When the chimes ring,
That's wind through her coat
The leaf scuffles,
And when the train calls
That's people going
Where you want to go
It's happened again. A creepy, immature boy who is nowhere near cool enough to be a theatre kid is after me.
On the way in, my phone's dead. I was too tired Friday night to turn it off before I went to bed.
"There's always mine," mumbles stunted, friendless, and ferociously ugly boy who was in my medieval history class last year. He raised his hand constantly and lisped passages of the book from memory. A girl abandons her suave novelist fiancé to marry his character. Maybe no other boys tried out.
My phone comes to life afterwards just long enough to give me hope. I lick the battery and quickly ask three friends.
"He-uh-y, you can use mine." Not quick enough. His phone's been in his jeans pocket. It's hot and clammy, the way I know his hands would be.
I call, give it back, thank him.
"He-uh-y, you said my name."
A mistake, I'm thinking. "Wh-uh-t's your name?"
I'm out the door as quick as possible. "S-uh-ee you next rehersal."