“You are so hot, you wanna go out?” The final line written on a torn piece of college ruled stationary. “April” written in neon pink ink, a miniature heart perfectly placed over the “I”, smiley face with a wink concluding the most terrifying note I have ever read. I fold the crumbled piece of paper and mix it amongst the pass due notices and local advertisements strewn all over the side hutch in the kitchen., I lean over the marble island hyperventilating, trying to process what I just read. I tear through the open satchel looking for glimpses of the blinding pink scribble to add more vigor to my pulsing anxiety attack.
Algebra equations, Cornel Notes and school announcements make up the rest of the paperwork shoved in the folds of his battered binder. That note was placed innocently in his bag; I never would have seen it except it floated to the ground when he threw the open backpack at me on the way to his room. I glance back at the hutch, wanting to read the words again, “You are so hot.” How is a twelve year old hot? I can’t, he can’t, HE IS NOT HOT!
The thunder of steps overtakes the house like a herd of pronghorn antelope. The stairs creak with the heft of his size seven Van black slip on shoes. “Mom, I need my backpack” He screams increasing my paranoia. I reply back eagerly, “Great, you are going to do your homework, right?”
Dumping the bag out, he rummages through the contents like a colony of ants at a picnic. “Can I help?” I meekly urge while he examines every piece of spiral bound torn paper. “Nope, I found it! It’s the new online code for Black Ops 2.”
The contents of the backpack are left covering the island as he scampers back upstairs. I glance over at the hutch again knowing the neon pink note will be lost to him forever.