Chapter Forty-Five

      “So, that’s how we met,” Trevor concluded, looking over to Mackenzie lovingly as she smiled back. I wanted to gag. Don’t get me wrong—the two made an attractive couple and seemed relatively compatible with one another, but, personally, I didn’t really have any burning desire to see them interact all couple-y right in front of me—especially in my house.

      “That is just so adorable!” my mother gushed, shaking her head as she glanced between the two for a moment.

      “Yeah, passing out drunk next to each other, on a stranger’s bed, only to wake up in the same position with a hangover is a really ‘adorable’ way to start out a relationship,” I mocked with an eye roll.

      “Liz, if you’re going to be negative, then you can just leave!” Monica snapped, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear that had fallen from her loose ponytail.

      “Whatever,” I huffed, placing my arms across my chest in an overlapped manner, slightly defiantly.

      “So, we heard about your sister, what about you, Dylan?” my mom turned over to her next victim who, for some unknown reason, was also seated in the front room of my house with his older sister and her boyfriend.

      Honestly, I didn’t even know how the situation had come to be. Dylan had called me, asking if I wanted to “shoot some hoops” with him. Being the social person that I wasn’t, I answered with a shaky, “Uh, sure,” and he then headed over to my house. Coincidentally, I then got a call from Trevor, who told me that he was on his way with Mackenzie to “crash at Casa de Turner.” Having failed out of Spanish (languages other than English weren’t really my thing) within the first week in seventh grade, I had not even the faintest clue as to what he was talking about. Mackenzie then proceeded to yell into the phone, “We’re coming over, Liz!” which made slightly more sense to me. Thus, I was somehow now stuck in a room with my mom, a boy I had kissed without the knowledge of my boyfriend, the boy’s sister who happened to date Eric prior to my relationship with him, and Trevor. Fun.

      “What about me?” Dylan questioned as I took a large bite from one of the heavenly chocolate chip cookies that Monica had made earlier in the day. She got off work early, so decided that the best way to spend that time was by baking enough batches of cookies to feel a small country.

      For my mom, baking was a stress reliever and something that had the simple ability to clam her. In all fairness, she spent the majority of her time interacting with anorexic models who were afraid to even go in the same room as a plate of butter, so I could see how baking was therapeutic for her. For me, though, I much preferred the ingestion process. Elizabeth Abigail Turner: EAT. My mom had to have known what she setting her kid up for when she named me something like that. It was fate, really.

      “I don’t know,” my mom said to Dylan slowly, scrutinizing his appearance before shrugging nonchalantly. “How old are? What are your hobbies? Do you wear boxers or briefs? How are you doing in school? Do you like school? What’s your favorite color? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you a virgin? Oh! Here’s a good one: Where are you going for college?”

      “Mom!” I scolded, aware that not everyone was comfortable with her boundary-less ways. “Sorry,” I apologized to the only slightly scarred-looking boy, “she’s one of those people that doesn’t filter what comes out of her mouth.”

      “It’s fine,” Dylan assured me carefully.

      “He’s going to join us for college,” Mackenzie piped up, gesturing between Trevor and her.

      “No, I don’t believe that I am,” Dylan protested strongly.

      “Aw! So you’re not going to come to the prestigious Westchester University for your four years of ‘high education’?” Trevor question sadly.

      “It’s higher education,” I mumbled.

      “Maybe to you,” Trevor quipped with a smirk.

      “Fuck, no!” Dylan shook his head as Trevor and I’s side conversation was occurring. “I’d rather go to a real prison than one made for city kids who partied a little too hard in their high school glory days.”

      “Throw twelve too many parties and then BAM! Everyone thinks you’re a criminal,” Trevor muttered with a sigh.

      “Oh, I don’t think you’re a criminal, babe!” Mackenzie attempted to console him.

      “So,” my mother began, taking helm of the conversation once again, “Dylan, where are you planning on attending school next year?”

      “I’m not,” Dylan said without missing a beat. Everyone in the room snapped their head over to him at the revelation, as both Mackenzie and I exclaimed, “What?” rather loudly. We waited for him to go on as a playful smirk met his lips. “Just kidding.”

      “That wasn’t funny!” Mackenzie scolded, physically harassing her younger sibling with the use of her hand. “Since I wasn’t allowed to skip school to become a tattoo artist, even the thought of you being able to is just unfair!”

