Roboprom Part 2: Do you have a cell phone?

Before I go any farther, let me take a moment to emphasize this post's major plot-point. As much as I can't stand cliches in writing, and as much as I know it's cliche to go and say, "if I hadn't done this, then none of that would have happened," grace me with the chance to do it, anyway. I do firmly believe that of all the choices and decisions that took place down the line, this particular decision I made, (or am about to make for those of you just following along) was the single most major deciding factor in my leaving Washington.

The significance of this point in the story holds deep meaning for me, and so it is only appropriate that you also carry this meaningfulness before you read on. Let me then implore you to close your eyes, take a moment for yourself to reach this state of mind, and then let us continue on our way.

Bear in mind, also, that all of the girl-numbers I kept in my phone were from friends and classmates. Sure, I was used to chasing girls in my own school, and I had my own ideas of what "bold" was, but never had I gone up to an unfamiliar, attractive girl, dropping the "Can I have your number?" question cold like that. In this case, however, I knew I only had this final opportunity to pursue this girl, which was the dreadfully motivating push I would need.

Part of me saw no reason to do anything at all, given that even if my approach and introduction to the girl went well, the only way I could see her again would be in the unlikely event that both of our teams somehow qualified for the prestigious and exclusive world competition. Another part of me saw the chance as a way to ensure that even if I found disappointment, she would be gone forever, and I could continue with the proper priorities of a young, strapping man on his way to forge new roads in college.

So there she was.

I saw her sitting at the front of the arena all by herself. At the very front of the seating was a five-foot retaining wall with about ten inches of room on the top that could obnoxiously seat often unknowing spectators in the view of those in proper front-row seating. Her team played a match just a few rounds before, and most of them had returned to their seating. She decided to go down early and sit up front in anticipation of her team's next match.

I knew that once the final matches concluded, myself and the adjacent robotics enthusiasts would all return to our seats for the awards ceremony, only exiting our arrangements to ziptie our robots and go home. I would get no better time than this to speak to her.

In light of my calculated figuring of how not-worth-it this was, I proceeded with a determined shuffling out of my chair towards the girl. Fortunately for the development of this plot, I didn't do any such dreadful thing as to ponder, think, consider, or calculate any further that might lead to my reconsidering of the matter.

Each shift of my leg found my foot one stair step lower until the aisle she was sitting drew me into a ninety-degree turn and a press of my toes that propelled me to her. Depressing my weight, worry, and all of my hope onto that retaining wall, I opened the conversation that would change my life:

"So, is your robot up next?"

She looked back at me with the brown eyes of a girl who was about to change my life, and said all I could have ever expected her to say:

"Yeah"

And I replied, "Cool. What's your name?"

She told me what her name was, and we shook hands. So I asked her if she had a phone. Seemingly caught off guard by the rather obvious question, she laughed and told me that of course she had one.

So, I asked her the only appropriate subsequent question,

"Do you think I could have your number?"

I never was able to capture the sugar-sweet delight that embraced my nervous request. I remember her pressed, glowing cheeks. She was smiling as she gave me her cell phone number, and I smiled, too while I took it down. We were yelling at each other because the arena was so loud, but I don't remember it any differently than a quiet conversation in the kitchen. In the minutes before her next match started, we found each other in our shouts, asking only the most important of unimportant questions shared by two strangers passing in the night.

Tragically, the moment met its end in the shape of her friend returning to the front for the upcoming match. It followed with a blur of dancing, cheering, standing, sitting, mingling, and moving, that all stopped as the whistle rang out, signifying the start of the final match.

I smiled some more, and the competition was over. Through the awards ceremony, she and I slid our fingers across phone keys in the dance of blissful, unknowing inexperience. I didn't hear a word of the ceremony until the announcer's familiar drawn-out pause ended with enthusiasm through the concrete arena. It cracked my scattered attention like a pot.

Her team qualified for the world competition.