Categories > Celebrities > Omarion
1
I stared at my phone like it’d announced I won the lottery, just knowing my eyes were playing tricks on me. I refreshed the app screen once, twice, three times. Again and again, I checked my notifications. To cover my basis, I even pinched myself, which drew out a short yelp of surprise and pain. R&B singer and former front man of the boy band B2K, Omarion, followed me back on Instagram. He must’ve just done it, because before I turned my phone over on my desk, I’d gotten a direct message. I didn’t want to put much stock into it, but I couldn’t help but be a little excited. Nobody was ever in my DMs. Who else could it possibly be? I didn’t know why he of all people would be in my DMs, but then again, I didn’t know why he’d follow me back to begin with. I started to open my messages when my colleague, Sandra Robles popped up at the doorway to my office. “Why, good morning, Avery!” she said in a mock posh accent. “How was your weekend?”
I smiled at her. “Amazing.”
“Oh? Do tell!” She wanted me to elaborate. God damn it. Usually, I loved talking to Sandra. She was the team coordinator for my department, so it was a good idea to have a good rapport with her. But I didn’t want to leave Omarion hanging, assuming, of course, he had actually messaged me. I wanted to dead the conversation as quickly as possible, but she wasn’t making it easy for me.
“There’s nothing to really talk about,” I said. “Just chilled, pretty much. Got a lot of writing done.”
“Such an adventurous life, you live.”
“Geez, am I that boring?”
“Does it snow in winter?” My soundless gasp tickled her red “Anyway, going to the meeting?”
“What meeting…?” Then I remembered. Last Friday, she’d texted me that the manager of our department and a few people from Information Systems wanted to go over the procedure for the new membership cards on Monday. Since I was going to oversee this, my presence was necessary. I slapped my forehead. It’d totally slipped my mind in all the excitement.
She gave me a knowing smile. “I’ll wait by the elevators.” Swallowing a groan, I sat my phone down, grabbed my notebook, and headed to the meeting.
If it wasn’t one thing, it was another: another meeting, lunch with management, yet another meeting, a stack of forty paraprofessional membership applications I had an hour to process. Once six o clock hit, I was out the door. I didn’t even log out of my computer.
I worked for the Teachers Union in New York City. While there was an office in each of the five boroughs, the headquarters, where I worked, was in Manhattan’s financial district (or FiDi, as we call it, pronounced fye-die). Here, you’d find the New York Stock Exchange, Federal Reserve Bank and Wall Street. Not to mention hundreds of other businesses residing within the many skyscrapers.
I stepped out into the crisp early-March evening. I pulled out my phone from one of the breast pockets of my chestnut-colored windbreaker when I almost crashed into a woman who was busy texting instead of watching where the fuck she was going. Being that I was about to do the same, I had no room to judge, but she served me a glare cooler than the late-Autumn air. I just rolled my eyes.
I decided I’d check my phone when I got to the subway station. At this time, the train usually took off right before I crossed the gate, so I took my time getting there. To my surprise, the train was there, so I hurried and got on right before the doors closed. Standing room only. And I needed both hands to hold onto the rail above the seats or I’d crash into someone else.
It wasn’t until the train crossed the Williamsburg Bridge that I got a seat. It was so silly how excited I was over checking a fucking Instagram message. For crying out loud, I was thirty-two. I wasn’t even this pressed over Myspace messages in high school.
I finally checked my direct message. It wasn’t from Omarion. I felt so stupid hoping it might’ve been. Why would he ever message me? He wasn’t even a homo.
I groaned and clicked on the message. My sister Tammy was sharing some viral video. I didn’t even click on it but typed “lol” anyway. Disappointment swept over me like a blanket. Or maybe it was stupidity.
I’d been just about to put my phone back in my pocket when I got another message. I clicked on it with the quickness. This one came from someone named ‘M’ who had no profile picture, but I knew it was him. Who else would’ve sent this?
What’s up? I heard about your story and, I…kinda enjoyed it. lol It was weird reading about me from someone who’s never met me, but your story’s so popular I got curious, I guess. Keep up the dope work. I hope to see your work on the shelf someday.
- O
I could’ve screamed. Instead, I died.
Okay, that’s really dramatic, but I must’ve stared at my phone the whole train ride. I stared so long, in fact, I forgot to reply.
