The night after Drake and I broke up in an almost amusingly cheesy romantic movie fashion, I snuggled into the deep chasm of my couch to drown my feelings in an Al Pacino movie marathon. What better way to detoxify your brain than counting the numerous effenhiemers uttered by Tony Montana?

Absolutely nothing in my opinion.

And just as Michael Corleone was about to assume supreme underworld power, my mother and father came laughing and stumbling into the house.

They had been at some engagement party of some college friend or so and so and yada yada. I had been cordially uninvited probably because of the more than proficient amount of alcohol that had quite obviously been served and was the reason for my parents blushing faces and absurd giggles.

"Have a good time?" I asked them, craning my neck around to watch them curiously over the back of the couch as they attempted, fruitlessly I might add, to remove their shoes and coats.

My mother choked on a rather terrifying chuckle and fanned at her face, "The party was boring." And then she tripped on her heel and nearly ended up sprawled across the rug.

My father caught her clumsily and nearly crushed her under his weight in his attempt to save her from a severe bruising, "I had forgotten how much I loathe Brett Jenkins."

"Psh." My mother sputtered and scrunched up her face distastefully, kicking her shoe off and into the living room where it landed about three feet from the couch, "Brett is boooooriiiinnng!"

I smiled at them and reached for the remote to pause my movie so I could devote all of my attention to their awkward, tipsy dance toward the stairwell.

"But he knows his liquor." She continued and pointed a finger straight at me, "He knows his liquor." She insisted. I nodded, wide eyed and she nodded back in what I assumed then and still assume now was satisfaction that I believed her fervent story.

My father slung an arm around my mother and helped her up the first few steps, having quite a difficult time with it being that there was no one left to help him.

"The brandy saved the whole damn party." He exclaimed profusely and tilted sideways against the railing. It let out a relatively loud creak that made me debate insisting they sleep on the couch instead of risk breaking the stairs.

"It'll probably save the whole damn marriage too!" My mother screeched, letting out a ridiculously loud howl of a laugh. My father immediately joined in and laid an almost embarrassing kiss on her mouth.

"They aren't like us." My father sighed between surprisingly chaste kisses. My mom sighed and squeezed his cheek.

"I love you." She giggled. He gave her another kiss in response and they continued on their journey up the treacherous stairs.

"Goodnight, Lilly, my love!" My mother shouted down behind them and my dad gave a half mumbled 'goodnight, Princess' as he tossed his shoe down the stairs.

I let my head rest against the couch and stared after them. They may have been pretty drunk, but it was still plain and easy to see that they were in love. Even after nineteen years of marriage, they were still insanely crazy about each other.

My parents were living proof of love.

But given my own experiences with anything remotely related to the aforementioned emotion, I had been having a very hard time believing in it period.

Of course, I was feeling it. I hated it, but I was feeling it.

Was it really possible that love could be so pure and beautiful like with my parents and yet so wretched and painful for me?

I let out a long, unhappy sigh and turned back to the TV.

As I made my way into the school that Monday, I had an overwhelming feeling of dread pass through my body. Just knowing that I would be without someone to hide behind when Oliver passed in the crowded hallways made my stomach drop and my legs turn instinctively toward the bathroom in case I needed to vomit.

"Lilly, did you get notes last week in Chemistry?" Mitchel asked as he crept up behind me. I glared at him over my shoulder and forced myself to turn that miniscule millimeter away from the bathroom and toward my locker.

"Isn't it customary to begin with 'hello, Lilly, how are you? the weather is particularly nice today, '" I blinked at him sporadically and twisted the combination lock.

Mitchel just stared at me. As if he didn't understand a thing I said. Then he smirked and tugged his hat down over one eye, "Hello, Lilly. How are you? The weather is particularly nice today."

I smiled approvingly, "Hello, Mitchy, I am utterly fantastic, and the weather is oppressingly nice today isn't it?"

"So the notes?"

I sighed and reached up to the top shelf in my locker, "Why didn't you take any? You were there on Friday."

"I was distracted."

"With what?"

"I was texting Summer." He blushed and accepted the notebook I offered.

Another gagging example of a happy couple. It would be so much easier if everyone were outright miserable right along with me. But noooo they just all had to go and be happy and in love. And it just had to work out for them, didn't it?

But not me.

"So I heard through the grapevine that you and the atomic beefcake broke up."

I squinted my eyes at Mitchel and slipped the shoulder strap of my bag over my head. He may have very unorthodox ways of expressing himself, but he also must have sensed my discomfort and felt the responsibility to change the subject.

