Stick caught me with another boy’s phone number today. I’m usually a bit more subtle about it, but I saw an old friend and after a few rounds of we-should-get-together he wrote his number on the back of my hand.
“I ran into Bjorn at John and Allison’s…” I began, wondering if it might be easier to make up a quick cover story about being ambidextrous and double-jointed.
“Was it Trek night? Was he one of the Bjorg?”
“No, he’s an English teacher,” (Note that he used red pen for my hand)
“I hope his classes aren’t bjoring,”
“I don’t think — ”
“Was he bjorn to be wild?”
And so, on the walk from the campus center to my Chaucer class, Stick sang a medley of every eighties tune that could conceivably have bjorn in it. I havelearned my lesson, though. I promise never to get caught with a boy’s number ever again, because I don’t think I can make it through another class with “Bjorn to be your baby” stuck in my head.
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