      “Well, mom and dad always did love me more, so…” Dylan’s smirk grew as his sister continued to hit him.

      “Tattoo artist?” Trevor repeated in a wary manner.

      “Uh, that’s a story for another time, babe,” Mackenzie muttered as she smacked her brother one final time.

      “In all seriousness, Dylan, where are you going to school?” Monica persisted.

      I took a large gulp of milk to quench my throat and balance out the taste of hardened cookie dough as Dylan scratched the back of his head, appearing to be pondering the inquiry with all of his might. “The University of Connecticut,” Dylan finally answered after what felt like have an eternity. If I hadn’t already swallowed the pasteurized bodily fluid of a cow, I would’ve spit it out, creating quite the unladylike scene. Thankfully, not a single drop of white liquid was left in my mouth.

      “You’re going where?” I heard myself ask.

      “UConn,” Dylan answered easily.

      “Well isn’t that funny!” my mom remarked. “That’s exactly where Liz is going, too!”

      “Really?” Dylan turned to me excitedly.

      “Yeah,” Monica answered for me, “she has a basketball scholarship and everything!”

      “Huh,” Dylan mumbled, searching my face for something. “I’m still waiting for my acceptance letter, but it’s my first choice. Great school.”

      “It has an epic basketball team,” Trevor commented.

      “An epic woman’s basketball team,” Mackenzie injected a key word to her boyfriend’s statement.

      “Yeah, a scout saw Liz playing as a freshman in L.A., and it was all uphill from there!” my mother bragged proudly as she had been doing for the past few years. Honestly, though, it was pretty incredible, if I did say so myself. Having a scout from UConn watch one of my games as a freshman? Yeah, the universe was definitely on my side that day.

      I was playing on a boys’ team, in an elite league, for guys about a year or two older than me, at the time, and we had somehow made it to the championship. There were some spectators in the stands who didn’t have any connection to players, but none that appeared to possess a great deal of importance. I played my hardest, as I normally did, and then, after winning the game, a man came over to my mom and me as we were about to leave the building. He winked at Monica and then gave her his card, telling her that he was a scout from UConn, and, after seeing me play, that he was beyond impressed.

      A meeting was set up with a few significant people from UConn, and they, apparently, liked me. Basically, I told them my life story, did a few easy drills as they watched. After the meeting, I was just screwing around a bit in the gym we were using, and decided to practice my half-court shot, because, back then, it still needed some perfecting. I was just doing my thing, and was in my “zone”, as I shot the ball. As it thankfully swished through the net, I heard clapping from behind me, and turned around. It was one of the coaches from UConn. She was looking at me intently, and then said words that I had thought were only acceptable on American Idol-type shows: “You’ve got talent, kid.” Four-ish small words, which pretty much skyrocketed my basketball career.

      I was told that if I were to apply as a senior, keeping in mind that I kept my grades up, I would be offered a scholarship and a spot on the University of Connecticut Woman’s Basketball Team. It was unbelievable. UConn was like Harvard with academics for woman’s basketball. You couldn’t get any better.

      After the entire experience went down, my mom got me private coaches and I pretty much had no life other than basketball, school, and sleeping. Everything in my world revolved around the sport with the orange ball. I rarely played on girls’ teams, for boys’ teams were much more at my level. The amount of training I was doing for a teen my age was absolutely crazy, but I didn’t care. Also, my mom told me hundreds of times that the second basketball wasn’t fun for me anymore that I could quit. She didn’t push me into it like some parents. No, that was all my doing.

      This past summer, I was at a basketball clinic for the top ranking girls in the country somewhere in Texas, when I got a call from my mom. She told me that in the fall we were moving to New York—back to New England. When I first heard the news, I had no particular thought on the subject. I had moved twice before, so figured that this time it wouldn’t be any different. It was New York. I had spent three years of my life in the heat, so I was happy that we would be going back to my roots—to a colder region.

      When I got home from the two-weeklong training session, Monica was fervent about moving. She wanted to leave Texas as soon as possible and get to New York. After we had fully packed up the house, I had to do an inspection of my room to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything. That was when I came across it: a picture. It was a simple photograph of nothing more than a few friends of mine from back in Boston. That was when I remembered. Everything came crashing down as I realized that I had only a year to accomplish the impossible: become a “girl.”

      Because I never turned down a challenge and knew that the end result would be worth it, I made the decision to change my life completely. I told my mom that for my senior year, I wanted to take a break from the intensity that was basketball and try being a “normal” teen for a single school year. She agreed almost immediately, not even once questioning my motives.

