The Irony Of Falling In Love With That Girl
Jack Barakat
Victoria’s POV
I’m rushing to finish my packing for the tour, stuffing wadded up jeans and wrinkled shirts into my blue luggage. Matt’s going to be here any minute to pick me up and I’m not even close to being ready. Suddenly the thought hits me that I might need to dress nicely on at least one occasion for any reason and I haven’t packed anything but jeans, shorts, t-shirts, and pajamas. I rack through my closet and pull out a few nice dresses, a mini skirt, and a couple of dressier tops. I stop at a black dress. It was a gift from Jacob, and it was kind of skimpy. The dress was tight and didn’t even reach my wrists if I put my hands at my sides. True, I have long arms, but still. The back is cut in a low V and the front is revealing to say the least. I’m debating on whether or not I should bring it along, just in case one of these band guys actually did catch my eye, but my thoughts are interrupted by a low whistle.
“Think you could pull that off?” I turn on my heels and a guy about my age and admittedly very attractive was standing directly behind me. He was wearing a Blink-182 shirt, skinny jeans, and had skunk dyed hair that stuck up in every direction.
“I’m trying to decide the same thing.” I say, looking at the guy instead of the dress.
“I think you could.” The guy says. I raise an amused eyebrow at him “Wear it with some heels and you’ll be all set.” I laugh and toss the dress into the bag with a pair of red heels.
“Since you’re standing in my bedroom giving me fashion advice, do you mind telling me who you are?” I ask, shamelessly shoving some bras into my bag. The guy’s eyes scan over them with equal lack of shame.
“Jack Barakat.” The guy extends his hand to me. “Guitarist for All Time Low. I see someone hasn’t done their research.” He looks at me skeptically and I roll my eyes.
“I’ve listened to a few songs.” I say coolly, “And I’ll admit, I’m a fan.” Actually, I’ve been listening to them nonstop all week, trying to get their music style down. And their music is right down my alley, just like Matt said. I frown. “Where’s Matt?”
“He had to deal with something with another member of the band and he sent me to get you.” Jack said, observing my disastrous room.
“Sorry he put that burden on you.” I joke, though there’s some honesty behind it. I’m relieved when Jack laughs.
“I volunteered.” Jack said. I actually feel kind of honored that someone would volunteer to spend time with me alone. I’m not exactly a social butterfly and I’m awkward alone with people, but Jack didn’t seem to notice. “And I’m glad I did, because you’re insanely hot.” I raise an eyebrow at Jack and smirk as calmly as I can. I almost want to fangirl, because it’s not everyday I’m called “insanely hot” by attractive guitarists of punk rock bands.
“You’re not bad yourself, Barakat.” I say smugly. I can’t believe my own confidence right now.
“You know, we have awhile before the guys are expecting us,” Jack is getting a little close to me now, and I’m more than just a little scared. “We could get to know each other a little better.” He’s leaning over me, his warm breath in my face, practically pushing me onto my bad.
“Get to know what? How each other’s tongues taste?” I step through the Victoria-sized gap between Jack and the bed to escape him, and Jack alternatively flops onto my bed, stomach first. I grab a few more shirts—Greenday, Sleeping With Sirens, The Beatles—to shove into my bag. Jack looks through them. “Nosey.” I mutter.
“You have sick taste in music.” Jack says, tossing my shirts back into the bag.
“So do you.” I say, gesturing to his Blink shirt.
“You like Blink?” Jack asks, his eyes widening. Now that was kind of cute.
“They’re my favorite,” I say, pulling a black Blink shirt from one of my drawers and tossing it into my bag. Finally, I close the luggage and zip it up. It zips no problem, since I packed pretty light.
*************************************************************************************
Jack and I are in the car and no one’s said a word so far, making two minutes feel like twenty.
Finally, Jack speaks up.
“Sorry about trying to get in your pants earlier.” Jack says, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m kind of a pervert. But I’m not a bad guy. And I’ve kind of got this thing for brunettes--” Jack trails off with a sly grin on his face.
“And blondes. And red heads. And any girl with any hair. Or no hair at all. Right?” I say. Jack laughs.
“Exactly. But in my mind there arefour types of girls—prudes, sluts, bitches, and a select, reserved group of cool girls.” I roll my eyes, very amused.
“Harsh.” I say, “Where do I fit in?”
“I don’t know yet. I think we can rule out slut, but--” before I know it, Jack has reached to the radio and begun blasting “All the Small Things”, which I start screaming along to. Jack does the same, and when the song is over, Jack turns the music down as he gives me a smile. There’s something in his smile—friendliness? Lust? Acceptance? “That was a test. And you passed.” Jack says.
“So what does that mean?” I ask, whipping my hair up into slipshod ponytail.
“Welcome to the cool kids group.” Jack grins, turning the music back up. Together, we sing along to Boxing Day. So far, I like this band. And I think I’ve made a new friend.
