When will he look at me?
I sit behind him again and am but a ghost to his back. Charlie is writing rapidly and I can almost hear him thinking. The class has been assigned to write a simple poem that hints at one of our deepest secrets without giving anything away. I have yet to understand what secrets he could possibly hold, but I know they are malignant from the speed of his writing.
I look down at my own paper and continue to write about all the episodes of my life, but by words that can only be significant to me.
I know exactly what to say. The secrets of my father, my mother, and myself. I steal a look behind me and see Patricia writing slowly on her piece of paper, never once looking up.
I write about her. About that night.
My page is almost full with my poem and I stop short. I write about nothing for a few moments as I hear the scratching of a pen behind me.
Quietly I turn my neck to catch a glimpse of the quiet girl behind me. Her black hair is in two long french braids and her forehead is creased in concentration. I don't see any hints of her secret life in her writing because I am busy analyzing her hands. They aren't soft and fragile as most girls that I know, but instead they look torn, used.
Her full, rosy lips are set in a stern pout as she concentrates and I can smell a faint perfume emanating from her. The smell of rose and honey.
A sweet and sinful smell.
Who is this that I have never seen before?
Then I turn quickly in my seat before she has a chance to catch my silent admiration of her and mentally kick myself. She was the one that had passed Paul and I our ball; the quiet mysterious beauty of the school.
Everyone knew of her, but no one had bothered to know her.
That's her name, I am sure of it.
I can hear her still writing and I look down at my page long poem; full of long lines of familial secrets. Slowly I begin to cross out the lines, one by one. But it is too slow for me and I tear the paper out of my notebook loud enough to cause several students to look at me. Smiling self-consciously, I stand up and toss the paper in the garbage. Walking back, I chance a look at her and meet her eyes.
In them I see something that is unrecognizable to me, but before I can understand she quickly looks down; a faint glow appears on her smooth cheeks. It contrasts softly with her strong black hair.
Before I can engage myself in the poem again, I realize that I have just analyzed the girl that I had not known mere minutes before and that Paul had been right; there is definitely a lot more to this Lorena. Something that is well hidden in her solitude.