i retch for u 2

The wind turned chilly and blew hard—whirling crumpled news sheets, lifting skirts, and causing shrieks all around. I was hurrying towards the lift so I could be home before the sky collapsed in torrents and ruin my Friday-the-13th single pink rose. And there he was, almost hidden by his jacket, backpack and boxes, cutting across my path.

"Wish me luck for tomorrow," he half-whispered.

"Hey! Oh, yes..." I paused in my stride to smile at him. I just had to. “You'll be grand!”

This was the eve of The Day--the carrying out of the plan we had hatched on that fateful bus ride. He would tell her how he felt... on Valentine's Day. To be honest, when I heard his intention, I had to bite my tongue from saying why not on Friday the 13th and make your declaration horror-themed? It would amuse Cathy, if anything. But Friday the 13th is too gloom-and-doomish and might follow the Law of Attraction. We can't afford that with this boy's kind of love.

I thought it wouldn't be that hopeless really. They share something in common--a creative mind. She draws; he writes. Turns out, she usually asks him to check out her pieces for his opinion. When he told me that, I looked at the boy with renewed respect. Cathy had requested me to critique one of her art-stories as an entry to a competition, and he pointed out the same flaws I saw in that work.

"I know what she likes. One doesn't gush over Cathy's work. No, that wouldn't impress her. I tell her what I see is wrong in her work and she appreciates that!" He beamed proudly.

It seemed that although they don't hang out that often, they chat regularly. HOPE (in capitals) just rose another notch. 

"I'm freaking out over what to give her on Valentine's day," he said. "I want to knit her a shawl. She loves to travel, you see. She's just been to Spain last December. So I think it would be nice to give her something she can use when she travels... something I made myself."

That was it. I had become the boy's official cheerleader. I looked at him squatting in front of me, slightly swaying with the bus' movement, sincerity and absolute adoration shining in his eyes. How many boys would knit a shawl for a girl? No one had ever knitted a shawl for me. (That's because you never wear one, said my inner goddess-with-bad-hair. But you get the point.)

"That's a marvelous idea. She would love that."

"Ahhhh! But it would take too long! For the shawl I have in mind--I'd have to knit a whole month non-stop!"

Thirty days of knitting doesn't sound that steep for the love of your life, I thought, wryly. Then I realised Valentine's day would be a week from now.

"That's why I thought of giving her flowers instead," he added. "But it wouldn't be worth her."

We looked at each other. The boy so hopefully in love; and I so gullible and always the sucker for breaking hearts that I was on the verge of offering to help him knit...even if I didn't know how to! Then I sat up, hit by a sudden bright idea.

"Why don't you give her a book instead? Cathy would love that! I can help you choose." 

"But I already gave her one for her birthday... along with a poem I've made for her." He smiled, his face taking on a sudden wistful look. "She hugged me, you know, when she read the poem I made. I was so surprised I almost had a heart attack."

I sighed. I wanted to tell him then to drop the whole romantic-grand-gesture idea, to just ask her to be his girl. But they were seventeen. You can't cheat seventeen-year olds out of their grand gestures—they’re the cheesy toppings for memories that would warm old, wrinkled hearts 60 years from now.

"You know, she said something to me which I have long since kept in my heart," he continued dreamily. "She told me that she hoped one day we could work together. I’d write the stories, she'd do the illustration."

"THAT'S IT!" I cried out, startling the squatting boy so badly he almost fell on his butt. "Pick your favourite among her gallery of paintings, make a story out of them, print and bind the whole thing, and give it to her! That way, you have something that contains her art and your words--both special to the two of you. And you don't have to spend much either!"

You should have seen the pure delight breaking out on his face. He jumped up and grinned widely as if he had just discovered the source of eternal life... or the leakage to the semester exams.

"You don't have much time. Will you be able to do it in a few days?" I warned. "We're off to camp and you'll be swamped with loads of make-up work when we get back." 

"I can do it. I can work all night if I have to!" he said. 

I told you, this boy could be a keeper.

"And I have already rehearsed in front of the mirror."

"Rehearsed what?" I asked, puzzled.

"What I'll say to her. Should I say ‘will you be my girlfriend’, or ‘will you please be my girlfriend’?"

 Jeee-sus. I pondered on this life-and-death dilemma for a moment, and nudged the boy sitting next to me. “What do you think?”

“No ‘please’. Just ‘will you be my girlfriend’,” he whispered and rolled his eyes, he had just broken up with his long-time bae and the conversation he was forced to listen to must sound like baby-talk to him. 

But the lovesick puppy in front of me suddenly sank to his knees, a look of complete fear on his face. To my horror, he started retching again. I quickly shoved a water bottle at his face.

"Stop getting yourself worked up, I told you. At this rate you won't be able to say anything at all!" I pointed out firmly.

"I can't help it, man," he gagged, "the whole thought makes me nervous (gag). Do you think I'd need a drink before I see her?" Gag. Gag.

"Yeah. That will probably help. Don't get wasted, though. Just a shot to calm your nerves."

"What should I have? Tequila? (gag) Vodka? Whiskey?"

He gagged.

"Look... there's no point scaring yourself shitless before anything happens. Take this one step at a time. Work on your project first. And think positive!" I slapped his back. Hard. "What would you do if she said yes to your question?"

The besotted boy's face lit up again. He was beginning to look like a Christmas tree--blinking high and low. It was stressing me out.

"I'd probably scream and jump! I'd probably have that heart attack!" He enthused, already carried away by the imagined joy.

"Then hold on to that possibility and feeling all throughout until that day, ok?" I said gently. "And don't jump." Jesus.

"Thank you," he said seriously. 

"Don't thank me. You'll have to do all the hard work." 

And either carry a ripped heart, or be the happiest teenager in the world

And today he would know.