Emotion Girl

By Emma Sohan

"IT'S A CRUSH! It's just a crush. Thank God. It doesn't mean anything, and it goes away."

Jade likes emotions and can't tolerate boredom. Alex, the handsome quarterback on the football team, is an adrenaline junky. So two edgy characters have an edgy start to a relationship. (Alex: "She's more like the irritating kid sister you can't get rid of.") But they initiate a project to stop bullying, she has to be the mascot for the football, she goes with Alex on his various adventures, and . . . their relationship slowly grows and changes.

This unclassical romance is intertwined with an action story. Jade slowly develops the skills -- physical and emotional -- she and Alex will need to defend her school and then the House of Representatives. Includes humor. Y/A style but for all ages.

Some quotes:

So I'm living in this strange world of judo and karate and martial arts, and all of a sudden it includes dance. Which is bizarre. But I like bizarre. How am I supposed to get over whatever it is I feel for Alex?

Thank you, Alex, I owe you a lot. When you break my heart, I promise I'll still appreciate what you did for me.

If I was by myself, I would be on the plane heading home. No, I wouldn't even be here. Alex is my magic portal.

"Dr. Bell, every alarm bell in my head was going off. But if there's a guy in your high school with a rifle and shooting people, there is no Safe."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Sohan
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463339473

Emma Sohan

I write fiction, usually Y/A. I also write about punctuation and grammar, usually useful advice for writers but also rewriting the foundations of grammar.

Book preview

Emotion Girl

Published by Emma Sohan at Smashwords

Copyright 2021 Emma Sohan

My friends are discussing shoes. They're excited, enthused, sometimes appalled, sometimes thrilled to agree. I love sitting here at our lunch table, sopping up their emotions -- this is what I live for. But something's bothering Celeste. Ugh, I'll try talking with her later.

I look around the lunchroom and see a normal high school. There's silliness, intensity, posing, loneliness, kids just doing -- huh? What's with that one guy at the jock table? I can't read him. That's really strange.

Elaine pokes me and says, Jade -- grade on the Chemistry test. They switched topics.

98.

Tamara: I thought you always got 100, Jade.

Oh. Simmons took off two points for no name. He's on a name crusade.

Chenille: You didn't put your name on your test?

I never put my name on my tests. It's too boring? If I get a bad grade, I can claim it's not me.

They laugh. They have returned to the land of normalcy. I was just their escort, I hate normalcy. Something's wrong with me -- I know that -- but normalcy is so boring; there's no emotions.

One of the lunch monitors, Mr. Manuzio, is so painfully bored it hurts me to see; Mrs. Dennels is happily daydreaming; Mr. Sanford is in a foul mood. That guy at the jock table -- I still can't read him. So, strange but . . . interesting.

I turn off all of my thinking -- that's my trick for feeling more emotions -- and pay attention just to him. Everyone's listening to him as he talks, but he looks so comfortable. He's not acting confident and he's not trying to impress them. He's trying to . . . he's being . . . I don't know!

Still not thinking, I say to my friends, Excuse me, and stand up, walking over to the jock table and leaving my lunch behind. When I get there, I stand behind him and a little to his left. One-by-one all the guys at the table see me and stop talking, until everyone but him is silently looking at me.

We're all waiting. For him to notice me. Or do something.

Finally he turns around. Now everyone is staring at me. Does he want me to go away? Stay? Turn into a mermaid? I can't read anything. I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: Who the hell are you?

The jocks erupt in laughter and my thinking turns back on -- that was a stupid thing to say. And what am I doing here? Was I sleepwalking?

And then -- God, this is so predictable -- the catcalls start. "Who are you, bitch?, What planet are you from?, Language, language, Hey, another admirer for you, Alex." His name is Alex.

I feel like an idiot and I'm blushing -- seven big, confident guys all making fun of me. I would apologize and walk away -- or just walk away with no explanation -- and it would be one more Jade Story for people to tell.

But . . . he isn't laughing at me, he's smiling. A courteous smile? No, I think it's and amused smile. Damn him, he's being interesting.

And now he starts examining me. It's rude how much he's examining me . . . but I guess I asked for it. I stare back at him defiantly, hands at my side, letting him look. If he likes curves, I'm not curvy enough; if he likes thin, I'm too curvy. If he likes athletic, I'm not tall or strong enough; if he likes frail, I have too much muscle. My body is boringly normal -- I have nothing to interest him.

Why, oh why, am I letting him study me like this? Is he checking me out? Staring me down? Or just deciding what to do with me? This is so bizarre. I shift my weight and cross my arms on my chest. I like bizarre.

