"Generation X (Waxing Nostalgic)"

“Amelia?” Mr. Johnson asks. A murmur of giggles tells me that he might want to know the answer to something other than my name.


I shove my hand over the heart-covered loose-leaf. “Yes?”


“They don’t pay me enough,” Mr. Johnson mumbles under his breath before taking a sip of his coffee. “For the last time, where was Shakespeare born?”


“England,” I say, wondering why he’s wasting our time with such obvious, unimportant crap.


“Ah, Miss Fluchter, you are ever the genius, aren’t you? Now please remove the cotton from your ears or return to earth or do whatever needs to be done to that brain of yours and listen.” He sighs and takes another sip of his coffee.


“Stratford-Upon-Avon,” Meeka whispers to me from behind. Fortunately, Mr. Johnson is too occupied listening to himself moan about teenagers to notice.


In the middle of his tirade, I loudly interrupt him with Meeka’s answer.


The look of shock on his haggard face coincides with the bell ringing. “Maybe there’s hope for you Generation X-ers, after all. Dismissed,” he says before dipping his moustache into his mug.


“Thanks. I owe you,” I say to Meeka—the surprising second tier on my Cake of Happiness.


“Yeah, you do, Cowgirl.” She grabs her books and strides past me. “That’s why you’re going to help me get ready for my big date.” She wiggles her backside and smiles back at me. “Meet you outside!”


A week ago, Meeka dating Seth was a painful reminder that I didn’t have a someone. It didn’t matter that Seth was gay; it niggled me that Seth preferred to live in denial with Meeka instead of me. But that was before Anthony Cipriano passed me a note in chorus that said, “We should hang out some time.” He’d scribbled his phone number beside a smiley face that managed to zoom off the page and into my stomach. Anthony Cipriano: the third and sweetest tier on my Cake of Happiness.


Meeka knew all about Anthony. She’d noticed him first, lurking near our table—particularly whenever Seth was around. I think Anthony felt more comfortable with another boy at our table—two girls might be intimidating. And then there were a few hesitant waves, Anthony’s hand frozen mid-air by Catgirl’s snap of the head towards us. Each time he’d looked down—a child reprimanded by his mommy.


“Who’s the boy with the curly mop?” Meeka asked, diving into her salad.


Seth popped his head up quickly and returned to the infinitesimal chopping of a banana. Since asking Meeka out for this upcoming Saturday, Seth had lost the ability to converse—at least, around Meeka. It was almost like Meeka was a lottery ticket he was afraid to lose. I’d immediately thought of Grandma Ruth’s saying, “Words are silver, but silence is gold.” Maybe Seth was trying to remain golden for Meeka.


“Anthony Cipriano,” I said, slightly niggled at the imagery she’d used to describe his dark crown of thick ringlets.


“And who’s the vexed girl?” Meeka jutted her long neck at Catgirl.


“I don’t know.” But I was determined to find out.


Soon Anthony was a staple at our table, thanks to the social effort on Seth’s part. All week, Seth and Anthony talked up a storm, leaving me plenty of time to drool over Anthony without being desperately obvious.


Now I only needed the courage to dial his phone number.