He always has his head in his books, not fiction but history, science and even the occasional philosophy. Tonight is no different. It wouldn’t matter if tomorrow weren’t finals; he’d still be doing this very thing: studying.
His phone makes a sound: “Ding”
He glances over, gives it half a second of consideration, then reaches for it. It could be Carla, and he hates the thought of missing that.
“Your Amazon package failed to-”
He locks the screen before the sentence finishes. He does it quickly, before the disappointment can fully settle. He was hoping it was Carla. She would often message in moments of stress, such as the very night before finals. He always responds immediately. Lately, he’s been more aware of how immediately. From the innocent “Morning” that would often be the first message in his inbox on any given day, even non-school days, to the funny Instagram links he doesn’t want to open but always does.
“Ding”.
This time his heart jumps, just a little. He doesn’t let himself hope. But before he reaches for the phone, a shout carries up the hallway. Barely audible but clearly directed at him. He opens his door to the loud theatre of a home theatre system playing something vaguely sport-like. Commentators, cheering, angry muttering.
“Don’t stay up all night!” his mom yelled from downstairs.
“Go to bed!” his dad adds.
“I will, I just need to study some more,” he yells back, already closing the door, hoping there would be no further reply. There wasn’t and the relative quiet meets him once again.
He walks over to his phone and wipes through his notifications. His eyes immediately perk up at the sight of Carla’s name.
“I’m so fucking stressed”, she writes.
“Same. I just can’t wait for it to be over”, he responds.
As he sits down on his bed, he thinks about how to make her feel better.
“You’ll do fine though, more than fine even!!!”. He pauses, wondering if that’s four exclamation marks too many. He sends it anyway.
She replies instantly with a bear hug emoji. It’s one of her favorites.
“Are you up?” He responds, immediately realizing the absurdity of the question, before adding: “lol ofc”.
She sends a laughing emoji.
He wants to keep going, but stops himself. The emojis usually an indication she doesn’t have much more to say. She’s just reaching out. He puts the phone down and returns to his desk. It’s ten o’clock. He still has a lot to get through.
“Ding”
Without a moment’s thought, he walks back, picks up his phone and carries it with him back to the desk.
“You’ll do great. Stop overthinking and go to bed.”
Before he can respond, another message appears.
“Night xoxoxo.”
He responds in kind. She does this every night. It’s the one thing that makes him feel something in those brief moments before he slips into unconsciousness. Maybe this is the best way to end the night, he thinks as he puts the phone on its charger, turns off the lights and climbs into bed.
Tomorrow, he’ll ask her out. Tomorrow, after the exams are over.
He grabs his bag in a rush and heads for the door. His parents are still in the kitchen having breakfast. He considers saying goodbye but doesn’t want to risk getting to school even a few minutes late.
Usually loud with laughter and cussing, the atmosphere this morning is subdued. There’s barely a word shared as most have their heads or leaning against windows. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he already knows it’s Carla.
“Morning”.
A second message follows almost immediately.
“It’s D-Day!”
He smirks and types back his agreement, adding his own greeting. Looking out the window, he knows today is more than just finals. It’s the day he finally asks out the love of his life.
“Thus far,” he murmurs under his breath.
He’s no moron. He knows it could go badly and she may decide to stay friends. He tells himself he can live with that. Losing her completely, though, is another story. He fears she’ll want distance. He fears the possibility of change, and not for the better.
But today it doesn’t matter. He’ll ask her anyway.
Today is D-Day.
It’s the first time he feels more anxiety leaving a test than entering one. The hallway is a cacophony as teenagers spill out of classrooms in uneven bursts, some already laughing, others lamenting their answers as if they’re inside the exam. Lockers slam. A teacher stands in the doorway telling everyone to enjoy their summer. There is a palpable relief in his voice that feels greater than the crowd itself. He wants to join in but his knees are weak and his chest feels heavier than it was an hour ago.
Carla is nowhere to be found.
He’d imagined she’d find him immediately. She would run up to and hug him and do that Carla thing of rapidly recounting every question she wasn’t sure about. He lingers longer than necessary, adjusting the strap of his bag, scanning faces he knows aren’t hers. He tells himself she’s probably still inside.
Then he sees her in the distance, waving.
Short in height, jet black hair cut just above her shoulders, moving through the crowd like she’s floating rather than walking. He hurries toward her, offering a half-hearted wave that does little to hide the smile on his face.
“It’s fucking over!” she yells, wrapping her arms around him before he can respond.
“Carla,” he says, breathless. “I need to ask you something. Can we talk over there?” He nods toward an empty classroom, its door still ajar.
“Sure,” she says.
As he guides her towards the classroom, he notices a slight resistance, and how his hand almost feels like it’s pulling her. She senses it too. Her expression changes.
“Is everything alright?”, she asks.
“Carla, this is going to sound weird but…”. He looks at anything and everything that isn’t a Carla. “Will you go out with me?”
There is only silence. The previous cacophony gone. Suddenly he feels a punch on his left arm. Carla’s face is contorted with laughter, tears threatening to form.
“Honestly, you’re such a clown, Clarence”.
She turns and leaves.
That night, Clarence keeps his phone on silent. It doesn’t matter.
Happy Valentines day. You might think this unromantic, but I don’t see it that way. I’ve never had much affection for love dictated by calendars or consumerism. That aside, this story carries a trace of non-fiction. My name isn’t Clarence, and we weren’t in an American school system - but I did once confess something enormous to a close friend and lose them in the same moment.
Such is the life of many a human.
Did you know this forms the backstory of a character I’ve been documenting in my Substack Notes? His name is Clarence and he is a clown.
If you want to know more then simply follow me on Substack.
If you like my writing and want to say thanks with a few dollars, please consider doing so via my ko-fi and not Substack
