The boy standing there across the table, looking like he’s going to sit down with me, is flat-out gorgeous.
“Hi?” I say, more question than greeting.
“I didn’t know you had study hall this period,” the boy says, casually dropping his bag onto a chair and pulling out the one beside it. He sits down, his eyes never leaving mine.
Do I know him?
“Obviously,” I say back, which comes out sounding a little snippy because I’m preoccupied.
Am I in the right place?
I scan the faces of my classmates. Andy Bernstein. Check. Hannah Wright. Check.
Tomorrow is Wednesday, so today is Tuesday. Check.
Second period?
Yep, I just had PE.
The boy is talking again.
“… because after the fire drill I had to finish orientation, and it took up all of second period, too. But you weren’t here yesterday. Where were you?”
I’m tapping my pencil on my notebook now. This conversation is making me anxious. I think back to my notes before answering.
“At a doctor’s appointment,” I say, adding no additional clarification.
“Oh, sorry,” the boy says, glancing down at the table for a moment. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
He looks embarrassed. It’s cute.
“It’s okay,” I say, still tapping my pencil. “I tripped over a ball in gym. My mom thought my ankle was sprained.”
“Was it?”
“Nope, just bruised,” I say.
I’m tapping faster now.
He’s still looking right at me.
Right into me.
Seriously, do I know him?
“That’s good,” he says. The bell rings and we’re still staring at each other, him looking amused and me probably looking like I’m going to explode. At least that’s how I feel.
“You okay?” he asks, with the slightest nod in the direction of my furiously tapping pencil. The acknowledgment of my nervous energy makes me fumble; I lose my grip, and the pencil launches into the air and then falls onto the floor. Feeling like a complete idiot, I scoot back in my chair and bend over to retrieve it. I grab the pencil, and, on my way back up, I spy something interesting.
Chocolate brown Converse All Stars.
My heart leaps as I remember this morning’s note. This boy is my weirdo.
My weirdo is hot.
Somehow I manage to sit straight and scoot back to the table without completely humiliating myself. I smile at him. He smiles back, and I smile more.
“So, you stole my sweatshirt, you know,” he says with a glint in his eye. “You can borrow it for a while, as long as you…”