It’s fifth period. I’m busy ignoring the stupid lecture of the Design for Production teacher. She’s standing at the front of the room staring off into space-No doubt wishing that she were at home and painting her basement. Her light brown hair is tied up neatly behind her head with a pencil sticking out. She speaks with her perfectly formed bubble-gum-pink lips as she jabs at the new SMART Board. Our out-dated and dusty chalkboard is hidden from sight.
As she stares at the large white screen-diverting her attention from the class so that she can create an example of a three dimensional something-or-other-my eyes rest on you.
Across the tiny room, you’re hunched over your computer-typing madly. Your long-sleeved black tee-shirt hangs off your thin frame as you continue to tap away at the keys, occasionally banging your spiky-haired head to the rock music that’s blasting through your iPod headphones.
For a second you turn, and your eyes meet mine. You grin. And as I turn back to my own screen, I can feel your gaze lingering on my back for a second or two.
I worry that my shirt is too loose or too tight or that my pants are sagging or that my hair is frizzing or that I have a piece of gum stuck on my back. I resist the temptation to check said articles and instead stare straight at my computer screen, punching out a poem that I know I’ll never let anyone read.
Especially you.
I feel your gaze lift and you go back to your own poetry. One of the things that we share-the love for poetry. I want to turn again and catch the gaze of your chocolate brown eyes for a second time- but I don’t. I just keep typing.

The teacher finally gives up on the SMART board and turns to look at the clock.

“You have ten minutes left…just…try. Try to do it…” She sighs and then sinks into her desk chair, looking frazzled. She sips from her Starbucks cup and stares unseeingly at the back of the classroom, thinking of the color beige and linoleum.

I attempt to make my image 3D-fail-and then walk over to bother my friend, Jamie, who ironically sits two chairs away from you.

She smiles and we giggle over some nonsensical thing for the next three minutes and then I turn to go back to my side of the room. My black converse (almost identical to yours except for the black laces that you have added to the tops), squeak as I begin to walk back to my seat…
But I stop.
And I decide to do something daring.
Very daring.
But, hey, what would life be without risks?
I walk up behind your computer, converse squeaking all the way.
“What are you drawing?” I ask, leaning forward over your shoulder to see the words on the screen more clearly.
You glance up at me.
“Nothing.” You continue to gaze up at me, frowning, as you quickly minimize the soft soliloquy you were no doubt typing for a soon-to-be girlfriend.
“Right.” I smile as I stand, my bright blue eyes never leaving your soft brown ones.
“What are you drawing?” You ask, a smile playing on your lips as you realize you were not the only one neglecting the assignment.
“I wasn’t drawing anything.” I say truthfully.
“Then you drew nothing?” You say, looking around me to see the word document that is blinking on my dying computer screen.
“Exactly.” I wink.
“Can I see?”
I’m surprised. I did not realize that our banter would actually drive you to follow me over to my own computer.
I pull up the Word document, the only thing on my file.
I’m brave.
You have to admit that I’m brave.
“What’s this?”
“MY project.”
“Words. Hm…a poem?”

“Mm Hm.”

“Can I…read it?” You’re unsure. You think that it might be a trap.

It is.

“Only if I can read yours.”



You think about this for a second. You are out of time. The bell will ring in thirty seconds. You smile again and laugh.

Your laughter confirms it. I’m brave.

“Deal. Hit control P and we’ll exchange in two seconds.” I giggle. We print.

“Here. Promise that you won’t show anyone?” You blush. The slight crimson that sweeps across your dark cheeks is enough to make me promise.

“I Promise. Same goes for mine.” I bat a mascarad eye threateningly.

You nod silently.

“Good.”

The bell rings.

“Good.”

We leave the classroom, smiles playing on both of our faces as we turn down separate hallways, each unknowingly holding a slip of secret love.