Chapter 3: Mix Tapes, Mascara, and Mixed Signals

Logged: WILLOW_W1SHES — Sept. 27th, 2005
Private Blog. Don’t print this. Don’t forward this. Just don’t.

💋 Lip gloss: Strawberry Sparkle (Claire’s, obviously)
💅 Nails: glossy pink tips — no chips, because chips = weakness.

— — —

Today I gave Simon his USB back.

Picture me: rhinestone miniskirt, kitten heels clicking down the hall like I owned the MTV red carpet. I tapped his shoulder, held it out, and lied through my teeth: “Don’t worry, I didn’t open it.”

He just said, “Thanks.” No smile. No joke. Not even a sarcastic eyebrow like the ones I spend hours perfecting in the mirror. He just… walked away.

Cue me laughing with my friends like it meant nothing, while my heart was doing a full Panic! at the Disco drum solo.

— — —

Later in Study Hall, I caught him doodling little guitars in his notebook. He folded the page, stuffed it in his backpack. No one noticed except me. And maybe the sentient vending machine.

Meanwhile I was MSN-searching “how to casually compliment a boy without sounding like Lindsay Lohan in Freaky Friday.” Spoiler: useless.

— — —

Confession: I burned his playlist onto a blank CD last night. Labeled it: For Nobody. It’s unreal — Joy Division deep cuts, a Yeah Yeah Yeahs live bootleg, even a scratchy Cure track that sounds like it was recorded from the bathroom. Plus his own stuff, like “Graveyard Disco,” which is half horror-score, half dance track, all genius. I listened on repeat while rewatching Halloween (the original, not the sequel disaster) and painting my toes glitter red. Balance.

— — —

On the outside, though? Still the girl everyone stares at in the lunch hall. The one who enforces seating charts like it’s Mean Girls: Space Edition. Today Jess and Becca begged me to teach them my “effortless messy bun” (translation: 10 sprays of glitter hairspray and three YouTube tutorials buffering on dial-up). They’ll never know that underneath it all, I’ve got AFI lyrics Sharpied on my arm and scrubbed off before Advisory.

— — —

The kicker? I found a note in the library under his sheet music pile. Not even a sentence. Just three words:

“Stop pretending, Willow.”

It hit harder than the breakdown in Helena. Like—who gave him the right to see through me? I’m supposed to be untouchable, the girl who can destroy a reputation with one eye-roll. And yet here I am, hiding in my room, looping his playlist, writing this blog like it’s my own horror movie diary.

— — —

If you’re out there — blasting Fall Out Boy in secret, sneaking Fangoria mags under your bed, pretending your life is a glossy Seventeen spread when it’s really a My Chemical Romance B-side — just know: you’re not alone.

I see you.
Even if I can’t say it out loud yet.

— WILLOW XX