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| PC: Clarissa Toll |
If you missed part one or need a refresher because the blogger took too dang long to get part two up (because that's totally understandable), read here.
A week. A week had gone by since their encounter in the library. No sighting, no call, no text, no Facebook friend request, no sky writing -- nothing had come of the boy who seemed interested in her book and her phone number.
As the girl ranted rather loudly to her carpool mates on their daily trek back to the car about the stupidity of the turned-nothingness of the encounter, her phone vibrated.
Her dear friend had just got through telling her that maybe she didn't know everything and that maybe, just maybe, this story wasn't quite over yet when the phone signaled a new text message.
It was from a number not listed in her contacts and it held the shortest phrase of shock/reaction about a piece of the book that only one who was reading it would know.
The girl stopped dead in her tracks, turned around, and looked into the bushes all while scanning the foreseeable grounds for that tall, lanky boy whom she had met in the library. He and his peacoat were nowhere to be seen.
"How did he know?" she thought. It was like he was Go-Go Gadget and could hear her rant and hope dwindling out loud.
"How did he know?" she thought. It was like he was Go-Go Gadget and could hear her rant and hope dwindling out loud.
With the text and lack of possible spy, those wanna-be hopeless romantic girls instilled new belief in this possibility and began giving him all the typical excuses He's Just Not that into You warns women about.
Feeling determined to not let boy in on her pervious rant and frustrations with his absence, she held off responding right away and then casually commented about his reaction to the story.
His response: "This is Jared, by the way. The guy you gave your number to in the library."
Now, how exactly did "Dyla the Microphone Killa" become Just Jared? No accidental autocorrect could be THAT bad, she thought. She couldn't have created that memory in her mind alone, either. Her memory couldn't be THAT bad.
"Jared?" She texted back, "You said your name was Dylan."
Again, there was radio silence. With no response to her text, she was left with only her own frustration towards his tomfoolery for comfort.
Who did this fool think he was? Was he playing a game and forgot which name he had used to introduce himself by? How many girls had he met in the library so smoothly? Was he preying on young book nerds just for kicks?
Her carpool mates had also lost their romanticized ideas of him and were no longer so kind to his disappearance.
They said things like: "What's next? Adam? We'll just have to start calling him Jared-Dylan-Adam." and "If he can't keep his name straight, he must be an ax murderer."
Clearly, they were on to something.
The girl planned to chalk this event up to one of those "party trick" stories with a few awesome plot twists and just move on with her life.
And then, just like that, the boy reappeared in her spot by the window in the library once again. He was obviously ignoring the unspoken rule about separation of assets, i.e. the cozy spot by the window to the right of the elevators on the third floor, which he forwent by ignoring her text and changing his names like a chameleon changes colors. The nerve of him.
As she casually combed the stacks past him, gathering intel to report back to the carpool mates, she noticed that he was reading the book. HER book. His stature was relaxed as he thumbed through it's pages, as if he was waiting to be noticed. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, so she begrudgingly trudged her way to the other side of the floor away from her beloved window seat and her coveted sling-back salmon pink chair, all the while muttering under her breath just exactly what she thought of that boy -- whatever his name was.
Three days later, her phone buzzed with a text message from the person previously known as "Dyla the Microphone Killa." He had finished the book. How nice.
As a hail mary, for the sake of the story alone, she texted back: "Is this Jared or Dylan?" At the very least, she was going to nail down his name and take back her spot in the library before she put this encounter to rest.
Nancy Drew had taught her never to allow a mystery to go unsolved. So grab the magnifying glass, because this girl was going to beat the boy at his own game.