      We called UConn, and, very diplomatically, my mother explained my situation. UConn said that as long as I kept up my grades, didn’t break any main ligaments, spontaneously become bad at basketball, or died, that I could take a break. All based on my ability as a freshman… But, then again, I still had to make the team when I did eventually go to UConn, which would involve the most strenuous training that I had ever been subjected to.

      My plan was to take the summer between UConn and high school to get back into shape. I could do it. Basketball was like sleeping (only slightly more physically vigorous) for me: it was easy, relaxing, and instinctive. As long as I didn’t break or sprain my ankle from wearing a pair of heels higher than a blade of grass, I was fine. Somehow, everything was going to working out just fine …until, of course, I came across two boys, both relatively attractive and liked by one Liz Turner. Honestly, boys messed everything up.

      “That’s pretty cool,” Dylan said to my mom after what felt like a perpetuity of being enraptured within my own reflections of nostalgia.

      “Have you watched her play yet?” Monica queried eagerly.

      Whenever my basketball capabilities were the existent topic, my mom always went a little bit on the deep end in regards to her enthusiasm. She was my number one fan, but she wasn’t like the normal supporter that some moms were. No, she was a fanatic in every definition of the term—Monica Turner style. She had never missed a single one of my games (even with work as an ongoing obstacle), and was always the loudest one in the crowds, regardless of the venue. She was kind of like a superhero, in a way. During the day, she was the unsuspecting, bubbly persona of a fashion corporation president, and, by night, a basketball enthusiast, cheering (more like screaming) on her athletic daughter. As moms went, she was the greatest—and I wasn’t just saying that because it was my obligation or because she made me cookies. Nah, Monica was, well, Monica and I loved her for it—despite the embarrassment that she caused me at times.

      “I’ve played against her and seen her shoot,” Dylan replied lightly.

      “You’ve played against her?” my mom tried to stifle a laugh.

      “Yeah,” Dylan nodded, not seeing anything wrong with the truthful proclamation.

      “You’re a brave man,” she commended him, “but how badly did you lose?”

      “We played one-on-one, and she beat me on her first try,” he sighed.

      “Layup?” my mom guessed, looking over to me.

      “Layup,” I nodded in affirmation.

      “Nice,” Monica extended her arm to high-five me. Our palms connected and she sent me a proud smile out of sincerity.

      “Monica, do you want to hear about the time Trevor and I went shoe shopping?” Mackenzie suddenly asked, as I was relieved that the interest in the room had veered elsewhere. I wasn’t the type of person who enjoyed marinating in attention for very long. It wasn’t me.

      “And with that, I’m going to save two souls in the room by asking if Dylan would like to see my collection of shoes, ya know, to keep the theme going and everything,” I popped up from the couch that I was sitting on, but not before grabbing three cookies.

      “Shoes?” Dylan repeated in disgust.

      “Yes, shoes,” I nodded happily.

      “Your mom works with expensive shoes for a living that probably cost more than my truck, so why the hell would I want to see your shoes?” he scrunched his face in confusion.

      “More than your house, dude,” Trevor corrected, “my mom’s shoes cost more than your house.”

      “Exactly!” Dylan pointed to Trevor, thinking that his argument had been understood.

      “Just come with me!” I rolled my eyes, grabbing his hand as he resisted. “I swear, it’ll be worth it!”

      “And what do you mean by that, Lizzie?” his wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive way.

      “I mean that you might actually see a pair of footwear that appear somewhat fascinating to you,” it was my turn to smack him, “creep.”

      “So,” Mackenzie began to talk once again, a huge grin of evil plastered to her reddened lips, “as I was saying, a few months ago, Trevor and I went shop—”

      “Let’s go see those shoes, Lizzie, shall we?” Dylan finally gave in, hopping off the seat as he stood beside me.

      “Me too!” Trevor joined in, about to leap up when Mackenzie restricted him from doing so.

      “Babe, you’re part of this story, so I need you here for moral support, and so that you can every once and a while give your opinion on what you think happened,” Mackenzie smiled angelically at her boyfriend.

      “You’re lucky that I like your face,” Trevor huffed, pouting.

      “And with that lovely, thought-provoking notion, I think that it’s about time we take our leave,” I assessed, not even waiting for Dylan as I quickly began to make my way over to the hallway.

