He watches through his dark eyes.

I sit in class, spinning through my cramming from yesterday night. The blank page in front of me was slowly filling with black ink splotches. Behind me, I could see his fan club eye my paper, leaning so close that they could read me answers.

With a grimace, I shift away. The girls angrily move back, looking for another prey. Scowling, I set my eyes on the test.


Not a moment too soon, I drop my pen and lean back as the teacher collets the sheets. His fan club giggle and laugh, their cheeriness hiding their hatred towards me.

Oh, like I had wanted him in my classes. His arrogance, his cocky smirk, just p***ed me off. It was like I wasn’t there. Yet, his fan club wanted to take my place and beat me up.

Just looking at him—made my heart beat frantically. Who wouldn’t, I muse, stealing a glance. He had his signature black hair that fell over his eyes, and he dressed in hot slacker clothes, despite the fact he was a top student.

He still p***ed me off.

He notices me looking and smirks. Then he leans towards his fan club and whispers something. They coo and laugh back, flirting everywhere.

Damn.

I scoot back and waltz away into the hallway, leaving him to the mercy of the wannabe girlfriends.


Music. Alto saxophone is another thing we share in common.

Honestly, I never even knew him until sixth grade. He’d moved here in fifth grade, just when those killer crushes and love-struck idiot games began.

I walk into the crowded band room. His playing, too good—it was like having your head filled with jazzed-up wonders—is already on.

A few other classmates are there. I suddenly feel the urge to p*** him off, so I start a conversation with one of them. Because I’m the only girl, well, let’s say emotions run high during music lessons.

He shakes his head and interrupts the conversation smoothly. Even with guys, he was the charmer. I scowl and storm away. Him:1 Me:0

The teacher comes out and pushes us inside, and my entire saxophone laughs along with him. It was now one girl in a room with six guys.

Oh, boy. I am in serious trouble, I think.

There’s only one open seat, and that’s by him. I want to stick his stupid bell horn over his head and make him feel embarrassed for once.

But of course I don’t.


Art class is torture. Being surrounded by his fan club—he jokes about me. My love for reading and writing is the topic for today.

I concentrate on my project. It was beginning to look like a game of Snakes & Ladders, not a “Gustav Klimt” work.

One good thing about art? My partner happened to be the worst artist in history. If it was a crime to draw pigs like bunnies, she’d be in jail for life.

Secretly, I wonder how he always ends up behind me. It was like he stalked me, tracing me to a pinpoint location everyday.

I use the tip of my scissor to cut the last part of newspaper out. Looking around, I spot glue on top of a lone table.

My hand reaches out ad collides with another. I look up to see him there.

“Not a chance,” I mutter for him to hear, swiping the glue for myself. He smirks and follows me to my table, watching as I carefully stick me quarter-inch wide piece of ribbon onto my project.

“It looks nice,” he says. Then he looks over my shoulder and waves at a fan club girl, who also happened to be in all of my classes.

I slam the glue on the table. He winks at me and pulls away.