Nervous Boy

**I'm still struggling with the writing.com text format. Sentences marked with /i were supposed to be Italics depicting harry's thoughts.**



He was nervous; that was obvious.
"Oh god." He whispered to himself; feeling completely out of place.
"Oh god, I can't do this." He whispered again as his right hand strengthened it's grip on the stems of a dozen roses and his other rose up to loosen the collar on his father's old tux. It was at least three sizes too big and smelled badly of mildew.

After hours of arguing with his father over the cost of a new tux rental, Harry Evenguard Potson finally gave in. It was either the ratty old tux or no prom date with Cloey White, the most beautiful girl in school and the object of Harry's desires since freshman year.


She lived in the big white house on the corner of Pickard and St.
Mary street; or at least she said she did.
/i Maybe she meant the corner of Pickard and Wesley street?/i
Harry though to himself as he sat in front of the, for lack of a better word, white mansion on Pickard street in his '74 multi-colored Gremlin. The idea of taking the future prom queen to the prom was made even more daunting by the treacherous cobble-stone path leading to the taunting front door.

Harry wasn't sure what they were called, but two giant pillars stood just outside the door; their purpose being to support the structure above them, but if you looked at them at the right angle they looked like fangs designed to keep nerds like Harry away from Prom queens like Cloey.

"Oh god... I shouldn't be here. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god." Harry's voice creaked and cracked with the tortures of late puberty. He scratched a zit on his chin until it popped and whiped the milky pus on his father's pants.
Harry swallowed hard and opened his car door. With downcast eyes Harry counted his steps up the cobblestone path; fearing to look up at the fangs. He approached the door and let his finger hover over the door bell.

  /i  Maybe she thought I was someone else. She couldn't have meant to ask me out. No way. /i
Harry's finger pulled backward towards his face and rubbed the zit he had just popped. Blood.
  /i  Damnit, I scratched too hard. /i
Before Harry could wipe the mess on his pant leg the door opened.

"Pots?" Cloey inquired. Harry hated that nickname, but he almost liked that she knew it.
"How long have you been out here? Is the door bell broken?" She leaned over exposing the cleavage in her low-cut dress to press the door bell button. Harry stared intently at her tits.
Ding dong.
"Pots!" Cloey's insistent voice cut through Harry's day-dream. She pressed her hand to her chest to cover her cleavage.
  /i  Fuck! She caught me staring. /i
"Hi... Cloey." Harry stammered out quickly. "it's me, Harry."
Cloey's look of horror was replaced by almost pitty. She laughed slightly.
"I know who you are Pots. I asked you to the prom." Words came so easliy to her. It sounded like an angel speaking when she moved those pouty pink lips.


  /i  You fucking moron! Of course she knew who you were! /i Harry thought to himself and tried to diffuse the awkward situation with even more awkward laughter that cracked and wheezed. Sometimes when harry tried to laugh nothing came out at all, except for a gush of air from his lungs that would make him cough and spit saliva on who ever he was talking to. He hated that more than anything.


"Of course you..umm...knew. I was justmmm joking." Harry never understood why math, science, and art came so easily to him but yet he couldn't even speak a full sentence without stuttering or fucking up somehow.
Cloey smiled at him and Harry couldn't tell if he saw pitty in her eyes or amusement. He didn't like either one.
"Are those for me?" She asked.
"What?"
"Are the flowers for me?" Cloey asked again; this time Harry was sure he saw pitty in her eyes.
"Oh yeah. Umm, sorry." Harry handed her the flowers. A dozen red roses.
"They're roses." He said.
  /i  She know's they're roses you dumbass! /i Harry scolded himself. /i  What a stupid thing to say!  /i
Cloey laughed and flashed her bleached white teeth making Harry want to rip his own out and scratch the yellow off. He knew he wasn't much to look at and constantly reminded himself. His skin sucked; if you could even see it passed all the zits. His hair sat in unruly curls atop his head and in comparison to Cloey he was short.
"I know, Pots." She smiled. "I love them." Harry's heart melted.
  /i  Oh god, I shouldn't be here. She's out of my league.  /i  Cloey stood a good 3 inches taller than Harry at '5"9. Harry couldn't tell if her eyes were blue or green, but he wanted to stare at them until he figured it out. Her hair was an amazing blonde hue, but Harry didn't care for the color as much as he cared about the way her hair looked up close. He had never seen anything like it before; the tips of her hair fanned out into a million little strands giving the illusion of angelic light emanating from it. He wanted to stare at that too.
"Pots?"
Harry was day-dreaming again.
"Sorry, I'm umm just umm nervous." Followed by more awkward laughter.
"That's okay, I'm nervous too." Cloey said; the worry gone from her voice. "Lets just get going before my parents start taking pictures." She giggled slyly and grabbed Harry's forearm.

Turning him around she started to lead him quickly down the path towards his car. Harry thought his old rusty piece of shit looked almost sinful parked in front of her great white house.
The thought of Cloey sitting in it was diabolic.