If he likes glamour, I don't do it. (I'm wearing jeans, boots, and a flowery pajama top. And I never wear makeup.) My nose and chin are normal size, so I'm not adorably cute; my cheek bones aren't high enough for elegant. There's nothing about me he could actually like. But that's not my problem.

All attention is on us. That's embarrassing, and it makes me anxious . . . but I love it. There's so many emotions; I'm so alive. But he doesn't care that he's the center of attention; I don't think he even notices.

At least there's nothing objectionable about me. I put my hands on my hips. Examine away, opaque jock boy. He's fascinating because he's so different. I mean, really! Who the hell is this guy? I need an explanation.

He nods his head once -- he's done staring? -- and points to an empty chair at the other side of the table. Sit.

That's so flagrantly rude! This is the perfect time to walk away, but he's still being interesting. I sit down, having no idea where this is going. Then -- still being completely unpredictable -- he turns his attention back to his friends and calmly restarts a conversation about the football team they're playing Friday night.

I'm puzzled at first about why he's doing that . . . then I'm upset because he's completely ignoring me . . . then finally I get angry -- he's intentionally being a jerk and disrespecting me. I don't exist in this conversation -- I know nothing about football, and no one asks my opinion about anything. So I have to sit helplessly while he makes conspicuously clear -- to everyone, including me -- that I don't belong here.

I'm so obviously the only female at this testosterone-filled table. I can't even cross my legs without drawing everyone's attention.

I feel anxious. I feel edgy. It's strange being both ignored and the center of attention. I try to take a calm breath, but I can't even do that without everyone at the table wondering what my breath meant.

Usually I'm just watching, but now I'm caught up in the drama of me, jock boy, and this absurd situation at his table. It's nice to feel my world expanding. I sigh happily (drawing everyone's momentary attention), then pretend to pay attention to their nonsensical conversation. But I'm studying him.

And waiting.

Lunchtime ends; their conversation wraps up, even though they apparently could talk football forever. Everyone but Alex leaves. I'm still waiting.

Alex stands up and finally looks at me like I'm the next item on his to-do list. I'm sitting comfortably with my hands in my lap; I'm not moving. Something has to come next. Doesn't it?

Maybe he'll just walk away -- I wouldn't blame him. But I want more. He's supposed to at least smile politely at me, but he doesn't, he's serious.

He looks at me. I look at him, it's my moment of truth. My hands clench I'm so nervous. He's trying to decide what to do with me. Finally he says . . . See ya. Tomorrow.

His words are casual, but he was intense. Was that a challenge? I shrug. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. He shrugs back at me -- maybe he cares and maybe he doesn't. Then he turns around and saunters away like I stopped existing.

I'm shaking.

I get up and walk unsteadily back to my table. One of my friends has already cleaned up my stuff and everyone is gone; I collapse into my chair. Why would I want to see him tomorrow? That doesn't make any sense.

He's a 12th grader but new to the school. He looks good -- tall, around 6 foot; strong but not beefed up; brown hair that needs a haircut, brown eyes, slightly crooked nose, and a model's jaw. He's a quarterback, whatever that is. He subtly controlled that table, introducing new topics and involving people by asking questions. Well, he didn't involve me, he ignored me. Which obviously was his agenda. Asshole.

But . . . he didn't show off to me, and he didn't show off to the other guys. There was no pretending to be someone he's not. He wasn't even pretending to be himself. And I couldn't predict a single thing he did. He was intensely interesting.

I feel . . . Oh shit, I thought I was nonsexual. I, Jade Wilson, am attracted to some guy who has ignored me, mistreated me, and said a total of four words to me.

This. Is. Not. Healthy.

But I already knew that about myself. My emotions right now are so -- ARGHH, suddenly I realize I'm late to class.

My father and I are eating dinner. Tonight it's pizza -- he doesn't care what I order for dinner and I was in a mood for pizza.

I met this guy at school today.

He keeps reading his physics article and I go back to reading my chemistry book.

But I can't concentrate. I guess I didn't really meet him.

Oh-oh, he noticed what I said. I didn't expect that. He puts his finger on the page where he was reading and asks, A paradox?

I don't know. I was just thinking out loud. It's not important. I shrug. I didn't want to actually talk about it.

He asks, a little anxiously, Can you resolve the paradox for me? My father's a theoretical physicist, one of the best. They prefer their paradoxes to be resolved.

I sat at his table during lunch. But he said a total of four words to me. I don't know if that counts as meeting him.

He thinks about what I said. What was your word count?

I think back. Five.

He starts to get nervous, thinks some more, then gets even more nervous. There's a lecture I'm supposed to give you when you become interested in boys.