Sort of.

Come to think of it. . . he did a pretty shitty job of it.

I sighed and closed the locker, "Yea, Friday after school."

"Why?"

"It wasn't working out. Our views on Janet Jackson are far too different."

Mitchel laughed, "Let me guess, Drake was irrevocably pro breast pop."

"You might think so, but you'd be surprised."

I started toward my first hour class with Mitchel in tow, babbling quietly about the movie he and Summer had gone to see that weekend and how this weekend I should go to a concert with them. I nodded and smiled and laughed all the while consciously searching the halls for Oliver. Hoping that if he came around a corner I could duck behind Mitchel or the water fountain or maybe that fat foreign boy would happen along at the exact opportune moment again and all would be well. But instead of Oliver the first person I saw was Alexis.

And Nick.

Holding hands and laughing.

And again I fought the urge to either puke or cry.

To this day I can't decide which was more overwhelming.

I just didn't see why it was so hard for me to have that. Why couldn't I make Oliver understand? Or make myself understand? Why couldn't I be the one to make the first move toward reconciliation? Why couldn't I have tried just a little harder with Drake? Why did I even think that that would have been an option?

"You okay?" Mitchel asked. I shook my head and tore my eyes off of Alexis and Nick.

"I'm just thinking." I said softly.

Mitchel eyed me carefully, "Look, this whole thing sucks."

I glanced at him but couldn't meet his eyes.

"For all of us." He sighed and scratched at his head thoughtfully, "But no one expects you to be the first to move."

I stared at him. How did he read my mind like that?

Mitchel smiled at me, "We just . . . hope that everything gets easier for you. That things work out somehow for you." He reached up and gave my arm a squeeze, "Both of you."

I nodded and smiled tiredly as we made our way into the crowded classroom.

Two hours later I was feeling unbelievably exhausted and emotionally drained from not only physically dodging every possible encounter with Oliver but shutting myself off from all coupley moments that might make me want to crawl into a black hole and die.

I paused at my locker and stared down at the lock, the numbers started to run together and I almost opted to just pass out rather than try and decipher my combination. I let my head fall against the cool aluminum and contemplated the benefits of sleep verses gym class exercise.

"Lilly?"

I heard the voice of a girl behind me and didn't move, praying that I could just disintegrate into my locker and she would turn around and walk away wondering 'where the fuck did she go?'

"Lilly."

Damn, she was persistent.

"Huh?" I mumbled, my face against the wall.

I felt a soft tap on my shoulder, "You're Lilly Truscott, right?"

I turned my head to see a younger girl watching me expectantly. Her brown hair was pulled back in an almost adolescent-esque ponytail but her outfit screamed the song 'I Wanna Be A Supermodel'.

She smiled, "Of course you are. I'd recognize you from a mile away. Drake only showed me your Homecoming picture ten thousand times."

I frowned and stood up straight, "You know Drake?"

"Yea."

"Aren't you like . . . thirteen or something?"

"Sixteen actually." She corrected calmly, "I'm a sophomore."

I nodded understandingly, "Huh . . . I always knew there was something shady about him but I still never pegged him for a cradle robber."

"He's not." She shifted the books in her arm, "We're not dating."

"Ah, I see, keeping it on the D.L., eh?" I wiggled my eyebrows and winked at her like a co-conspirator.

She gave me a sarcastic smile, "It's less complicated. I'm his sister."

My stupid smile vanished and I glanced from side to side, making sure no one else was audience to my idiocy, "So I just stuck my foot in my mouth then?"

"Remotely, yea."

"My bad."

The girl laughed and tossed her ponytail, "Shit happens."

I nodded and rocked back and forth awkwardly, unsure of where this conversation was meant to go or what her purpose was in confronting me. I was trying to decide whether or not running was going to be necessary, but before I could make that decision, she moved into my only escape route. So I clicked my tongue and smiled at her, "So . . . I'm Lilly."

"Yes, and I'm Whitney."

"Whitney." I snapped my fingers, "Ok, yea I knew that actually."

"Uh huh."

She didn't appear to believe me.

Semi-insulted by this, I shoved my hands into my pockets, "So what's the dileo?"

Whitney quirked her eyebrow at me, "The dileo?"

"You act like you don't know what I mean."

She gave me an appraising look, "Drake said you were a little out there . . . " She shook her head, "I had no idea."

"He was always such a sweet talker." I fluttered my eyelashes and turned to my locker.