I’m rushing to finish my packing for the tour, stuffing wadded up jeans and wrinkled shirts into my blue luggage. Matt’s going to be here any minute to pick me up and I’m not even close to being ready. Suddenly the thought hits me that I might need to dress nicely on at least one occasion for any reason and I haven’t packed anything but jeans, shorts, t-shirts, and pajamas. I rack through my closet and pull out a few nice dresses, a mini skirt, and a couple of dressier tops. I stop at a black dress. It was a gift from Jacob, and it was kind of skimpy. The dress was tight and didn’t even reach my wrists if I put my hands at my sides. True, I have long arms, but still. The back is cut in a low V and the front is revealing to say the least. I’m debating on whether or not I should bring it along, just in case one of these band guys actually did catch my eye, but my thoughts are interrupted by a low whistle.
“Think you could pull that off?” I turn on my heels and a guy about my age and admittedly very attractive was standing directly behind me. He was wearing a Blink-182 shirt, skinny jeans, and had skunk dyed hair that stuck up in every direction.
“I’m trying to decide the same thing.” I say, looking at the guy instead of the dress.
“I think you could.” The guy says. I raise an amused eyebrow at him “Wear it with some heels and you’ll be all set.” I laugh and toss the dress into the bag with a pair of red heels.
“Since you’re standing in my bedroom giving me fashion advice, do you mind telling me who you are?” I ask, shamelessly shoving some bras into my bag. The guy’s eyes scan over them with equal lack of shame.
“Jack Barakat.” The guy extends his hand to me. “Guitarist for All Time Low. I see someone hasn’t done their research.” He looks at me skeptically and I roll my eyes.
“I’ve listened to a few songs.” I say coolly, “And I’ll admit, I’m a fan.” Actually, I’ve been listening to them nonstop all week, trying to get their music style down. And their music is right down my alley, just like Matt said. I frown. “Where’s Matt?”
“He had to deal with something with another member of the band and he sent me to get you.” Jack said, observing my disastrous room.
“Sorry he put that burden on you.” I joke, though there’s some honesty behind it. I’m relieved when Jack laughs.
“I volunteered.” Jack said. I actually feel kind of honored that someone would volunteer to spend time with me alone. I’m not exactly a social butterfly and I’m awkward alone with people, but Jack didn’t seem to notice. “And I’m glad I did, because you’re insanely hot.” I raise an eyebrow at Jack and smirk as calmly as I can. I almost want to fangirl, because it’s not everyday I’m called “insanely hot” by attractive guitarists of punk rock bands.
“You’re not bad yourself, Barakat.” I say smugly. I can’t believe my own confidence right now.
“You know, we have awhile before the guys are expecting us,” Jack is getting a little close to me now, and I’m more than just a little scared. “We could get to know each other a little better.” He’s leaning over me, his warm breath in my face, practically pushing me onto my bad.
“Get to know what? How each other’s tongues taste?” I step through the Victoria-sized gap between Jack and the bed to escape him, and Jack alternatively flops onto my bed, stomach first. I grab a few more shirts—Greenday, Sleeping With Sirens, The Beatles—to shove into my bag. Jack looks through them. “Nosey.” I mutter.
“You have sick taste in music.” Jack says, tossing my shirts back into the bag.
“So do you.” I say, gesturing to his Blink shirt.
“You like Blink?” Jack asks, his eyes widening. Now that was kind of cute.
“They’re my favorite,” I say, pulling a black Blink shirt from one of my drawers and tossing it into my bag. Finally, I close the luggage and zip it up. It zips no problem, since I packed pretty light.
*************************************************************************************
Jack and I are in the car and no one’s said a word so far, making two minutes feel like twenty.
Finally, Jack speaks up.
“Sorry about trying to get in your pants earlier.” Jack says, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m kind of a pervert. But I’m not a bad guy. And I’ve kind of got this thing for brunettes--” Jack trails off with a sly grin on his face.
“And blondes. And red heads. And any girl with any hair. Or no hair at all. Right?” I say. Jack laughs.
“Exactly. But in my mind there arefour types of girls—prudes, sluts, bitches, and a select, reserved group of cool girls.” I roll my eyes, very amused.
“Harsh.” I say, “Where do I fit in?”
“I don’t know yet. I think we can rule out slut, but--” before I know it, Jack has reached to the radio and begun blasting “All the Small Things”, which I start screaming along to. Jack does the same, and when the song is over, Jack turns the music down as he gives me a smile. There’s something in his smile—friendliness? Lust? Acceptance? “That was a test. And you passed.” Jack says.
“So what does that mean?” I ask, whipping my hair up into slipshod ponytail.
“Welcome to the cool kids group.” Jack grins, turning the music back up. Together, we sing along to Boxing Day. So far, I like this band. And I think I’ve made a new friend.
8/21/13