Little Women and Me - By Lauren Baratz-Logsted Page 0,1

I’m his proxy Charlotte. Meanwhile, I’ve had a thing for Jackson all year, but I haven’t let him know, because if he knew, he’d be uncomfortable talking with me about Charlotte and then I would get to spend no time with him whatsoever. I’ve been biding my time, waiting for him to see that I would make a much better girlfriend than Charlotte would.

True, on the surface, he and Charlotte have more in common, like both being involved with sports, while I tend to be more cerebral; like both being tall and gorgeous, while I am somewhat less than. Still, I know I’m meant for Jackson. And Jackson’s meant for me. Sometimes these things don’t make sense to other people, but then, sometimes, a girl just knows. It’s the way I feel when I see him and I don’t see how I can feel what I feel without him ever feeling the same way back. Now it’s just a matter of getting Charlotte out of the way.

Unfortunately, biding my time has not been working out so well for me thus far. Jackson has yet to realize that Charlotte’s all wrong for him and that I’m all right. I mean, who’s been metaphorically holding his hand and eating salad while he’s been mooning over Charlotte? I’ll tell you one thing: it hasn’t been Charlotte. It’s been me, playing the gal pal, the good buddy, the supportive listener.

But as I say, that hasn’t been working out, so it’s time for me to take matters into my own hands.

“Did you talk to Charlotte last night?” Jackson asks eagerly.

“I did,” I say neutrally.

“And?” he asks, still eager.

Here’s what I was supposed to be asking Charlotte about: I was supposed to ask her, on Jackson’s behalf, if there was any chance she might like him. It was all my idea.

Oh, and who does Charlotte like, if I like Jackson and Jackson likes Charlotte? Why, she likes Jackson, of course. Who wouldn’t? After all, he’s got that whole architectural-Europe thing going on. But Charlotte doesn’t know that Jackson likes her, because she always sees him eating lunch with me, and I certainly haven’t told her, nor did I ask her The Question last night.

“I’m sorry,” I say now, feigning sadness, “but she said no. As a matter of fact, she likes someone else.”

This last inspired tidbit snaps him out of sadness and into surprise.

“Who?” he says. “I never see her hanging with any one particular guy regularly.”

“Charlotte likes …,” I start, but then I’m stumped. I hadn’t planned this far ahead. “Charlotte likes …” I scan the dining hall quickly, spot Charlotte standing in line waiting for her pizza, with her perfect long black hair. Right behind Charlotte and her perfect long black hair is Boyd Tarquin. As far as I can tell, they don’t even know each other all that well, since he’s a senior. Still, I get another inspiration. He’s standing really closely behind her, probably eager to get his pizza. This could work.

“Boyd Tarquin,” I say. “She likes Boyd Tarquin. And he likes her.”

“Boyd Tarquin?” Jackson says in equal parts shock and disgust.

“See?” I say, giving a chin nod toward the waiting pizza line. “There they are together now.”

Jackson looks just in time to see Boyd reach across the counter to accept his pizza from the server. As Boyd reaches, his elbow grazes Charlotte’s arm and they turn to each other, exchange words we can’t hear. He probably said, “Excuse me,” and she probably said, “No problem,” but it certainly looks intimate from here.

“Huh.” Jackson looks deflated. “I never would have guessed.” He sighs. “I guess maybe it’s time for me to accept the inevitable and move on.”

Yes. Yes! He’s finally going to turn his attention to me, see what’s been right under his nose all this time: me. Which is doubly true, because I’m short. So what if it took a little lie or two or three to get me here? I wait, eagerly, for Jackson to come to his senses. I’m sure when he does, it’ll be just like a Taylor Swift song.

Jackson brightens suddenly.

Jackson brightening suddenly—that must be a good sign!

Jackson speaks.

“What do you think my chances are with Anne?” Jackson says.

“Anne?” I’m so thunderstruck, I drop my salad fork. “Who is Anne?”

“Your little sister. Anne. I know she’s only in eighth grade now, but next year she’ll be in Upper School with us. I can wait. I’ll be a junior, she’ll be a freshman—not too big an age difference.