Shit. I should’ve sat on the balcony. It’s the first day of my big lecture class in Sanders Theatre and I’m regretting my seating arrangements, seeing all the hot boys sitting up there. I know I should be focused on the presentation in front of me, but I can’t help playing “Smash or Pass” in my head.
As my eyes scan the room, they stop on him: dirty blonde hair going every which way, eyes fighting hard to stay awake, long legs draped over the row in front of him. An athlete for sure. Doesn’t matter which sport, I want to take a ride on that scooter. I force myself to snap out of my daydream. He’d never notice me. He’s a balcony boy, I’m a ground-level girl.
Shit. He’s in my section. I can’t tell if my stomach is in knots out of nerves or because I just ate a bowl of chili and seven chocolate chip cookies from the dining hall. The TF wants to do an icebreaker. Drops of sweat start to surface on my forehead. Why is thinking of a good icebreaker response harder than the class itself? “Let’s go around and share our favorite ice cream flavor.” Fuck, what ice cream flavor will make me sound the sexiest?
Balcony boy shares his first. “Cookies and cream.” Perfect, I can make that for him. I’ll steal the Oreos from Flyby. He just needs to provide the cream.
It’s my turn. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I introduce myself. I lock eyes with him and say, “Chocolate. But I like it hard, not soft.” Here I am, at Harvard, making sex jokes about ice cream in an attempt to get a boy’s attention who doesn’t even know my name. I’m blowing it, and unfortunately not literally.
Shit. The TF assigned us in the same group for the upcoming project. I get a closer look at him—he’s wearing his Harvard athletics sweatshirt. I’m not sure what specific type of balls he plays with, but I know that I want to join. We go around and exchange phone numbers. He hands me his phone, our hands briskly touch. I’m never washing this hand again. I can’t believe he has my phone number and I have his. I know that it’s just for class, but a girl can dream.
It’s Friday night. All my roommates went out and I’m in bed working on my P-Set due at midnight. For every question I get done, I allow myself a 10 minute Tik Tok scroll. I’m in the middle of watching “Only eating Mcdonalds for a whole day” when a text notification pops up on the top of my screen. My heart sinks into my stomach. It’s from him. “Hey what r u doing tn? Wanna work on the project?” I almost pass out, but then I realize I wouldn’t be able to turn in my P-set unconscious. He didn’t text the group chat, he only texted me. Does balcony boy really want to do work on a Friday night or is there more to it? I have to find out for myself.
Shit. I told him I’d be there in 15. I grab my backpack and throw in chapstick, a mint, and my calculator. I shoot down some Pepto Bismol and I’m on my way. I scan my ID and enter into the unknown. Suddenly, I’m at his front door. I try to stop the nervous shakes to steady my hand so I can knock. The door opens. There’s the scooter, and there’s the balcony boy. He explains that one of his roommates is studying in the common room, so we should work in his single. The smell of four day old Bud Light and Axe body spray fill the air. He shuts his door behind me.
Sadly, he really does want to work on the project. But, an hour passes and suddenly he shuts his computer. “My brain is getting tired, let’s do something else.” He moves closer to me. My heart is racing and I can’t comprehend the reality of the situation. Am I still in a lecture daydream? I stop him before he gets too close. I say, “You don’t even know my name.” He halts, looking very confused. “Your name? I know your name. I just wish I knew more. I remember the first time I sat in lecture and looked down and saw you. I was struck. But, I knew you’d never talk to me. You’re just so smart. I sit on the stupid balcony. You sit on the ground-level.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. But, it was time to stop talking anyways.
Shit. How do I tell him I’m a virgin?