I threw her a note in History.
She smiled weakly and pushed some of her tangled fiery hair away from her face. I suddenly feel as if I am trapped in a scene from a John Hughes movie. Her hazel eyes are sparkling and deep, framed with dark kohl.
She looks me straight in the eye and my heart almost bursts. She turns away, scribbles.
" why are you talking to me?
Hi. Eff, right?"
My fingers are failing to work very well. I drop the paper. We both bend down o pick it up. our wrists touch. I can feel the texture of the scars on her arm. Her hair tickles my neck.
and the bell rings. We scurry outside, cockroaches exposed to light. I move in the direction of my next class, but she grabs my arm. "Come on...I want to talk to you." she's beaming, something I've NEVER seen.
I follow her as she ducks under a stairwell and crouches. "Come. Sit." I comply. She examines the inside of her arm and then sighs.
"You wrote those poems." She hands one back to me, a crumpled piece of paper still warm from her pocket.
"Do you weep with the stars?
do you cradle your scars?
Don't hide in the dark
You're breaking my heart."
I blush. "Yes." Its silent for just a moment.
Her head lolls to my shoulder. "I love it. Its so...simple." She sniffs hard, like she's trying not to cry. I am rigid, working up the nerve to possibly do one of the most outlandish things I could do at that moment.
Impulsively, I reach over and brush my lips on hers.