      When I came to the entry of the passageway, I felt a presence behind me, so knew that Dylan had followed. My legs carried me through the dim corridor until I came to a door at the end that opened up to the living nightmare that wasn’t trapped inside the head of a person deep in the trance of sleep: my room. As horrifying places went, my room didn’t even make the list, for it was on an entirely different roster of its own, dedicated to the world’s most terrifyingly horrendous teen slobs—number one being a girl named Liz Turner. Yeah, my room had gotten pretty bad.

      Honestly, though, I didn’t even understand how the small space had accumulated such a mess. Actually, “mess” wasn’t a good word to describe the sight seen when entering my lair. It was pretty much what the debris from a hurricane looked like, only plus more food and basketball paraphernalia, and minus all the nature. When I had first moved in, my room was so simple—so clean! Such a shame that I happened to run part-time demolition industry that only conducted business within the confinement of my room…

      I had prohibited my mom from entering the room, fearing that if she did, she would go into epileptic shock or have a heart attack once she saw the masses of crumpled up clothes living on my floor. Having never been the type of person that organization appealed to, Monica had seen my bedrooms over the years beyond their most abysmal states to the point where they were pretty much big black holes of clutter. But this—this was different. This was much, much, much worse than any mess that I had ever made before. This was the epitome of all messes …ever.

      My bed sheets were creased into a cocoon of chaos, and my pillow cases had more wrinkles in them than on an elephant. Additionally, an assortment of dirty socks and pants had also somehow accumulated about my bed—the place I slept at night. My desk that had previously been depressing and bare was now nonexistent, for it was toppled with old assignments, more clothes, and a jumble of junk food wrappers. My dresser too had hoarded a bulk of the candy bar corpses, miscellaneous papers, and random chords that aided in sustaining the lives of various forms of technology that I owned.

      My walls retained a number of random notes tacked up, for I was almost positive that placing posters of my favorite basketball players wouldn’t be the best idea to ever grace my mind. Then there was my floor. Previously, it had been glossy wood of a darker shade that didn’t have anything on top of it, except for the few pieces of furniture stationed about. Now, it too was fictitious, for the even the most trained of eyes couldn’t see it. If one wanted to go from one spot in the room to the other, she or he would have to risk stepping over a sea of filth just to do so. Oh, and there was also my closet, but that was a variety of mayhem for another time.

      I reached out, twisting the doorknob in my hand as I then proceeded to open the gateway to a place that possessed more turmoil than the appearance of Hell. With a deep breath, I willed myself to enter, for, unlike Hell, it was actually comfortable—assuming, of course, that the massive levels of untidiness went overlooked. I strolled over to the middle of the rubble, veering slightly, as I came to my closet.

      “You’re room’s kind of a mess,” Dylan commented, his voice close in proximity to my ears. “And that’s coming from me.”

      “Actually, it’s worse,” I rectified his unjust assertion.

      “Okay, it’s worse,” he agreed.

      I could practically feel his gaze burning into my back as I pulled the door open that led to the secondary chamber within my room. Cautiously, I stepped in, astonishment filling me as I stared at the garments hung about, curious as to how I still had clothes, even with the infinite amount placed on my “floor.” Alas, apparel wasn’t what my mission required today. Nah, I was here for a much better reason.

      “Dylan,” I addressed him, ambling over to the corner of the room, “how many pairs of shoes do you think I own?”

      “Considering that they’re how your mom makes a living, I’d have to guess about a thousand—give or take a hundred,” he determined as I swiveled around to face him.

      “Well, that would be off by a lot,” I smirked.

      “Fifty,” he threw out a random number.

      “More in the ballpark.”

      “One hundred.”

      “Getting warmer.”

      “Two hundred.”

      “Down.”

      “Lizzie, I’m done playing this game!” he exclaimed, leaning his frame against a slim patch of wall space. “Not that I really care, but just tell me already!”

      “One hundred and fifty-two,” I said, crouching down to begin my search for the perfect pair with which I could start off the session of show-and-tell. After skimming the heap of laces and heals, I finally came across a historic pair that I could no longer fit into, but still kept for sentimental reasons.

      “What are those?” Dylan questioned, pointing to the threadbare set of shoes that I held in my hands.

      “My very first pair of Jordans,” I said, sighing as I shook my head fondly at the memory.

