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By Root 270 0

just to guarantee that I’ll have something to do on Saturday nights now that Hope is gone. Of course, everyone—my mom, my sister, the Clueless Crew, to name a few—thinks I’m insane for not jumping at the chance to become the girlfriend of the future captain of the football, basketball, and baseball teams. He’s already made varsity as a sophomore. (Well, baseball season hasn’t begun yet, but the varsity coach is already bodychecking Scotty into lockers whenever they meet in the halls. I’m told this is a good sign.) It’s a given that when he’s a senior he’ll be the PHS role model for strength, spirit, and sportsmanlike conduct. And like his predecessors, Scotty is sure to make empty promises about persuading the administration to get rid of our "embarrassing" mascot: The Seagull. (I’m apparently the only athlete who thinks it’s hilarious that our founding fathers chose a rat with wings as our school symbol.)

Personally, I find it a bit scary that Scotty is following in the Nike-clad footsteps of Rob Driscoll, his close personal friend and this year’s captain of the überjock triumvirate. Rob’s recent claim to fame is that he celebrated an away-game victory by persuading a freshman cheerleader to hide under his Seagulls varsity jacket and suck him off in the backseat of the bus. Go team, go.

But the biggest reason why I can’t go out with Scotty is because I’m way too busy being obsessed with a senior who doesn’t know I exist.

Paul Parlipiano and I have spoken exactly once. (He bumped into me on the buffet line at last year’s indoor track banquet. He said he was sorry. I giggled like an idiot, then dropped my plate of macaroni and cheese on the floor—too long after for the fumble to be the result of the collision.) Yet, I know he is the only one worthy of my virginity. He’s been accepted by early decision to Columbia University, so he’s supersmart. And when I see him without a shirt at track practice I’m overwhelmed by the urge to lick the sweat off his six-pack. Yum-yum.

Lately, I’ve been having a special Sweet Sixteen variation on my standard Paul-Parlipiano-and-I-get-stuck-in-an-enclosed-space-together-and-the-trauma-bonds-us-sexually-and-otherwise daydream. In this one, it’s my birthday and Paul Parlipiano and I have gotten locked inside the gym closet. (As always, how we got trapped is inconsequential.) At first, he’s none too happy to be in there with me of all people. And though I’m secretly thrilled, I pretend to be totally bummed out because it’s my Sweet Sixteen and who would want to spend a Sweet Sixteen trapped in a closet full of athletic equipment?

Eventually, he talks to me because we’ve been trapped in there for hours, and he’s already juggled the soccer ball long enough and there’s nothing more for him to do. Paul Parlipiano and I end up having what is the most fun, enlightening, intelligent, and all-around awesome conversation of both of our lives. Then, after a brief silence, he says,

"So is this still the worst birthday you’ve ever had?"

And I say, "No, not anymore."

And he says, "I can think of one way to make it even better."

And then he slowly walks over to me, cups my (totally zit-free) face in his hands and ever so gently kisses me on the lips. We break away for a brief moment, look each other in the eyes, and smile. We start kissing again, but with more passion. Then we tumble onto the gymnastic mat that is conveniently lying on the floor and have the sweetest sexual experience ever to occur within the hallowed halls of Pineville High.

What’s even more twisted is that I believe if I pray, acknowledging that I know it will never happen, it will somehow up the odds that this dream will come to fruition.

I am hopeless. (Ha. In more ways than one.)

But I don’t need demented daydreams to tell me that my obsession with Paul Parlipiano has gotten out of control. Today at track practice, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was jumping over hurdles. He was all smoothness and grace. He made it look easy—a sign of pure genius. OneTwoThreeAIR … OneTwoThreeAIR. I got so distracted by his poetry in motion