The birds and the bees lecture? That's so far out of his comfort zone it would be in a different galaxy.

He smiles, embarrassed. Yes, that's the informal name for it. How did you know?

He can be that clueless. Don't worry, they covered that in school. I see his relief. While I have his attention, I try to keep the conversation going. What are you reading?

Exact Solutions of the Schrödinger Equation for the Position-Dependent Effective Mass Harmonic Oscillator.

Awesome. He goes back to reading, I stop my thinking and just feel. But there's nothing much to feel from him -- he's interested in his reading.

All I can feel is myself: I feel lost. "I don't know anything about liking guys. I never liked a guy before."

I look at him reading. He really is a nice person. He loves me. He cares for me. He just doesn't understand people, including me. I'm not complaining, I can usually deal with it.

I can't stop thinking about him. Why can't I stop?

I have friends, but they're do-with friends, not confide-in friends. Maybe I never had anything to confide? Sigh, I can try to look it up on the internet tonight.

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Dad: You seem distracted.

Alex: Don't act weird, Dad. You aren't even talking to me. How can I pay attention to you if you're not talking?

Dad: I meant you weren't paying attention to your food.

Alex: My dinner's fine, Dad. Marina's a great cook.

Dad: She is. I'll tell her you said that. But you're eating like a normal person instead of a ravenous bear. Hence, I deduce -- you must be thinking about something.

Alex: Deduce all you want, but I wasn't thinking about anything special. Just some girl I saw today.

Dad: "Aha. I want to hear about this Just Some Girl who's able to momentarily distract you from your food."

Alex: Can't help you. I don't know a thing about her.

Dad: You're supposed to be more observant than that.

Alex rolls his eyes. B cup, straight light ash blond hair in a ponytail, 5 foot 8 inches. She's gutsy, but she doesn't smile much. Are you happy now, Dad?

Dad: Better. You like blondes?

Alex: No, not really.

Dad: So she wasn't that attractive?

Alex: Dad, she looked okay, but I can do better. Is that what you wanted to know?

Dad: Is she nice?

Alex: Clueless. I didn't talk to her.

Dad: What, did you just see her in the hallway? And fell in love?

Alex: I'm not in love, Dad. When did I say I was in love? I don't even like her. She came up to me at my lunch table and asked me -- and I quote -- who the hell are you?

Dad: Hmmm. That's interesting.

Alex: Now you're getting it, Sherlock.

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IT'S A CRUSH! It's just a crush. Thank God. It doesn't mean anything, and it goes away. I'm so relieved. I've heard about crushes, of course, I just never felt one from the inside, so I didn't recognize it.

The most likely object of a secret crush is some handsome guy who's good in sports. Ughh, I picked the most likely guy in our high school to have a crush on. That's so embarrassing -- there could be a half-dozen of us having a crush on him. I hate normal and predictable.

But, one, I do like just experiencing this emotion. Now I know what it feels like, and the romance novels make a lot more sense. Now I can understand my friends better.

Two. When I imagine seeing Alex tomorrow, I get this jolt of pleasure. When I imagine him saying hi to me, I get an even bigger jolt of pleasure. I could get addicted to that pleasure.

Three, it's amazing that I can be attracted to someone I don't even know. How does the brain work to make that happen? I'm glad I get to experience this for a few days -- this is totally interesting.

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Someone is passing information to the Americans.

Who?

I do not know.

Find him. Stop him.

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Tuesday, Week 1

I try not to look over at his lunch table.

I should be paying attention to the conversation at my lunch table. But I'm obsessing about his table. The jock table.

All he said yesterday was that he would see me today. It seemed so momentous. Now it seems so trivial -- people say that all the time. And it was ambiguous. When I passed him in the hall this morning, I tried to act nonchalant, but he didn't even notice me. Or he was intentionally ignoring me? I've been obsessing about that noninteraction ever since.

Did he mean he would see me at lunch? There's an empty chair next to him. Is he saving that chair for me? I'm giddy! That open chair is like an invitation.

Or it's just an empty chair. Wishful thinking is one of the symptoms of a crush. Reality? He's not waving me over, or inviting me to sit with him. Or looking at me. Or acting like I in any way exist in this universe.

Do I have the nerve to just go over there and see if that chair is for me?

No. I'm not brave, I'm just sometimes crazy. I walked over there yesterday because I wasn't thinking, but now my thinking is working perfectly. If I go over there he'll probably just ask why I'm back again. Then I'll look like an idiot to everyone, I'll feel horrible, and I won't be able to live in the enjoyable fantasy of a crush.

I hear his voice, shouting something. I look over, but now they're all arguing and shouting. No doubt about football.

