Screw repetition. Screw the unoriginals. Screw, screw, screw. Said the virgin. My life. Anyway, back to repetition. Pine Woods Public Library. 12113 Maple Ridge Drive. Pine Woods, WI, 53220. I stamped and stamped and stamped so many unimportant slips of paper I thought I might collapse of insignificance. And I don’t even mean just important in the relative scheme of things, as in library promotions for local attractions such as the zoo and the downtown summer concert series would obviously not cure world hunger or global warming; I was fine with that. But honestly, I was shoved into the back room doing even the most insignificant of jobs of anyone in the greater vicinity of the larger room known as the children’s section of PWPL. Yes, I was only a library volunteer, so I wasn’t trusted to the highly important job of removing books from the hefty carts and placing them on the shelves, although illogically I was allowed to retrieve wanted items from the shelves themselves.

Now you might ask yourself, why is someone with such a voluminous and luscious vocabulary subjecting themselves to this kind of torture with no financial compensation? As eighteen-year-old Maddie Downs headed off to Northwestern University in the fall, you’d think that I could use the money and would stomp right out the door when finding the only appreciation for my work was the occasional smile and a box of semi-hardened cookies come December.

But no. I had a reason for signing up for this job and not inciting a library-sized revolution for said financial compensation. I had a reason for waking up at eight every Saturday morning instead of spending those precious morning hours at the beginning of every weekend making sweet love to my bed. I’m Maddie Downs, Pine Woods College Prep co-valedictorian. I’m the orb of logic in the solar system that is my life, the source of advice and comfort for many a cohort… Or a distant friend. I always have a reason.

Always.

At the beginning of my junior year, it was September perhaps. I found myself present at a football game. Now hold your horses, I know what you’re thinking. You’re yelling at sixteen-year-old Maddie, future valedictorian, for wasting her precious Friday night hours that could be spent studying or meditating or working out or doing some other thing to further perfect her visibly perfect life but sadly imperfect reality. But no. She was spending some time with her friends before junior year really got going, and no one was going to blame her for that.

Anyway, so the memory is pretty fuzzy, but all I really remember is sitting next to my friends, trying to make small talk with my homecoming date, a sophomore who didn’t really say much and made me feel awkward by association just by sitting next to him. I had just learned that due to my early October birthday and his late August date of birth, he was actually much closer to being two years my junior than just the one I had assumed, and the fact was only becoming increasingly evident with time spent together. I kept reminding myself that he was nice enough and it was only a few more weeks until I would be back to my outgoing and confident self. However, it was hard to assure myself of this when I recalled that I had only accepted his offer out of desperation and shock, seeing as I had always previously attended dances stag.

Before I knew what was happening, the game kicked in that I always like to call Party of Mutual Friends. Here’s how it works. You come to the football game with your best friend. You sit down with her alone, being the asocial hipsters that you are, just waiting for the people you already know to show up. A guy shows up that you’re fairly friendly with and you strike up a simple conversation. Soon enough, some guy he has math class with sits his butt down, you lust from afar from a few moments because he has undeniably perfect hair, then he goes back to return to his “real” friends. And as all games end, you’re left with only your best friend. Alone in the things to which you’re accustomed, never growing, only spinning like a lonely, lonely wheel. Third, fifth, seventh, ninth, I’d been them all. But never had I been part of a pair.

Before I tell you how this particular match of POMF went, I’ll describe the endgame. My best friend. Catherine Anders. She is just about one of the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen, and her smile doesn’t ruin her face like it does for some people. While I always jokingly tell people I was a baby model, a) because of my slightly pudgy nature and b) because it’s the truth, Catherine was able to model until the ripe old age of eight before the industry became too much for her and she took a much-needed vacation in the Bahamas. She had long brown hair like mine, although hers was straight as could be and always arranged in a gravity-defying puffadoodle on top of her head, while anytime I tried so much as to part my hair on the side, the static electricity of my wavy hair (darn oval-shaped follicles!) slightly irritated my scalp, and I was so done with trying to be girly for yet another reason.

So that’s her, and this is me. And I was about to encounter the best and worst days of my life, when out of the blue appears Michael Sanders. Now Michael Sanders had occasionally filled the POMF role of hot guy in math class, but I also knew him from the occasional jokes made by people in our relatively small class of ninety students, that “Sanders and Anders” would make a cute couple. I always dismissed the jokes as did Catherine since the two hardly knew each other, but I suppose the slightly nerdy air surrounding college prep students inhibited their ability to pass up a good rhyming opportunity.

Despite all this, I couldn’t help but feel anything but shocked when Michael Sanders sat down directly in front of me at the game, his shoulder brushing my bare calves as he sat. Thank God his shoulder wasn’t bare, or we would’ve had a serious tingle problem down in the nether regions of my legs.

The HCD (homecoming date) had once again proceeded to sit in a bout of silence, so in the battle of processions, I proceeded to introduce myself. “Hey, Michael. I’m Maddie, Catherine’s friend.” I tried to sound teasing, knowing that he’d heard the jokes just as many times as Catherine and I had.

