door, I see Rowen coming in,
and we almost bump into each other.
I wave goodbye to Mrs. F and Gerald the lizard and turn to Rowen.
“Simon!” I say.
“Hi,” he says. I notice he’s panting. We head down the hall. I’m going to Science, and
he, I don’t know. (He told me before, but I can’t remember anyone’s schedule except for
mine, no matter how many times Josie rants about each of her classes) “So,” he says,
“Where are you going?”
“Science,” I say. (See? He doesn’t know either! Who can memorize everybody’s
classes?!) “You?”
“P.E. We’re playing volleytennis.”
“Nice.” I say, making a mental note to myself that his first-period class is P.E., but
then cringing because I know I’m going to forget it.
“Hey, Callie…”
“Yes?” I say almost automatically, and then, “NO! I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT!
NO! YOU’RE INVITING ME TO SOMETHING. WHAT? WHAT IS IT? WAIT!” I
look frantically around the hallway for posters, and I spot a pink, flowery one by Mrs.
Mentch’s classroom. “THE DANCE! IS THAT WHAT YOU’RE INVITNG ME TO?
THE DANCE?”
He looks horrified. I clap a hand to my mouth and tell myself sternly to stop yelling.
Then, immediately after I do that, I say slowly,
“Wait… the dance?”
He looks even more horrified.
“Okay, I’ll go with you.” I say.
He looks slightly relieved, but still mostly horrified, and started walking down the
hall again.
“Wait, Simon!” I reach out to grab his sleeve, and then pull back when his eyes
become wide again.
“It is the dance, right?” I say, explaining myself. “Or else I’d be embarrassing
myself.”
“Yeah,” he chokes out, after a second. “It is.”
“Okay. See you, then.” I wave and dash into my Science classroom.
March

“You were talking with Simon Hockenberger-Harris,” He looks furious. His cheeks
are flushed and his forehead is shiny in the burning sun.
“Yes. Yes, I was.” I say, angrily back.
He stares at me and breathes loudly through his teeth, like he expects me to know
what he is not saying.
“Rowen, he doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.”
“…Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure!”
He takes a breath, tries to calm himself, and then says, more sad than angry, “Then
who do you…”
“What?” I burst out.
“Who do you…love?”
“I don’t know!”
April.
“Runn?”
I trek deeper into the cave.
“
march/april
To Simon,
I’m sorry.
I wrote you a song for you last summer, but I forgot to show it to you. It’s only one
verse, because I can’t stay committed to anything:
Is that French? I can tell
Olivier O’Connell
Six-foot-one, aren’t you tall
No wonder you play basketball
Pretty boy, stupid girl
All up in this neighborhood
Give me laughs, give me tears
I think I’m in love with Olivier
Yes, it’s for you. Not for anybody else.
I’m sorry, for everything. I’m sorry for my mistakes.

I went to the first art class of the semester today and after it was done and I came
out of the classroom, there were raindrops coating the shiny, newly-refreshed cars in the
parking lot, and the air was of that pleasant smell of everything after rain that I could
recognize anywhere.
When I got home and started playing piano, it was raining again. And I loved that
“When I liked Calvin, I wasn’t happy. I mean, I was, but it was hard because it only
consisted of me telling myself it was all useless since you will never get him, that’s he’s
not in your league and he’s out of reach. And if I even tried, it would’ve been hard—it’s
that pressure I always feel when I like people like him—to impress him, to prove to him

every day that you’re something interesting, someone worthwhile. And I didn’t want to
go through all of that again. I had learned from Lennon. So I made a good decision. It
might not be right, and I’ll talk to him whenever I can, but I’m not going to go all out
every day—thinking of the right things to say to him the night before; something funny,
something impressive—for someone again. Because that is exhausting.
“But now, I like you. And it’s easy.
“I feel like smiling, every time you talk to me.”

“I don’t know, Rowen, I don’t know…”
“Callie, what are you doing?”