This is Part 7 of the story of How I Met Superman. To get caught up, you can find the preceding chapters here.

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The month of January rolled along, with me taking surreptitious glances at Superman across the quad, and feeling really sad that my best friend Debi had moved.

I fell back in step with another old friend, who took me in the way old friends do, as if you’ve been some silly little bird that tried to fly the nest.

Dawn and I had been friends a long time — we met back in Girl Scout days — and she was always so much fun. The two of us started attending wrestling matches after school, and basketball games. But we didn’t attend because we liked wrestling matches and basketball games, of course. We attended because boys were there.

Superman, particularly, seemed to favor basketball. Although, honestly, I sometimes followed him to wrestling matches if necessary. I’m not sure if I was there because he was, or if he was there because I was, but we were definitely both there, on the bleachers, sitting with our respective friends – our books stacked beside us because we hadn’t gone home yet, our coats damp from the February rain during the walk to the gym. Dawn was a little more outgoing than I was, and she would start conversations with various groups of friends, or boys we thought were cute.

But I continually had my eye on Superman. I think I tried to talk to him once or twice. But – aside from throwing me a shy grin, which I really started to love – he didn’t speak to me at all. I decided that Keith had no idea what he was talking about: This guy was as far from a player as anyone could imagine. So I would just act my silly, giddy self with Dawn, move my books closer to Superman and his friends, sometimes talk to the guys who were mutual friends of ours. At the end of the game Dawn and I would flounce out of the gym with our umbrellas and musty coats.

In the middle of winter, though, word began going around that Patrick was having a party. And he invited absolutely everyone I knew.

Everyone, that is, except me.

I probably should have been insulted, but it was a bit of a relief.

“It’s fine, Keith,” I said, holding the phone crooked on my shoulder while I painted my toenails on my parents’ bedspread. “I really don’t want to go, anyway. It would be a-w-k-w-a-r-d.”

“He should have invited you,” Keith insisted.

“It doesn’t matter, really.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Everyone’s pissed at him.”

“Truly, I don’t care about this at all, and – ”

 “Sanchez will be there.”

My polish brush froze above my last nail.

I thought about not answering, not responding, but Keith was a smart guy.

“Really?” I whispered.

I could hear him chuckling on the other end. “I could get you invited. …”

I sighed. “Okay.”

And, as usual, Keith orchestrated everything. …

Click here for Part 8: Attending the Party I Wasn’t Invited To. …

*Many names changed to protect the Don’t-Want-To-Be-Googled.