I don't like thinking about him, but I can't stop. This crush isn't enjoyable now at all; it's annoying and frustrating. It's actually painful. I wish it was gone.

Yesterday seemed momentous to me, but it wasn't momentous to him, I was just an annoying 11th grader who couldn't sit at her own table. Is there any reason he would want me at his table? Brilliant conversationalist? I'm not. Great personality? I just sat there. Attractive? He has to be able to find girls more attractive than me. So no, no, no, there's no reason for him to want me at his table.

This crush is ripping my self-esteem into tiny pieces.

What did you get on your history test, Jade?

Before today, I never wanted guys to pay attention to me, so I never noticed how inadequate I am. Now it's painfully obvious.

Rachel: Earth to Jade. Lin pokes me.

I look up. What?

Rachel: History test.

Oh. A 32.

Henrietta: Isn't that failing?

Yeah, but Mr. Zajac gave me a D.

Rachel: Why?

If I pass, he doesn't have to see me next year. I smile, they all laugh.

Anyway, I don't really want to listen to a jock conversation. Guys mostly don't show their emotions. Yeah, it's possible to find a chink in their emotional armor, but it's kind of like Luke Skywalker trying to destroy the Death Star -- you get one tiny opening for only a second, and you have to be a Jedi Master to actually get through to their emotion.

Now my table is talking about favorite desserts.

So my decision is obvious -- stay here. I for the last time look towards his table, and I can feel my heart speed up. Then I turn back to my friends. They're smiling and looking animated, so they must be enthusiastic and excited. But I can't feel those emotions, because I'm thinking about him.

Oops, everyone's looking at me and waiting for my answer. Cherry Cheesecake. They look surprised, then they laugh and return to their conversation, which apparently changed to complaining about today's lunch. I really should be paying attention to them -- they're my friends, not him.

I try to turn off my thinking and just feel. Mr. Manuzio -- can't read him. Mrs. Dennels -- can't read her. Mr. Sanford -- nothing. My friends at my table -- I still can't feel anything. Sigh. This sucks. Another symptom of a crush is fixating on the object of the crush. I can pick up only one feeling in the entire lunchroom, and that's my own -- I want him to ask me to sit at his table. I'm pathetic.

A guy starts to sit down next to Alex in the empty chair I'm coveting. I'm so disappointed. But then Alex says something to him and the guy sits at another place at the table. Does that mean something?

My table is quiet and everyone is looking at me again. I have no idea what the question was. Elaine repeats it: Am I going to the football game this Friday?

Why would I go to the football game? I never go to football games. I went to a football game last year. I didn't understand a thing and I couldn't see any reason to be there; I don't like being cold, and being cold isn't an emotion.

You never sat at the jock table either. That's Rachel. She's brave and she puts things together.

Me: That was a huge mistake.

Elaine: You should still come with us. It's fun. You'll like it.

Impossible to imagine. Thanks. But . . . I shrug. I won't be there. They know that.

And the conversation swirls back around, and I can't feel anything because I can't stop thinking about him. This is pointless. I stand up. Cynthia asks, Going somewhere?

Yeah. I pick up my lunch.

Elaine: Making another huge mistake?

Yeah.

I walk up behind him, stand in the same place, and I feel so small and useless and pitiful. Every guy at the table immediately stops talking and looks at me. Finally he looks back to me and . . . gives me a genuine smile. A wave of pleasure rolls through my body; this is definitely addictive. Then he pulls the empty chair out for me and says, Thanks for sitting with us.

I'm thrilled! This is what I dreamed! I put my tray down, Alex pushes my chair in as I sit. I feel so special.

Then my heart sinks as he directs the conversation back to the football game on TV last night. So I'm rejected again. This is subtler and less embarrassing than him just telling me to get lost, and I appreciate his pity. But my dream is shredded. I hate having this crush.

But I shouldn't be upset. I already did the calculations -- there's no reason for him to want me sitting at his table. I give up on being anything except ignored. These socially-unaware, egotistical jocks apparently care only about football. I knew that. Why did I sit here? I look at this guy I somehow have this crush on. He's handsome and confident, yeah, but he's just another jock.

I'm wasting my time here.

But if I go back to my table, I'll look like an idiot. So I'm trapped -- I've become a table decoration. I half-listen to their meaningless conversation while I pick at my lunch. And I start to get bored.

Yellow alert. Other people somehow survive boredom, but I can't, I have to do something. What I'm desperate, I turn off my thoughts and act on impulse. Imagine getting in a car, closing your eyes, and slamming your foot down on the accelerator. Whatever you did could be really exciting.

