The Hug

His name is Stan. I do not know Stan. However, after weeks and weeks of entertaining observation, I have come to know quite a lot of things about Stan.

Stan prefers mumbling softly rather than speaking clearly.

Stan wears Grand Theft Auto shirts that boys in my 4th grade class used to wear, except Stan has purchased his quite recently.

Stan practices serving the volleyball for a good 10 minutes before he decides to come play.

Stan also practices the balance of grunting softly while remaining intimidating for a good 10 minutes before serving that volleyball.

When Stan grunts, he curls his upper lip towards his teeth so it is not visible to the human eye.

After Stan grunts, he holds his right fist in mid-air and then looks at me.

If Samara were to crawl out of Stan's television set, Stan would kick her ass.

Stan would kick Samara's ass and "not be scared one bit."

I do not know Stan. However, I do have Stan's number. I knew Stan wanted to give me his number the moment he grabbed my phone as I was texting someone and started typing his number into it.

"Mmmmph number jrhgj call me."

"Thanks, Stan."

"Mmmmphh if you wanna talk ghfkdkhf."

"Yes, Stan. Thanks again."

I'm not making fun of Stan. Stan just sometimes scares me when he does certain things.

When he follows me to the door of the girls' locker room.

When he follows me to 6th period.

When he follows me to the bleachers, over to talk to Lily, over to say hello to Tony, back to the bleachers, to the bathroom, then over to the volleyball net.

When he grunts and then looks at me.

When he looks at me while grunting.

Stan was more of a creepy amusement rather than A Big Creepy, until he started asking me for hugs.

"Can I have a hug?"

He had followed me to my car. I ignored him as I put my tennis shoes into my trunk.

"Can I have a hug?"

He had followed me to my trunk. I ignored him as I put my English book in the passenger seat.

"Can I have a hug?"

He had followed me to the passenger seat. I didn't ignore him.

"Not today!"

I speed-walked away. I could have ran, but Stan has trouble speed-walking. Stan has the body of Chris Farley. And one of those 90's "butt-cuts." With gel. Why you would have to gel a butt-cut, I do not know.

Stan knows why you have to gel a butt-cut.

It really is my fault that it happened. I trace it all back to the day he followed me to various parts of my car. It's just that I couldn't flat-out say NO. And I really did think he would take the hint.

Stan prefers to let people keep the hints they give out for themselves.

So I'm walking out of 6th period. The day is over. I'm ready to go home. I'm mid-stride, when all of sudden,

Stan had approached me from the side.

Stan had both of his arms around me.

Stan's face was one inch from being nuzzled into my neck.

Stan has surprising arm strength.

Stan gives long hugs.

Stan says 'goodbye' mid-hug, then stays there hugging some more.

Stan likes Hot Cheetos.

And that was it. Maybe I make big deals out of little things, like a hug. It's not like he poked me in the navel. Or gave me a wet willy. Or spanked me. But still. It's Stan. And beacuse I let that happen, Stan now does lots of things.

Stan follows me to my seat.

Stan sits next to me.

Stan intentionally presses his knee against mine.

Stan tells me exactly how he would kick Samara's ass.

Stan is perfectly content with speaking to the side of my face.

Stan is perfectly content with speaking to the side of my face and getting no response.

Stan's grunts have grown louder, more confident.

If Stan tries to hug me again,

I'm gonna have to run from him.

I'm gonna have to grunt at him.

I'm gonna have to kick his ass.