Irony With a Side of Sarcasm

Irony with a Side of Sarcasm
Katelyn Wallace
Word Count: 1500

Rosalie filched Ashley's cell phone from the open pocket in her bag and promptly began scrolling through her received text messages. She quickly found what she was looking for, a string of messages from James about Rosalie's birthday party Friday night. God, she was such a masochist. Why did she do this to herself?
She scanned the messages, desperately looking for some hint; some whisper even, that James had even noticed her. Then she read it. Six words. Six seemingly inoffensive words. Six words that caused her small, seventeen year old world to come crashing down around her.
"Yeah, Rosalie's sister is a hottie."
Rosalie should have known. She should have guessed. Everyone liked Emma more. All the boys thought she was, in James' words, "a hottie." And why shouldn't they? Emma was the pinnacle of pinup perfection. A lovely little size four with a full "C" and big blue eyes. Rosalie was an elephant in comparison. Never mind that Emma was a vapid conformist. Never mind that she wasted half her life applying products to her face because she had nothing else to offer. And never mind that she had no backbone, no will, no shred of personality independent of the people around her. And never mind that Rosalie loved him - had loved him for an effective forever - and would continue loving him until her teenage years were over. Never mind that her heart was breaking.
Rosalie put the cell phone down. It was cold outside so the library was crowded with people who normally ate lunch in the courtyard. Rosalie was filled with an irrational and intense disgust for all of them. They stood there; carefree and ignorant of the severe personal pain Rosalie was experiencing. She lowered her red hair covered head onto her arms and tried not to cry. Ashley slid into the seat next to her and began babbling about something that in lighter circumstances Rosalie would have found amusing.
Ashley broke off from her steady stream of trivial anecdotes. "You okay?"
"I'm fine. Just contemplating the best way to kill myself," Rosalie replied.
"That's a dark thought."
      "Yeah, well, that's what people do in the face of perpetually unrequited love."
"Have you reached a decision on how?"
      "I think I'm going to hang myself in a white dress. That's the most poetic."
      "I think a strong case can be made for poison."
"Haven't thought about that."
      The bell rang, interrupting the disturbingly lighthearted and morbid conversation. Rosalie got up reluctantly and trudged out of the sanctuary that was the library. Half of her, the rational part, wanted to go home and curl up in the fetal position and watch America's Next Top Model for the next seven hours, but the other, masochistic, bad, irrational part wanted to go to her next class. That it was her only class with James made it both the best and the worst of English classes.
She opened the door to room 231 and there he stood, in all his 6'4", five o'clock shadow at two pm glory. If it caught you off guard, it could knock you breathless. Rosalie quietly took her seat behind him. He bounced over, always happy, always miraculously carefree. That was part of his attraction. She was amazed that a person could be so happy, so utterly unaffected by the horrors of the world around him.
"Hey, Rosalie," he said.
Rosalie knew it was pointless to fight the symptoms of her helpless-lovestruck-ness by now, so she just let them come. Her heart pounded against her trachea, she forgot about words, and her face got very hot and her feet got very cold.
"Hey, James," she managed to choke out.
That was the entirety of their interaction for the next forty-five minutes as James turned his attention to ‘Bubble Breaker' on his Crackberry. This was his one unattractive quality. Try as she might, she could not excuse his drug like addiction to the stupid phone with a keyboard apparently meant for leprechauns.
They passed the period in their usual anonymity, until, at 1:02 pm, James turned around. His thick brown hair had fallen into his eyes and Rosalie had the self-destructive urge to push it out of the way for him. She sat on her hands to stop herself.
"Your party was fun, Friday," he said.
"Thanks," she replied. Thanks? She was so boring. Did she truly have nothing better to offer than some over used monosyllable that did nothing to showcase her many talents and attractive qualities? Lord knew chances to talk to Apollo incarnate were rare enough and Rosalie had to make the best of them. "Thanks" was not making the best.
"Yeah, your sister is really nice."
      Oh, no. Please, God, no.
"Do you think you could give me her cell phone number or something? I would really like to call her. Did she say anything about me?"
Rosalie stared. She stared because the part of her brain that normally took care of vocal abilities had been commandeered to accommodate her excess and racing thoughts.
So he thought Emma was hot, that was one thing, but her cell phone number? James had never called Rosalie. Besides, what were they going to talk about? Makeup?
Hair care products? The virtues of Vogue over Instyle? Crappy "Indie" Bands that all sounded the same and had no production value? Rosalie was sure James would find that a riveting conversation. The irony was, Rosalie and James would have plenty to talk about. They both watched Brit Hume on FoxNews, they agreed on foreign policy, and they both thought Nickelback sucked (but was amusing all the same). They were made for each other, and not in some teenage, I found my three month soul mate type of way, but in a real, life changing, even if we don't end up together forever I will remember you and tell my children stories about how we slept on the hood of your car in the park parking lot that one July and my husband will be kind of jealous when we meet at our ten year reunion type way. Rosalie knew it. She knew it so well that the knowledge physically hurt.
"What, is she with someone or something?" James asked, shaking Rosalie back to reality.
"I...uh...well...no," she stuttered.
"Then you can give me her number," he prodded.
"Sure," Rosalie muttered.
"You all right?" James asked, noting the alarming tears welling in Rosalie's eyes.
"Fine," she murmured noncommittally, and she discreetly slipped out of the room.
Once in the hall, she leaned against the faux-brick wall and drew in a deep breath. Her first priority was to get her tears under control, because if they started falling, her nose would turn red and it would just be all downhill from there.
She knew she was overreacting. He was just a boy, after all. Granted, he was a tall, lovely, broad-shouldered, as-good-as-they-get-boy, but still just a boy. The depth of her emotions was entirely unwarranted. Really, she just needed to get a grip.
Rosalie's attempts at maintaining control then failed. A torrent of emotion drowned her and every negative feeling triggered by that one, innocent text message was let loose to pummel her fragile psyche. She felt her fear of being undesirable, and of never equaling her sister, her desperate and unfulfilled desire to feel arms around her, and her need for a love that parents and friend can't give wash over her afresh as she sat and sobbed quietly in the 200s hallway.
The door creaked open and James stepped out. It was official. God hated her.
"Hey, Mrs. Moore asked me to check on you," he said, tactfully ignoring her crimson, runny nose and streaky, salt stained makeup.
Rosalie gave him a shaky and thoroughly unconvincing smile. "I'm good."
      "Uh-huh," James said, sliding down to sit next to her. "What's up?"
"Nothing. I'm just a crazy, overemotional girl," Rosalie replied in an unsuccessful attempt at breeziness.
"Yeah, sorry sweetheart, but I'm not buying," he said, putting a companionable arm around her shoulders.
Rosalie was struck with the irony of the moment. The very cause (or the trigger at least) to all this emotional anguish was the very one who was trying to comfort her. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.
"Is there anyone I need to beat up?" he asked, halfway serious.
She laughed. "No."
"Is there anything I can do?"
      If only he knew.
"No."
"You sure?"
Should she tell him? What did she have to lose? What if there was a chance, no matter how small, that he felt the same way? Was it worth it? Did she have the guts?
      "Yeah, I'm sure."
"Okay," he replied, standing up. He offered her a hand and she stood, too.
Rosalie began wiping at the makeup that was streaked across her face.
"Don't worry. You're gorgeous," James assured her.
"Gorgeous?"...here we go again.