As I turned the locked deliberately, Whitney leaned against the locker beside mine, "Speaking of my brother . . . "

Oh boy.

"I just want you to know that he really cares about you."

I opened my locker and faced her, "I know that and I---"

"He's not such a bad guy. Kinda dumb, I know---"

"Well---"

"---a bit of a meathead---"

"Maybe---"

"---he can sure be an asshole---"

"Whitney---"

"---but my point is . . . " She paused for a breath and I relaxed a little because I had begun to become concerned for her health, "I've known Drake for a long time, sixteen years as a matter of fact, and I've never seen him this torn up over a relationship gone wrong."

I waited a moment to make sure she had finished this time before leaning against my own locker and crossing my arms, "'Gone wrong' is a bit of an understatement." I paused, "Of course 'relationship' is a bit of an exaggeration as a matter of fact."

Whitney mimicked my crossed arms, "I kind of noticed as a matter of fact."

"I suppose it was relatively obvious as a matter of fact."

"It never appeared to be one hundred percent mutual."

I moved back into my locker and stuffed my notebook into the shelf, "I'm still shocked that it ever seemed even eighty percent mutual."

"Maybe seventy-five." Whitney mused thoughtfully.

"I had my money on forty, really."

"I just wanted you to know that he's not all bad." She insisted calmly.

I smiled and assured her, "I know that."

"I'm just making sure." She sighed and straightened, "I didn't want you to have broken up with him because you thought he was all ass and no heart or something like that."

"You're a fabu sister."

Whitney gave me that quizzical look again, "Fabu?"

"I know no one's said it since the eighties but I'd like to bring it back."

"I dont think anyone's said it, ever."

"The correct response it 'thank you'." I told her, widening my eyes and nodding slowly.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

And thinking the conversation was over I closed my locker and turned to go.

"So Oliver Oken, huh?"

I froze in place.

It sounded as if I was very wrong.

" . . . what?"

Not my best work, but I had been in quite the slump lately and 'what' seemed to almost work every time.

"Well you dumped my brother for him, didn't you?"

I looked at Whitney in what I'm sure came off as pure shock and some well placed dread. Then I ran a hand through my hair and did my best impression of someone being casual.

"'For' is a relative term."

"But that's what happened, isn't it?" She pressed, "You guys fell for each other?"

I glanced down the hall nervously, "There in lies the real mystery."

"I don't understand."

I laughed dismally, "Join the club, sweetie."

Whitney frowned as if this whole thing was ridiculous, "If the two of you like each other then what's the problem?"

As if it was that simple.

It wasn't.

Right?

I shook my head, "It's complicated."

"I'm sixteen not six." Whitney crossed her arms again and jutted out her hip, "Give me a little more credit than that?"

I smiled involuntarily at her indignation, "Okay, but have you seen every teen movie ever made starring Jennifer Love Hewitt?"

"Fortunately not."

I sighed and shook my head in mock disappointment, "Well, so far my dilemma is following the basic plotline of Can't Hardly Wait. Except I'm the lovesick semi-nerdy boy and Oliver is J-Love. But my fool proof letter got lost somewhere in a big box of packing peanuts." I paused and ran through the movie in my mind, "And there's no obscenely short whitey, wanna be gangster making sexist wisecracks in the bathroom. Unless you count Nick, but . . . frankly I just don't think he looks good in goggles."

Whitney just stared at me, open mouthed with a look of awe and, if I'm not mistaken, a bit of admiration on her face, "Wow."

"That's it?" I asked huffily, "Do you have any idea how long it took me to put that analogy together?"

"I kind of thought you were just pulling it out of your ass as you went along."

I scowled at her, "Cheeky monkey."

She laughed out loud, "Ok, another wow, I never thought anyone would ever call me that."

I nodded in agreement, "I never thought I would ever call anyone that."

"First time for everything." Whitney chuckled, clearly amused.

"Most things anyway."

She shook her head, still a bit baffled, "So you're in love with Oliver Oken."

I sighed for the millionth time that day, "To put it mildly."

"But there's some huge dilemma."

"Gargantuan."

She narrowed her eyes at me, "I thought you guys were friends. I used to see you two together all the time."

"It's all part of the ever thickening plot."

"So you fell in love with your best friend." Whitney leaned back against the lockers and looked at me, reflectively, "And just when things started to, seemingly, go your way, the world began to simultaneously crumble from under your feet."

This sixteen year old girl had just put into very simple words exactly what I hadn't seemed to be able to for almost five months.

