I have a crush on this boy. He is gorgeous, with a beautiful smile that lights up the room. But he is never smiling at me. He is on another level, another plane of existence, where athletic accolades shower upon him and everyone wants to be his friend.
I am assigned to his group in German class (I think it is German class. Maybe it is another foreign language). I realize I am in a position to curry favor with him. I pull out a packet of Fizzwizz* popping candy that I happen to have in my purse.
His face lights up. “Fizzwizz!”
I attempt to open the bag — and the candy goes flying. Everywhere. It is all over the floor by my desk. He snickers. I die inside, try to play it casual, eat some candy out of the remnants of the bag. I hold it out to him.
“I don’t want it now,” he says.
I am mortified. A few minutes later, the bell rings, and when I stand up, my sneakers crackle as they hit the floor. Fizzwizz on my shoes. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Cringe. I walk down the hall, crackling with every step, my face flaming red. At my locker, I try to brush the candy off, but it is stuck in the crevices of my sneaker soles, and I am doomed. I will be late to class if I do not leave now. Snap. Crackle. Pop. People stare. I stare at the floor, at my shoes. I hear laughter. I want to go home and cry.
* Fizzwizz was a Pop Rocks knockoff.