      I was shopping with my mom one day, when I came across this pair of white and blue Jordans. They weren’t overly complicated, and, at the time, I didn’t really know what the shoe was. I liked the basic appearance of it, and thought that the little logo of some guy (or the greatest basketball player to ever live) slam dunking a basketball was beyond cool. I begged Monica to get them for me, and, being the easily persuaded and impulsive person that she was, she said yes. Little did I know that I would soon develop an obsession with the brand, in addition to an admiration for it…

      “Wow. Liz Turner’s very first pair of Jordans. One day, these’ll end up in the Basketball Hall of Fame,” Dylan smiled, staring at the shoes.

      “Oh, shut up!” I lightly punched his shoulder in a playful manner.

      “I’m not kidding!” he protested, moving past me so that he could take a look at the pile of Jordans and, like, thirty shoes that Kit’s company had manufactured. His face was blank, void of any really emotion. After a while of processing what a hoarder I was, he finally took a deep breath, willing himself to speak. “That’s a lot of Jordans.”

      “Yeah,” I nodded, “it’s great!”

      “Do you have a shoe addiction?” he questioned seriously.

      “No,” I laughed, “my devotion remains with the sport played while wearing the shoes, actually. Oh! Want see a really cool one?”

      “Sure,” he shrugged, rolling his eyes slightly at my enthusiasm.

      “Okay, one sec!” I said, hoping that he would appreciate the shoe that I was about to show him. It was, by far, the most important Jordan that I owned.

      I dropped back down to the carpeted ground, preparing myself for the search that would occur. Being the logical individual that I was, I kept it in a box …much like half of the other pairs of Jordans that I possessed. There were about twelve stacks of boxes with the Air Jordan logo on them, so I was fairly positive that the search would be a difficult one. I straightened my legs so that I was standing normally, able to look at everything from a higher vantage point. Maybe my mom was onto something when she suggested that I “clean” my room. Or, maybe not…

      Suddenly, I turned around to face Dylan as a somewhat random question popped up into my mind. I realized how alarmingly close our vicinity was, so took a small step backwards. There were barely two inches of space between us. “What was Mackenzie saying about wanting to become a tattoo artist?”

      Dylan began to laugh, as if what I had to say was some type of inside joke with someone else. “L-last year,” he managed to get out between the spontaneous fit of laughter, “s-she decided that she wanted to become a t-tattoo artist—like, as a job!”

      “And why is that so funny?” I questioned.

      “Be-because,” he took in a few deep gulps of air, forcing himself to calm down, “Mackenzie doesn’t ‘do’ art. She’s the least artistic person you’ve ever met. And I mean ever.”

      “Well, I don’t know about that…” I trailed off. “Currently, I’m failing art—with Nancy. Art.”

      “Mackenzie got kicked out of that class last year because she sucked and was too much of a distraction to everyone else,” he let out another laugh, though it was shorter than the series that had ensued previously. “My sister is good at a few things, but art isn’t even close to being one of them.”

      “So then why did she want to become a tattoo artist?”

      “She met a guy,” he snorted. “He was a total asshole, but she thought he was ‘hot.’ He was a biker and the type of dude that you couldn’t see his skin because it was covered by all of his tattoos,” he paused, shaking his head as a silly grin make its way across his face. “Anyways, she decided that the way to his heart was to become a tattoo artist and started wearing only black. I have pictures on my phone, but she said that if I ever showed anyone, she’d kill me. Like, with a gun and everything.”

      “I’m guessing that your parents basically just said no to her?” I assessed.

      “Ha, I wish,” he smirked. “Nah, they encouraged her at first, saying that if she could prove that she was really passionate about it, then they’d consider it.”

      “And how was she supposed to ‘prove’ that she was passionate about it?” I inquired hesitantly, unsure if I wanted to hear the answer of not.

      “Practice,” he grimaced at the word. Before I could ask what he meant, he kept speaking, “I was the test dummy.”

      “Dylan Collins are you implying that you have a tattoo?” I searched his face for any sign of falsehood.

      “Three. I have three tattoos,” he winced once again.

      “Oh, I have to see these!” I laughed.

      “Fine, but it’s not my fault if you’re damaged by how ugly they are,” he warned. I just shrugged, wondering for what I was anticipating. Dylan began to hoist up the T-shirt that he was wearing, exposing a segment of his toned abdominals. They didn’t look photo shopped perfect like Eric’s, but rather more natural and easy—like Dylan. “Uh, Lizzie, down here,” his tone was smug as his finger traveled over to an area right above the waistline of his sweats.