All I could do was nod.

Her face softened considerably, "It all sounds so terrible. I'm sorry."

I shrugged, wiping at my eyes in fear of an eruption, "It's an unfair world Winnifred Beagle."

Whitney blinked rapidly at me, "Pardon?"

I immediately launched into another ridiculous monologue:

"Winnifred Beagle is an imaginary stuffed platypus I tell all my problems to. She very rarely has any answers, but it's nice to just talk, to get it all out of my system." I explained quietly, taking a moment to reflect on the story before frowning and giving her a shocked look, "Who the hell am I kidding? Winnifred Beagle never has any answers. She's stuffed, and imaginary . . . not to mention the fact that she's a platypus."

"That." Whitney began, "Was the single most bizarre thing I have ever been privy to hearing."

I bowed my head, "I aim to please."

"And apparently shock and slightly disturb."

"When the moment's right."

Whitney shook her head slowly at me, probably debating whether or not I was entirely for real. Then she closed her gaping mouth and stood up, taking a step toward me, "So if you happen across my brother in your insane travels, could you say hi?"

I pulled my hood over my head, "I'll scream it at the top of my lungs."

"Thank you." Whitney smiled and turned to go, but stopped and turned back, "Can I make a plot related suggestion?"

I shrugged a little helplessly, "I can't see how it would hurt." I answered honestly.

She watched me for a long moment before taking a quick breath and speaking, "Talk to him." She said simply, "Tell him how you feel before it's too late." Then she laughed lightly, "That may sound really dark and ominous, but . . . I really believe that love is rare. Not to mention true, honest friendship." She met my eyes, "You should talk to Oliver."

I maintained our eye contact for a long time before I narrowed my eyes at her and cocked my head to the side, "Sixteen?" I asked suspiciously.

Whitney grinned, "And one quarter."

"You're wise beyond your years."

"I'm like a Shoulin monk."

I jumped, as if given an electric shock, "Speaking of peaceful, nonviolent protests, I'm late for P.E."

"Obviously your favorite." Whitney gestured to my wrecked sneakers.

"Totally, so if you'll excuse me, I have to go not play wiffleball." I gave her a curtsy and took a few steps down the hall.

Whitney returned the goofy gesture, "Good luck with your plot decoding." She began walking away backwards, "I hope you make it."

I stopped and have her a genuine and grateful smile, "Thank you." I said softly. She nodded and spun around to jog toward her class.

I watched her disappear into the sea of bodies and let a long, deep breath out of my body.

I wonder if Whitney writes fan-fiction .

Late that night, probably more along the lines of three a.m. actually, I sat in my room, cross-legged on the floor, staring at my telephone.

Little Whitney's words kept spinning in my head.

So far no one, although extremely helpful and caring, had told me so plainly to talk to him. Had put into words something so simple that I couldn't find any real reason not to give it a try.

Unless they had and I had merely missed it for fear of rationality screwing up my brooding.

There were no lights on in my room. I didn't want to be able to see myself falling apart over something as harmless as a telephone.

I reached forward timidly and picked up the receiver. The hollow dial tone echoed in my ear and I closed my eyes and pressed the first button.

I could still dial his number without even looking.

My finger hovered over the last digit, and I opened my eyes. That one more little number and the hardest part would be over. Then it was up to Oliver to answer.

But would he?

If my name scrawled across the screen would he ignore it? Would he be surprised and excited, or terrified? Or angry?

Of course I would never know unless I finished dialing.

I pressed down firmly on the last number and felt my heart stop beating as I listened to the ringing begin.

It rang once.

Twice.

And on the third ring there was a click, and that all too familiar voice, groggy with sleep or strained with lack thereof.

"Hello?"

Immediately I slammed the phone back down onto the cradle.

I panicked.

I didn't know what to say to him. Even as I dialed millions of feelings and expressions had flooded my mind, but the very instant I heard his voice, they all disappeared and I was left with nothing but terror.

I sat painfully still in the silence and darkness around me, staring again at the phone. I waited. Thinking and hoping that maybe he would call back.

I waited for so long my ankles began to ache from the pressure of my thighs crushing them to the hard floor, but I couldn't bring myself to move from that spot.

And then it rang.

I still couldn't bring myself to move.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

And no matter how many times it kept ringing I couldn't make my hand reach forward to pick it up.

Finally, after six rings, it stopped. And there was nothing but silence again.

I didn't wait for it to ring again. I got up off the floor and pulled the cord from the wall.