Page 8 of Hey Girl

I try to remind myself what Ron had told us about her. It was social anxiety or something. To me, that’s always just translated to ‘super shy’ but the way she’s fidgeting with the end of her shirt while she stares at the ground, I reckon maybe there’s more to it.

I’m confused. Not just by the concept, but of how I’m reacting to it. To her. She’s so tiny and uneasy over there, like a field mouse that doesn’t stand a chance against any other animal in the forest, and while she’s yet to breathe a word at me, I somehow don’t think she’s rude. This is hard for her, and I feel this sudden urge to make her feel better. Safe, comfortable.

“I know I said it before, but I seriously love the concepts you came up with for the album cover.” Compliments help right? They make people feel good.

“Thanks,” she tells the floor in a low, but very sweet tone, and I nod encouragingly, even though she can’t see it.

“The stage design too, that’s going to look fuckin’ insane!” I say, apparently too excited as she seems to startle her. Shit.

Okay, safe. I need to make her feel safe. I’m not gonna jump into her arms and start singing Macarena, or spray her with silly string. I just need to make that clear to her.

“Um, I just want to say… I know you have trouble with new people, but you’re safe with me. I’ll never do anything to make you uncomfortable. Not deliberately.” She doesn’t lookup, but I see her pink lips part, and her expression changes as she straightens up a little bit from her hunch. She looks almost thoughtful. I think I’m on the right track, so I keep going. “In fact, if you’re having any trouble with anyone, I’d be happy to be someone you can come to, and I’ll smack ‘em around for ya.”

Her shoulders relax and the corners of her mouth pull up in a small but discernible…smile! She’s smiling! Yes! Ka-ching! I do an inner fist pump, feeling like a king, like the shy-girl-whisperer. Now we’re getting somewhere…

“Aww, there’s a bodacious smile,” I applaud affectionately and it pulls up a little higher. “See? I don’t bite, Becky.”

At that, her head snaps up and turns toward me. Did someone just hear a record scratch? Because I swear the soundtrack in my mind was playing a melodious tune on a flute with birdies chirping and shit a minute ago but now…

Her smile is still there, though it’s fallen some, but her eyes…they’re finally on me. Looking dead set into mine, in fact. “It’s Rebecca.” The words come out clear, concise and with an air of firm confidence. A complete about-face from what she was showing me seconds ago.

I’m lost for words as her gaze doesn’t leave mine. Nothing. No words in my head or coming out of my mouth.

That.Was.Hot.

The elevator dings, signaling her floor and it seems to snap her out of it. She hesitatingly looks away and tucks into herself again as she scurries out of the car, the doors closing behind her.

Le sigh…

My first instinct would normally be to shrug it off, but… Not this time. I find myself giving a shit, and have to fight the urge to go chasing down the hallway after her, tackle her to the floor like the highest paid NFL linebacker, and tearfully demand that she like me, damn it!

My phone rings to the tune of Freaky Boy in my back pocket and I retrieve it just before moving to straddle Bianca.

Relax, it’s my bike’s name.

The name Numbnuts lights up my screen and I swipe to answer, putting my ride home on pause as it’s been a few days since I’ve spoken to my little brother’s twinkie ass.

“Hey Sequoia,” I greet in a goofy, squeaky voice.

“Shut up, Crystal!” He fires back. We both were given hippy, crunchy names before we were even born. My mother was so sure I was going to be a girl however because her freaky, magical, pregnancy crystal told her so. When I came out sporting some definitive bait and tackle, however, she couldn’t quite let go of the name, so she simply shortened it. My middle name is Windsong though, so that’s cool.

“Yeah, whatever. What’s up, Pipsqueak?” I settle in, resting my helmet on my seat in front of me.

My brother is eight years younger than I am with a twiggy physique that he’s tried to overcompensate for by tatting the shit out of it and frosting his tips. It’s so cute.

“I’m on lunch between cases, so I only have a few minutes, but I was wondering if you could talk to your manager-”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!” He protests.

Oh, but I do.

“You’ve come up with a new ‘song’ that you want him to hear,” I let him hear both the air quotes and my eyeroll in my voice.

“It’s called Slip ‘n’ Slide my Ride,” he explains, going into sales-pitch mode.

“That’s disgusting and genius,” I remark.

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