      “S-sorry,” I mumbled, trying desperately to avert my gaze away from his stomach. My eyes widened as I saw what he was pointing to. It was a small blobby shape, barely noticeable unless if pointed out, with a pink tint to it. “What is that?”

      “A heart,” he said.

      “It doesn’t look like one,” I stated.

      “Neither does the smiley face on my arm.” He dropped the thin fabric of his shirt, pushing his small sleeve up to reveal more of his bicep. I noticed a tiny smudge and two miniscule dots amid the skin, trying to ignore the giant muscle to which they were attached. “Or the word ‘bro’, down here.” He drew my attention back down to his toned front, raising the cloth again.

      “I don’t see it,” I shook my head, taking a step closer to him.

      “Right here,” he took my hand, placing it so that it hovered a mere millimeter away from his skin, “see it?”

      I narrowed my eyes, trying to ignore the contact that our hands were making as I finally saw three lowercase letters sloppily etched into his skin, each about a centimeter in height: “bro.” Wow. “Dylan,” I said evenly, as his hand fell from mine, “don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s probably the douchiest tattoo that I have ever seen.”

      “You can save the compliments for the next time that you see Mackenzie,” he laughed.

      “So, at one point did she decide that she didn’t want to become a tattoo artist?” I asked. “After she gave you the ‘heart’, smiley face, ‘bro’, or are there more I don’t know about?”

      “She only did these three—the heart was her first, the ‘bro’ her last—and her month-long dream to become a tattoo artist ended when she met another guy who was also a loser,” he said. “Yeah, he was a total hippie—or maybe he was a stoner… I don’t know. Mackenzie has never had the best taste in guys.”

      “The exception being Trevor,” I tacked on.

      “Sure,” he nodded. “So, what were going to show me?”

      “Oh, right!” I smiled, swirling back around to gaze at the countless boxes of Jordans. All I wanted was one. Knowing me, I had probably done something to differentiate this particular shoe from the rest. It was special. Actually, it was more than special.

      I began to frantically scan over the various colored boxes, wondering why I couldn’t find the one that I wanted, when I finally saw it. It was positioned in the center column of the cardboard containers, and had a strip of neon yellow duct tape across it, with the word “MICHAEL” scribbled across in my illegible script. This was it.

      Deftly, I reached out, trying not to make an avalanche of Jordans as I slid the rectangular prism out from the others, handling it as carefully as I could. Taking a deep breath after I accomplished the task, I stared down at the object in my hand. This was it. I gingerly lifted the top off, revealing a single white shoe with a dark scribble on the toe. I didn’t dare take it out, petrified of marring it.

      “Why do you only have one Jordan that looks like it’s five sizes too big—even for me, and says ‘Michael’?” Dylan questioned, staring down at my artifact.

      “Well, firstly, Michael Fucking Jordan signed it, and why I only have one is a long story that I’m not going to tell you right now,” I continued to ogle adoringly at the swirly signature.

      Michael Jordan. Undoubtedly the best basketball player to ever live. A living legend. The man himself was undeniably my biggest inspiration. Though I was merely a toddler towards the end of his active basketball career, the man had still managed to make a considerable impact on my life. He was Michael Jordan. His work ethic was phenomenal, in addition to him being astonishing at the sport he played.

      In fact, he was so extraordinary that he made a line of shoes with Nike that featured him on the logo, preforming his signature slam dunk. His legs were spread out to an angle rivaling ninety degrees, and one of his hands was by his side, as the other held a ball, his entire being in midair (hence the “Air” part of Air Jordans). It was an iconic silhouette that captured so much about the man himself. It showed his strength, determination, and overall awesomeness. Michael Jordan…

      “So, let me try to understand this,” Dylan said precisely, “you own a Jordan that Michael Fucking Jordan autographed?”

      “Yeah,” I nodded.

      “And that is one of the reasons why I fucking like you, Lizzie!” he exclaimed strongly.

      “And why would that be?”

      “Because you think that a Jordan signed by the Michael Jordan is epic,” he elaborated.

      “Actually, I think that it’s beyond epic,” I corrected.

      “Exactly!”

      “So,” I smirked, “you like me?”

      “No, Lizzie,” he denied, my facing growing perplexed, as he then went on to fix my phrasing, “I fucking like you.”