“Oh, God, you’re not trying to set us up, are you?” He put his head in his hand and pretended to groan. I laughed. Although Catherine was currently in the bathroom or socializing or doing something or another, I was secretly relieved that he didn’t jump at the opportunity to date her like everybody else. There was something refreshing about the opportunity to discover someone as an individual rather than a slightly differentiated version of a model student at PWCP.

“Hey, Maddie.” I looked up. Of course, it was William Halstead. Known to his shelving compatriots as Will, this boy was the worst: an explosion of physical attractiveness coupled with kindness but just enough pain-in-the-buttery to question his sincerity at any given moment. In other words, hard to read, and logical Madeleine Marie Downs doesn’t like that. She doesn’t like that at all.

“Hey, Will. Come to brag about payday once more?” He actually did do that once, although I immediately felt bad about teasing him for it because someone once said his completely genuine excitement had made him delusional, something about the need to get his car fixed immediately. Seeing as this someone had been Shelving Sidekick Samuel, otherwise known as Will’s best friend, I wasn’t really sure what to believe, but I tried to give people the benefit of the doubt. But something about Will just made me want to forget all that and make him think the worst of me too, something I’m sure my counselor would tell me was a defense mechanism against the male gender or something of the sort.

“Actually I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to come get some froyo with Sam and I after work.”

The son-of-a-bitch. He knew this wasn’t “work” for me. “You mean after you bring home the bacon and I slave over it, right?”

“Oh, Maddie. Come on, that’s not what I meant. I categorize things in my head. To me, this is work. For me personally, I volunteer at nursing homes and the Humane Society. I forget that this place for you is a volunteer center.”
What a load of crap. He was always here. There was no way he volunteered.

“Why aren’t you asking anybody else besides Sam and me?” I stamped another piece of paper, this time really digging into the inkpad and pretending it was Michael’s… I mean Will’s face.

“Because to be honest, we just came up with the idea standing right over there,” he pointed to the shelves directly across from the back window of the back room we were in, “and you were the first one I saw. I mean, I would ask you to help me spread the word, but…” He gestured with his hands to indicate I was stuck back here for all eternity.

“No, thanks.” I stamped even harder and faster, trying to get done with the task so I could go home and watch whatever singing competition show was on tonight. Oh, right, it was summer. Reruns.

I stamped even harder.

“You know, it’s called volunteering for a reason.” He crossed his arms. “I mean, I assume you did it during the school year to fulfill some college prep requirement, but why are you still here?” It was the beginning of June, and my private school had held its graduation two weeks previous.

“You know, enough in my life is changing right now…” My voice wavered and I stopped. No need to get emotional in front of Will. Not that he would understand even if I trusted him enough to talk to him.

Will went to Pine Woods High, the public school equivalent of my school. Now you might have inferred from our continuous banter that Will and I were on similar levels of intelligence, so what made him unacceptable for PWCP and what made me valedictorian of said institution? Well, it’s actually pretty simple.

You know when you see those stories on the news of a whole bunch of factory workers winning the lottery but they all keep their jobs so as not to shut down the wonderful corporation for which they work? Well, the same thing happened in our town, but with the opposite ending of course. (I love endings. We’ll get to that later.) A whole bunch of factory workers won the lottery fifty years ago and all quit their jobs. However, instead of going on elaborate vacations to Hawaii or elsewhere with their winnings, they put up enough money to start Pine Woods College Preparatory High School due to their completely genuine support of education and not their desire for further nationwide news coverage, I’m certain. Anyway, that’s where I’m attending…. I attended. Because I’m smart, or something.

Anyway, PWCP cost about twelve grand a year to attend, and the only reason I could afford it was through various work study jobs and scholarships. Will was probably just from a family who figured that their kid was smart and could suck the marrow out of any education anywhere. I didn’t even know if he planned to go to college.

Will still had a week left of his senior year. “Shouldn’t you be studying for finals or something?”

He grinned. I hated it. “Nah, I only have two. Math and physics. And we all know how those are gonna go. It’s inevitable. Like many things in life.” He continued to smile and I continued to stamp. “You know, I work at a library for a reason,” he joked, like his preference for the liberal arts over the sciences and my status as a library volunteer somehow made us entirely compatible conversation partners.
“If you say the word ‘work’ one more time…”
“Fine, I’m outie. Meet us at Colder’s at noon. If you dare.”

No, I didn’t dare.

There was no reason to.

I got home and passed by the counter, keeping my keys snugly in the back pocket of my jeans. Why the hell did there seem to be some American law stating that “all citizens over the age of 18 must drop their keys only on a flat marble or wood surface upon arriving at his or her humble abode?” Was I the only one who noticed the obvious correlation between this universal habit and the universal habit of losing said keys? It was sad, really. Tragic, almost. Sadgic.

I was always the only one.
I also failed to stereotypically shout “Mom, I’m home!” or some horrible thing like that. Instead I proceeded to lounge on the couch, rifle through one of my favorite novels which laid on the table beside the couch (aka my bedside table), and flip through some of the television channels. But I can assure you. I. Was. Not. Depressed.