And probably really stupid too. But I'm desperate. Anyway, it doesn't make any difference what I do -- he doesn't care about me. And, to be honest, I don't really care about him either, I just have this temporary crush.

So, I let my thinking stop. I feel my world shrinking. It's just me inside my crazy mind, sitting next to this guy, his large, strong hand close to me. Is that part of my crush, even liking his hand? It's like a blank canvas, so close that I could draw a little star on his hand with my fingernail.

That reminds me of Van Gogh's The Starry Night. That's my all-time favorite painting. I draw some stars on the blank canvas with my fingernail, then begin the hard work of filling in the rest of the painting. I can't draw well, but it's just my fingernail and my imagination. How did Van Gogh get so much feeling into his paintings? He was insane. Was that his secret? Would I give up my sanity to be able to paint like him? Tough decision.

Probably not. But temporarily? I would. I try drawing the buildings with crazy intensity.

The table has gone quiet. Did they ask me a question? ARGHH! I'm at the jock table, and I was drawing on Alex's hand! SHIT! I pull my hand away from his and put it in my lap. Another Jade story. I have got to learn to keep my brain on.

He says to the table, "So much for talking about football. Women! They demand attention." He smiles, the guys laugh, and he has escorted them back to normalcy. I'm grateful for that; it was kind to me, temporarily ignoring his inappropriate gender stereotyping.

He says to me, with a nice smile, in a friendly voice, So . . .

So? And that is the first word I have said while actually sitting at this table.

Still in that patient, friendly voice, he says, "So. Who the hell are you?" The jocks roar with laughter. I can feel my crush somehow increasing.

Jade Wilson. I --

He interrupts. Hi Jade.

I scowl at this normalcy. I -- And, I don't know what to say next, most embarrassingly. Everything seems so boring and typical. There's nothing interesting about me.

You're speechless? Everyone laughs.

I couldn't think of anything interesting to say. I explain, I don't like to be boring.

He looks down at the hand I was drawing on. "That could explain a lot." Everyone laughs again while I turn red again.

He reaches down for his backpack and rummages around in it, getting something; we all watch patiently, like he's the king.

He's so extraordinarily different, and that's so sexy. If he was trying to be different, that would be boring. But he does it so effortlessly. Like there's the normal-box, and most people are inside the box, and some people occasionally make it outside the box. But he's never seen the box -- he doesn't know if he's inside or outside the box, and he doesn't care.

Finally he pulls out a pen and holds it up for everyone to see. He says to me, Try using this. And he lays his hand on the table, palm up and flat. Again, a canvas of skin. Offered to me.

I can't really draw.

Everyone can draw.

Jerk. You knew what I meant. I can't draw well.

I don't ask for a good drawing.

I should demure. I know that. I should at least draw something normal, or write words. But he found the chink in my armor -- I like bizarre. I start to draw The Starry Night on his palm with his pen.

He restarts the conversation, no doubt on football. Van Gogh wasn't trying to be different. I think he was trying to be normal but had no idea what normal was. His lines and colors look like he doesn't care and he was just painting carelessly. But then, when you see how everything fits together in this totally unpredictable way, you can see he cared intensely and knew exactly what he was doing.

So I try to put that into my drawing -- a kind of crazy unpredictable perfection.

I'm almost finished when I feel my right hand being softly lifted away from my drawing. I come out of my trance. Everyone's quiet, everyone's looking at me. Suddenly I realize I'm holding his wrist with my left hand. How did that happen? I feel the heat of his wrist on my fingers; then I jerk my left hand away, feeling like an idiot.

He smirks -- the first predictable thing I've seen him do -- and asks, What is it?

It's not very good. Arghh, saying that was so predictable.

I can see that. The table laughs at me. Except he doesn't laugh, he somehow just has a friendly, unreadable smile. No, he's amused again.

"I was trying to draw the painting The Starry Night by Van Gogh. He's my . . . I don't know. Idol. Hero. I can't walk by a painting of his. Instead I have to stop and study it and try to understand it. My father once timed me for thirty-seven minutes just standing in front of his painting Roses. He takes me to the National Gallery of Art twice a year to see --"

I'm babbling.

-- his paintings. Stop babbling, Jade.

Do you have a painting by Vango in your bedroom?

I sputter at the complete ridiculousness of that. You mean a poster?

A poster? Okay, do you have a poster of Vango?

No.

What about posters of football players? Do you have any of those?

The table laughs. I say, That was the worst guess I ever heard. They laugh again, this time at Alex. But he doesn't seem to mind. Or notice.

I'm going to look up Vango tonight. He keeps pronouncing it wrong, like it's one word with the accent on