I stared at my phone like it’d announced I won the lottery, just knowing my eyes were playing tricks on me. I refreshed the app screen once, twice, three times. Again and again, I checked my notifications. To cover my basis, I even pinched myself, which drew out a short yelp of surprise and pain. R&B singer and former front man of the boy band B2K, Omarion, followed me back on Instagram. He must’ve just done it, because before I turned my phone over on my desk, I’d gotten a direct message. I didn’t want to put much stock into it, but I couldn’t help but be a little excited. Nobody was ever in my DMs. Who else could it possibly be? I didn’t know why he of all people would be in my DMs, but then again, I didn’t know why he’d follow me back to begin with. I started to open my messages when my colleague, Sandra Robles popped up at the doorway to my office. “Why, good morning, Avery!” she said in a mock posh accent. “How was your weekend?”
I smiled at her. “Amazing.”
“Oh? Do tell!” She wanted me to elaborate. God damn it. Usually, I loved talking to Sandra. She was the team coordinator for my department, so it was a good idea to have a good rapport with her. But I didn’t want to leave Omarion hanging, assuming, of course, he had actually messaged me. I wanted to dead the conversation as quickly as possible, but she wasn’t making it easy for me.
“There’s nothing to really talk about,” I said. “Just chilled, pretty much. Got a lot of writing done.”
“Such an adventurous life, you live.”
“Geez, am I that boring?”
“Does it snow in winter?” My soundless gasp tickled her red “Anyway, going to the meeting?”
“What meeting…?” Then I remembered. Last Friday, she’d texted me that the manager of our department and a few people from Information Systems wanted to go over the procedure for the new membership cards on Monday. Since I was going to oversee this, my presence was necessary. I slapped my forehead. It’d totally slipped my mind in all the excitement.
She gave me a knowing smile. “I’ll wait by the elevators.” Swallowing a groan, I sat my phone down, grabbed my notebook, and headed to the meeting.
If it wasn’t one thing, it was another: another meeting, lunch with management, yet another meeting, a stack of forty paraprofessional membership applications I had an hour to process. Once six o clock hit, I was out the door. I didn’t even log out of my computer.
I worked for the Teachers Union in New York City. While there was an office in each of the five boroughs, the headquarters, where I worked, was in Manhattan’s financial district (or FiDi, as we call it, pronounced fye-die). Here, you’d find the New York Stock Exchange, Federal Reserve Bank and Wall Street. Not to mention hundreds of other businesses residing within the many skyscrapers.
I stepped out into the crisp early-March evening. I pulled out my phone from one of the breast pockets of my chestnut-colored windbreaker when I almost crashed into a woman who was busy texting instead of watching where the fuck she was going. Being that I was about to do the same, I had no room to judge, but she served me a glare cooler than the late-Autumn air. I just rolled my eyes.
I decided I’d check my phone when I got to the subway station. At this time, the train usually took off right before I crossed the gate, so I took my time getting there. To my surprise, the train was there, so I hurried and got on right before the doors closed. Standing room only. And I needed both hands to hold onto the rail above the seats or I’d crash into someone else.
It wasn’t until the train crossed the Williamsburg Bridge that I got a seat. It was so silly how excited I was over checking a fucking Instagram message. For crying out loud, I was thirty-two. I wasn’t even this pressed over Myspace messages in high school.
I finally checked my direct message. It wasn’t from Omarion. I felt so stupid hoping it might’ve been. Why would he ever message me? He wasn’t even a homo.
I groaned and clicked on the message. My sister Tammy was sharing some viral video. I didn’t even click on it but typed “lol” anyway. Disappointment swept over me like a blanket. Or maybe it was stupidity.
I’d been just about to put my phone back in my pocket when I got another message. I clicked on it with the quickness. This one came from someone named ‘M’ who had no profile picture, but I knew it was him. Who else would’ve sent this?
What’s up? I heard about your story and, I…kinda enjoyed it. lol It was weird reading about me from someone who’s never met me, but your story’s so popular I got curious, I guess. Keep up the dope work. I hope to see your work on the shelf someday.
- O
I could’ve screamed. Instead, I died.
Okay, that’s really dramatic, but I must’ve stared at my phone the whole train ride. I stared so long, in fact, I forgot to reply.
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