Bright Lights, Dark Nights by Stephen Emond Page A

potential troublemaker, so for now I was good.
    How we used this time differed. We’d count down the time, usually. “One minute and forty-five seconds. Minute and a half.” This was in between whatever small banter or school discussion we came up with. “Thirty seconds left,” Naomi said on Monday, and came up with an odd send-off. “Quick, say something profound. I’ll ponder it in class.”
    â€œThirty seconds till class,” Naomi said on Tuesday. “Quick, compliment me on my outfit.”
    â€œThat’s an amazing color combination,” I said. “You must really know your color combos.”
    â€œThirty seconds left,” she said on Wednesday. “Let’s touch pinkie fingers.”
    We pressed our pinkie fingers together, definitely our most out-there public admission of feelings of some kind. Thirty seconds felt longer than usual.
    â€œCan I get your phone number?” I asked. It was forward momentum from sharing funny memes on Facebook, and the brief visits between classes were feeling shorter and shorter.
    â€œHuh?” Naomi said. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” We broke the pinkie hold, and Naomi spun her backpack around and fished out a pen. She wrote it on my palm. “Are you going to call me?” she asked.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “That’s what I was thinking.” If my sweaty palms didn’t wash away her number first. “Is that okay?”
    â€œYeah, just maybe after seven, or eight, when I’m in my room,” Naomi said. “Of course it is.”
    I walked backward, keeping eye contact like a smooth movie star until I bumped into a girl who told me to watch where I was going.
    Naomi wasn’t the only one to find me between classes. I was on my way to my last class when I passed Lester at his locker. “Wally!” he called out. I was going to be late, but Lester had a bark that made you stop in your tracks. He’d make an excellent football coach or drill sergeant.
    â€œHey, Lester,” I said, turning around.
    â€œI have something for you,” Lester said, and reached into the top of his locker. He pulled out a CD in a square envelope. “You could probably get all this stuff pretty easily anyway, but I burned some music for you. The new Pusha T I was telling you about, some ASAP Rocky, Ferg. Give it a listen.”
    He handed me the CD. I never thought Lester Dooley would be talking to me in a populated hallway, let alone burning me music. This had really been some year already. “Thanks,” I said. “That’s awesome, I’ll check it out.”
    â€œSo, listen, none of my business, but what’s going on with you and Naomi?” Lester asked. Deflated the gesture a little. “Are you guys, like, a couple or what?”
    â€œUh…” I said. If I told him no, it sounded like she was fair game, which I guess she was. If I said yes, I’d be lying. And I didn’t know Lester well enough to tell him what I actually felt for Naomi. “Not really, I mean, not right now, no.”
    â€œBut you like her, though,” Lester said and didn’t ask. He smiled like he was saying “good for you,” but he wouldn’t be bringing it up unless he’d hoped the answer was no. “That’s awesome, man. Good luck. Keep me posted.”
    â€œYeah, sure,” I said.
    Lester closed his locker and grabbed his book bag. “Hey, let me know if you need any advice,” he said, and went on his way.
    *   *   *
    My first phone date with Naomi was on a Thursday evening, and we watched The Biggest Loser together. I called her shortly before eight, with not much in the way of conversation prepared. Little did I know that Naomi could have filled a few hours just talking about the show.
    â€œI need to get on there someday,” Naomi said. “I’m thinking maybe when I go to college, I’ll put on a lot of weight