factsâthese small things that I know about him. Like his name and the fact that heâs a senior and a basketball star and has had previous cheerleader girlfriends. The term scholar-athlete comes to mind. I know who he is, of course; it would be impossible to not know something like that. Like when his name comes up in the morning announcements for leading the boysâ varsity team to victory over blah, blah, blah, or for scoring x number of points in whatever quarter in last nightâs game against whomever, I obviously have an image in my head of who it is theyâre talking about. But itâs different, somehow, actually sitting next to him.
His eyes meet mine. Iâm staring. I look down and think: Chocolate. Thatâs what his eyes remind me of. I look up again. The color of dark chocolate. And I realize that those small random facts donât really add up to anything when youâre up close like this. When someone like him is looking at you the way heâs looking at me.
âJosh,â he tells me. And then does something just . . . insane. He reaches across the aisle, extending his hand toward me for a handshake. It seems a little silly, but I raise my hand to meet his. His skin is warm, just like his voice and his eyes and his laugh. It seems like weâre holding each otherâs hands for way too long, but he just smiles like thereâs nothing weird about this at all.
But then the bell screams. I drop his hand, shocked back into a world not composed solely of this guyâs chocolate eyes. I gather my things quickly so I can get out of there, because I donât know what just happenedâwhatâs happening. I donât know if itâs scary or exhilarating. I donât dare look back at him. I rush for the door.
THE NEXT DAY ITâS like my entire world revolves around preparing for study hall, even though I know itâs the least important part of the day. I should be worrying about my trig quiz next week, and the fact that I have no clue how to even properly work my calculator yet. I canât tell if Iâm obsessing over seeing Josh again because Iâm dreading it or because I canât wait. Or both, somehow.
When I get there, heâs already sitting with his friends. I stand in the doorway, not knowing what to do. I canât go over and just sit there. But then if I sit somewhere else, I donât want it to seem like I donât want to sit with him again. Heâs laughing with the guy in front of him, whoâs turned around in his chair, gesturing wildly.
But then the second bells rings. People are still filing in, and they push past me as I stand in the way. My heart starts racing as I try to make the decision. If he would just look over here and give me a sign that Iâm invited to sit back there again. But heâs not paying attention. He doesnât see me. He probably doesnât even remember yesterday.
âOkay, find your seats, everyone!â the teacher yells. So I sink into the seat closest to the door. I keep my eyes glued on the back of the kidâs neck in front of me while the teacher takes roll call. I am the biggest coward in the universe.
âEden McCrorey?â
I raise my arm, but he overlooks me.
âEden McCrorey?â he repeats, louder.
âHere,â I call back. And I canât help myself; I look behind me to the back corner of the room where heâs sitting. Heâs looking at me. I turn back around quickly. When the teacher finishes taking attendance, I hurry to the front of the room to have him sign my pass for the library. When I turn around to head for the door, Josh waves at me and points his thumb toward the empty desk next to his. As I get closer he motions for me to come over there. I really just want to run, though. But I remember about acting normal and smiling, so I walk over to him. His friends turn to look at me; itâs like theyâre evaluating