Having a cute boy climb up to your balcony and knock on your window late at night may seem painfully romantic in those crappy teen movies, but in real life it's sort of annoying.
It's eleven at night and my hair is a mess and my face is clear of my minimal daily make-up. I'm wearing ratty old gym shorts from my school in Ohio and a shirt from last years blood drive that is about ten sizes to big on me.
"Can I help you?" I snap as I raise the window. He smirks and then climbs inside, pushing past me.
"Don't act like you aren't thrilled to see me," he says in his signature deep voice that makes me melt a little bit every time I hear it.
"You caught me. My excitement is just bubbling over," I reply, my words coated with sarcasm. He smiles and leans a bit closer to my face than I am comfortable with. I can feel his warm inhalation on my cheek.
"Keep me company tonight."
"No? You won't even grace me with a more creatively worded refusal?" he asks, his right eyebrow furrowed inquisitively. For a moment the reason for my quick refusal escapes me, but as he lowers his eyebrow to where it normally sits and I return to my logical mindset, I remember the big English test that I have first period tomorrow, "what if I say please?"
I stare into his eyes for what seems like minutes, but is only milliseconds in reality. His eyes beg and I know that he wants me to say yes just as much as I want to say yes. I'm disappointed at how much my self-control has been lacking lately.
"Fine," I say, "let's go."
He smiles at his victory and then looks me over, "You wearing that?" he asks. I look down, reminded of my sloppy attire and I suddenly feel a bit self-conscious. As much as it tears me apart inside to say it, I actually somewhat care about Patrick Verona's opinion of me.
"No….no, of course not," I stutter as I proceed toward the bathroom to change into something more decent, "I'll throw something else on."
"Kat," I hear from behind me. It beckons me to turn around so I do. The hard-to-read, tough-guy expression that normally occupies Patrick's face has been replaced by one that is much more kind.
"It's just cold out," he replies, having picked up on the fact that his question had slighted me. I nod understandingly and continue on my mission to find more flattering and thermal attire.
When I return, I have not only changed into jeans and a crimson sweatshirt, but I have also run a brush through my hair and applied some powder to my face.
"Ready?" I ask, nervously fiddling with the cuff of my sweater.
"After you," he motions for the window behind him, which still stands open. I cock my head and raise an eyebrow at him distrustfully. He responds with a confused look, "what?"
"You just want to check me out as I climb through the window."
"Maybe," he says, "or maybe I'm just trying to be gentlemanly."
"You go first."
"Are we really arguing about this?"
"No. Go first."
He shakes his head--I'm assuming at the fact that I am making such a "crazy" demand--and then climbs out the window before me. Despite how much I don't completely hate this guy, I refuse to let him think I am just a piece of ass.