I don’t trust women with short hair. That may sound particular to you, but if you’ve been fooled by a new best friend and confidante who turned out to be a woman writing an investigative exposé for a local paper like I have, you’d be hesitant too. I mean, one day Paul comes into the locker room, flashes me his heaving breasts, tells me his name is really Paula and he’s a reporter for the Commonsville Tribune, and he loves me.
He–well, I guess–she, told me to read her article, because it would explain everything. But I couldn’t find it. The Commonsville Tribune? I mean, I guess you could get it at like specialty bookstores or something. I don’t know. I couldn’t find the story online. I don’t know what Paula wanted to say to me. Probably an apology. I mean, there are easier ways to apologize to someone.
Also, who put you up to this, Paula? You’re a professional reporter in her early 30s and you’re dressing up like a high school boy to write a tell-all piece about our football team? Why? We’re 5-8 this season. We’re a sub-par Junior Varsity football team, Paula. What’s the story? Also why did you insist on so many sleepovers? I’m 16 years old, Paula. I don’t know what kind of psychosexual mind games you’re orchestrating, but I’m into it.
Straight up, I am 16, and if you want to pick me up after school and do weird shit, I’m all about it. Football season is over. We didn’t make regionals. No one expected us to. Another reason why your article was ridiculous. But if you wanna kick it, like, my parents are going out of town to visit my sick aunt this weekend, and like you can come over, and I can get some weed from my buddy Dennis. Just hang out, you know?
Or whatever, haha, you know. Um. Or I can meet you wherever. My older brother lets me use his car sometimes, so if you want to hang out somewhere I can totally drive. And like, I don’t know, you know, so, uh, let me know what’s up, girl. Um. I mean, Paula. I don’t know where that came from, haha, so stupid. Silly. I was just being silly. Your boobs were so bomb, Paula. You got bomb boobs.
When we first met, and you were pretending to be a high school boy and losing yourself in admiration for me, compromising the integrity of your article, I thought you were kind of weird. I was like, “Hey, there’s something off about that new kid. He moved here out of nowhere, and when I asked what his last name was, he stuttered a bunch and then just said “Lastnam.” I was like, “Your last name is Lastnam?” And he was like, “Yeah.” And I was like, “Okay, Paul Lastnam it is.”
Then that other time you asked me to “put my pertinent information” in your “trapper keeper” and then flashed me the peace sign. And I was like “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” And when I said you should just friend me on Facebook you looked directly into the camera and shrugged your shoulders, as if it was a call back to a comic scene from earlier where you derided Facebook.
But now that I know you’re a sexy older woman willing to sleep with me—a 16-year-old second-string fullback for the Commonville High School junior varsity football team—I’m like, yeah. Okay. Whatever. Let’s do it.
I know I may seem young, but like, I’m like really mature for my age. Like sometimes I hang out with my older brother and his friends, and they’re like, “Oh, he’s just like one of us.” And they’re in college. So if we were to date or whatever, like, it’d be like dating someone in college. And that’s not weird. So. You know.
Listen, like, I love you? So. You know. Like I wrote you a song and shit. It’s called “Secrets.” Because like secrets and shit are all like getting in the way of how we feel about each other. And like there’s a lot of subtext and stuff. Like in Animal Farm. That’s like my favorite book we read this year. I’m super deep. Really deep. Deep up in them guts, girl.
Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I was just trying to seem cool in front of my friends. I’m not really like that though. I’m like super into feminism and stuff. Like, some of my friends are girls even. So. That’s pretty feminist right?
I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too. I never thought I’d be in love with my high school best friend. But I also didn’t think my high school best friend would turn out to be an attractive 30-something undercover reporter for a local, poorly circulated newspaper.
Love is unexpected sometimes. Too complex for simple rhymes. That’s a lyric from my song “Secrets.” Or should I say your song “Secrets.” Because it’s about you. Right, so, anyway, in conclusion: Totally cool with you tricking me for your story or whatever, and I just bought a condom, so if you want to do this thing: I’m in.