Not once had I considered inflicting any pain to my own body that wasn’t already there. This whole distraction from emotional pain via physical pain thing didn’t really make all that much sense to me, and if something was illogical, you could consider me automatically outie.

Come next Saturday, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t see this reaction coming. Like I said. Will Halstead. Hard to read. I wasn’t kidding.
“Why the hell didn’t you show up to Colder’s last Saturday?!”

“I didn’t see the point in hanging out with people I barely knew, and I was hungry for some real food. Sorry?” I had to admit I was thrown off that he actually seemed to have wanted me there, for some reason or another.

“Right.” He grinned. “Right, I’m just messing with you.” And just like that, he walked away. No retort like “Colder’s is real food!” or “Colder’s is the love of my life! How dare you insult my baby?”

His sincerity had never been more ambiguous, and it was really starting to piss me off.

“No, don’t worry. Just trying to provide you with some frame of reference to guide you through what I’m sure is an overwhelming social calendar.” What the hell? I usually kept it way more simple with people I was just meeting. But hey, maybe that was why I always epicly failed at small talk. Maybe I just had to be myself right off the bat. My full self.

“Yeah, I know. You’re Maddie Downs. My friend Tony, he knows you’re top of the class along with him.”

“Christ,” Henry said, one of our closer friends. “Are people already talking about that? We’re barely more than halfway through these precious high school years!” Philosophy and appreciation was his thing. People who didn’t know Henry better thought of him as an innocent little puppy, but people who could consider themselves some of his closest friends knew both the intellectual and dirty depths of his mind and instead viewed him as a jack-of-all-trades, a wild card if you will.

“Did I hear someone mention my buddy JC?” Catherine sat back down to join us. While she was only joking, her faith was actually really important to her, not that she was unwilling to make fun of herself for that fact. Her eyes fell upon Michael Sanders, and she rolled them without a second’s hesitation. “Michael! The love of my life! How are you, darling?”

We all laughed in slight surprise. While an extremely confident girl, we had always been under the impression that Catherine was slightly uncomfortable with the jokes about her and Michael. I, as her best friend, was aware that she wasn’t particularly attracted to him and was afraid that he would get the wrong idea.

Michael chuckled and swept his dark wavy hair back on his head. “I’m glad we’ve finally come to an understanding,” he said. It surprised me how straightforward and almost lackluster he seemed to be. I had always thought of him, based on my limited interactions with him, as having some explosive personality. I had thought he oozed of charm. But he was really just very normal. And I was completely okay with that.

“So Michael.”
“So Maddie.” Whoa. Screw everything I just said. He was grinning at me, totally teasing me. And without really being able to count himself among my friends, did this constitute as flirting? Or just flirtatious talking? Talking with a hint of flirtation? Or just… nothing at all.

I needed to think. As usual. “Well, I’m gonna go get a drink.” I placed my hands on my knees and stood up. “See ya, Dave.” Oh, by the way, the HCD had a name.

To my surprise, he smiled at me, got up and left and went back over to his sophomore friends. My jaw dropped as I placed my hand over my mouth. I almost laughed. Poor thing. I hadn’t meant for the rest of the night.

“Was it something you said?” Michael quipped. I shoved his shoulder, the physical contact surprising even myself. I wanted to do it again right away, but obviously that wouldn’t be logical.

“I should make you buy my drink just for saying that,” I chuckled.
“Fine.” He stood up. My jaw dropped once again. “And if you won’t let me, I could definitely use one myself. Let’s go.”

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I hated my yoga app more than I hated life itself. Well, I suppose that was only true during approximately 32.7% of my waking hours. (I have a bad habit of making up crap statistics.)

I looked down at the screen of my iPod Touch, fairly certain that no one had ever been able to make the depicted shape with four working limbs in the course of human history. Curious or not, I’ll describe it to you. Basically it involved going into plank pose, lifting up an opposing arm and leg, and reaching said hand backward to embrace said ankle. Miraculously, I was able to perform the feat for a few seconds on the third try. “Remember, the pose comes with practice,” the instructor reminded me.

“I don’t appreciate your slant alliteration!” I shouted into thin air.

“You know, I hear insane asylums actually serve decent pudding nowadays,” my sister said as she strolled into the kitchen.
“Haha, very funny,” I mumbled. Great, I would have to move this yoga sesh elsewhere.

“Also, I’m pretty sure slant alliteration is not a thing. That’s slant rhyme.”
“I know, I was trying to be clever and doing a pretty damn good job of it until you came around. Why don’t you just go screw yourself?”
“I should. I would probably burn more calories than you doing whatever messed-up aerial stretch you’re attempting to perform right now.”
I rolled my eyes. Somehow she had gotten better at combating me after the year away.

And of course, the rolling of the eyes threw off the delicate balance of my body as I flopped with zero grace to the ground, my stomach hitting the carpeted floor first. At least it wouldn’t have been as painful as on a yoga mat. What was the point of yoga mats anyway? If you were going to shower after working out, what was the point in investing any time and money in the purchase of a yoga mat just to prevent a little close contact with the floor? I for one appreciated the friction provided by my carpet.