“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…”
“Shhh.” Evil Eye Mason interrupts with a sharp whisper from her perch.
“… promise to…” Weirdo attempts to continue in a whisper before Ms. Mason smacks her palm on her desk.
“Mr. Henry!” she shouts. Weirdo’s mouth slams shut, and he grudgingly looks her way. I’m happy to know at least part of his name.
“Sorry,” he says.
“I should hope so. You’re new, so I’ll give you a pass this one time. But understand, son, there is no talking in my classroom. This is a time for studying. Quietly. This is not social hour.”
A couple of the other girls giggle softly. Ms. Mason kills their giggles with a glance. She reminds me of a bird. A very mean bird.
“Sorry,” the boy says again before pulling a pad and some charcoal pencils from his bag.
I’m happy for all the information I’m getting. His last name is Henry. He’s new to school. And he’s an artist.
Before going to work, the boy smiles at me once more. While I’m left gooey from the sentiment, he opens his drawing pad and flips through a few sketches in search of a blank page. I can’t help but notice both that he’s talented and that his subject of choice is… intriguing.
Ears?
As if he can hear my thoughts, Mr. Weirdo Henry brushes a stray wave from his eyes and glances at me one final time. He shrugs and smiles slyly, as if to say, “So what? I like ears.”
I shrug and smile back. What I’m trying to say without words, and what I hope he understands, is, “Hey, we all have our things.”
He’s back to drawing before I can give it another thought, and I’m forced to continue my math homework in silence. But halfway through problem number 3, something dawns on me: the boy’s sweatshirt in my room has to be the one Weirdo Henry is talking about. Apparently it’s not from the reject pile, like my note said.
So apparently I lied.
At midnight, I boot up my laptop. I can type faster than I can scribble. Besides, the note by my bedside is already cluttered with hearts in the margins and flowery words about a boy I just met today.