| What she doesn't know will kill you
What she doesn't know
will kill you
by Matt Brochu
November 21, 2003
You met her a few months ago, and somehow she managed to seep into your
subconscious like that "Suga how you get so fly" song. Just like you
have no clue who the hell sings it, you don't know why she's there. But she is,
whether you like it or not. You know her cell phone, her room phone. You can
dial her Aunt Doreen's house in West
Springfield (where she goes to do her laundry every
two weeks) faster than you can peck-out 911. But she doesn't know.
Her screenname, that generic one with her first name followed by three to five
random numbers or UMass, has its own category at the top of your buddy list.
Not only do you know what a "Buddy Alert" is, you've rigged your
computer to play "Fat Guy in a Little Coat" from "Tommy
Boy" every time her screen name changes from gray to black. Then her away
message comes down, and you have a decision to make. To IM or not to IM? These
are the ridiculous games that you play on a daily basis. But she doesn't know.
She's it. All right, so maybe not "it" it. Not necessarily Ms. Right,
but closer to Ms.
Right-up-there-with-Anna-Kournikova-and-Lizzie-McGuire-on-your-list-of-people-you'd-give-anything-to-be-stranded-with-on-a-broken-down-elevator.
But it's about more than that. When is it ever about more than that? Never. Not
like frilly white dress, overpriced catering, embarrassing drunk in-laws more,
but closer to UMass sweatpants, two D.P. Dough Roni Zonies, a futon and a movie
you have no interest in seeing more. But she doesn't know.
She's gorgeous, but gorgeous is an understatement. More like you're startled
every time you see her because you notice something new in a "Where's
Waldo" sort of way. More like you can't stop writing third grade run-on
sentences because you can't remotely begin to describe something ... someone
... so inherently amazing. But you're a writer. You can describe anything.
That's what you do: pictures to words, events to words, words to even better
words. But nothing seems right. More like you're afraid that if you stare at
her for too long, you'll prove your parents right: that yes, your face will
stick that way. But you wouldn't mind.
You wouldn't mind that the questioning, "Hello?" on the other end
makes you want to smile and throw up at the same time. You wouldn't mind
worrying about what to get her for her birthday and spending $300 when you only
have $17.50 and a Triple-A card to your name. You wouldn't mind that she left
your TV on and the blaring infomercials wake you up at 4 a.m. ... because it
gives you a chance to watch her sleep. You don't mind that you've slipped up
twice when you were hammered and hinted at how you feel, but she was too drunk
to remember. So she doesn't know.
Sure, she's pretty, but it's about more than that. You two connect. Anything
you throw at her, she can throw right back. You figured out what's going on in
that predictable head of hers in under five minutes, but something tells you
her heart would take about five years.
You remember everything she's ever said to you, and when that freaks her out
you blame it on your photographic memory (which is a lie, you have a 2.7 GPA).
You can't remember your teaching assistant's name, and you can't remember that
your Puffton rent check was due four days ago, yet you remember the middle name
of the kid who tripped her in fifth grade and gave her that cute little scar on
her shoulder. Maybe it's because you actually listen when she talks. When do
you actually listen? Never. But she doesn't know.
But she has a boyfriend. The kid is a tool, and you are not. He has no
redeeming qualities, and you have about 38, even when you're hung over. You
could kick his butt, and you've never been in a fight in your life. He treats
her like crap, and you would treat her like the princess she believed herself
to be on Halloween in 1988.
But she loves him. He wouldn't know what he had even if she slapped him across
the face and dumped him, but somehow she still loves him. And somehow she still
doesn't know.
Then, out of nowhere, she slaps him across the face and dumps him. She comes to
you. You've been there before, so you seem like the smartest guy on earth. She
cries, but your corny half-joke, half-compliment somehow gets a smile out of
her that almost makes you feel ashamed that you're the only one around who gets
to witness it. It looks like you might make her realize that all guys don't
deserve to have rocks thrown at them.
But nothing changes. She doesn't know. You get that library elevator feeling in
your stomach that she'll never know. You get that feeling that you'll be forced
to write a cheesy Collegian column about her that makes "Sleepless in Seattle" look like
"Girls Gone Wild."
You go to sleep. You wake up. She doesn't know. You're not in love. You're not
obsessed. You blame it on the fact that you just need to get some, but still,
it's about more than that. It would just be nice if once in your life, things
worked out the way you wanted them to.
So ___________, it's about time you know*.
Now cut this out, fill in her name, and give it to her, coward. Just let me
know how it works out.
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