-All I can say is READ WITH AN OPEN MIND-

I leaned back in the old, beat up desk, and as I did it made an obnoxious squeaking sound. I winced at the noise but no one else in my Algebra class seemed to have heard it. I didn’t bother trying to pay attention. I sat in the very back, second to last row, with no one on either side of me. I had the whole little corner to myself. The teacher is still talking and since my class if made up of those strange creatures that actually care about school, the room is quiet expect for her voice as she explained something about exponents, or wait, was it square roots. . .?

My notebook is open and I am idly playing with my pencil; I am ready; should she actually look back here, I will pretend to be taking notes. I knew she never would though. I glanced down at the blank notebook paper. On top of it, folded up with my name written in large, almost unreadable handwriting, is a letter from my girlfriend, well, ex-girlfriend, now, I suppose. It was a three page letter rambling about how she wanted space and high school wasn’t time to commit to a relationship. Translation: she met someone else. I didn’t care; honestly we had only been dating for a few weeks, and only because a mutual, and very pushy friend insisted we were perfect together. That’s someone I’m never speaking to again.

I do feel annoyed over the paper she wasted in order to tell me. Poor tree. She really didn’t need to write the excessively long, rambling, not to mention almost impossible to read, letter to tell me something she could has said in two seconds. Why do girls have to make things so dramatic? Girls are so silly, why I normally don’t date

I snapped back to reality just in time to see the teacher coming around to check homework. I quickly flipped to the front of my notebook to hid my ‘notes’ or a mostly blank page with some scribbles in the margins. I pulled out my worksheet--- complete with numbers I made up. She was the kind of teacher that thought ‘effort’ started with an ‘A’. I wasn’t going to complain. She walked by, looked over my sheet, gave me the red check mark that meant I’d gotten my 100 before giving me a funny look and walking away. Were my answer’s that random? Oh well, class was over as far as I was concerned. We were supposed to be doing our homework for tonight, but for me, that translated to nap time. I pushed the notebook forward on the desk but before I could lay my head down, a bit of scribbling on the corner of the desk caught my eye.

It wasn’t uncommon for there to be writing all over these desk. They were very old, dirty, and falling apart. The teacher didn’t care about people writing on them, carving into them, or sticking their gum underneath them. They were never cleaned and random scribbles, doodles and notes dotted the large top of the tan desk.

I think it was the handwriting. Neat, small, but there was something soft about it; it stuck out among the scribbles in the big blocky handwriting, not unlike my ex-girlfriend’s.

I looked at the handwriting, so neat and soft, it was a girl’s, I decided. No guys wrote like that; it was all neat, and soft, and pretty, each letter looked perfectly formed. It was only two words. But somehow it stuck with me.

So boring. . . The letters spelled out. I never wrote on the desks, but I put my pencil to the desk and responded in my messy, uneven handwriting.

Yeah, I agree.

I don’t really know why I wrote it and I forgot about it completely until the next day when I glanced at my desk in fifth period and saw that there was another statement in that prefect, soft, handwriting under my own.

She can’t teach, but it’s not like math is exciting in the first place.

The words made me smile. And I wasn’t sure why, but my pencil descended on the desk once again to write a response. That was how it went, for I don’t know how many days. Our random notes back and forth actually made me look forward to the period I normally dreaded. It got to the point that we had to start erasing our conversations to avoid coving the whole desk in our scribbles. I laughed at the thought of the others who sat in that desk, and them reading our conversations.

She could draw and she drew random sketches among our notes. They were never of one thing, and always a little on the abstract side. I loved her drawings, just the way she drew. It wasn’t like the normal scribble flowers and oversized hearts that most girls liked to draw.

After nearly two weeks of this conversating via desk, I began to think about this mysterious girl. I wanted to meet her, learn more about her, have an actual face to face conversation with her. What period was she in? What was her name? I avoided asking these questions at the risk of sounding too stalker-ish. Our conversations were always light hearted and humorous. I was never good at telling if girls were flitting in person, let alone through their hand writing. But I liked to imagine the girl smiling mischievous as she scribbled something down in that soft, pretty, enchanting handwriting to respond to my latest remark. I really wanted to meet her. I didn’t even know if she came in the class room before or after me.

One day there was a question scribbled on the desk in small letters. I almost missed it at first. But I saw that it read What period are you in?

I smiled and happily wrote down, under her tiny, but still perfect handwriting that I was in fifth. The next day there was a command on the desk.

Look under the desk.

Confused but excited I felt under the desk, careful to avoid the wads of chewed gun stuck there god knows how long ago. My fingers brushed over the piece of paper folded and stuck under the bar of the desk.

My heart suddenly sped up and I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t know this girl, all I knew about here I gathered from our random vague in direct conversation. Why was I responding like this? Did I really like this girl? Was that even possible? Regardless or not if it was possible, I think I really did like her. She was down to earth, had a good, but rather strange sense of humor, and somehow, seemed a little reserved. She seemed so different from all the shallow, air-headed, pushy girls I knew.

I unfolded the letter and decided at once, what was going on. I was in love with her handwriting.

I was so entranced at the sight of some much of her handwriting on one page that I had to reread the note three times before I actually comprehended anything. I noticed the small doodles in the margins along with random comments and bits of off-color jokes.

She said in the letter that she figured she could leave notes because she was in third period and fourth was the teacher’s off period. I smiled; at least I knew what period she was in. I wished that I knew someone in third period so I could ask them about her. I kept trying to picture her, but I don’t think it mattered what she looked like, I was already in love with her handwriting.

I suddenly wondered what she would think of me, were we ever to meet. I guess I was okay looking. I was tall and lanky, never being one to play too many sports. I brushed back my messy brown hair, and wondered if she would care that it always seemed to fall in my eyes. But I hoped that she wouldn’t care what I looked like. Maybe it would be best to stay like this, maybe she would be weirded out should I insist on meeting.

We exchanged three notes under the desk before I realized that it had been a month since I had chosen to answer that first perfectly written comment.

Finally I wrote on our fourth note, figuring I couldn’t sound too creep since it had been so long, “Hey, would you want to eat lunch with me one day? You seem pretty cool.”

I was happy with those words, though nervous that she might decline. Still I folded the note up and slid it to our hiding place under the desk. I knew it was safe; we automatically checked under the desk for notes, and didn’t write on the desk top anymore; there was little chance of anyone finding the letters.

My heart was racing the next day. I was looking forward to fifth period and I was anxious. Every girl I passed in the hallway, I couldn’t help but wonder, was that her? Who is she? I finally settled into my desk in algebra and took a deep breath before pulling the note from under the desk.

Yes. That was the only word I caught at first. My heart was jumping wildly in my chest. I nearly didn’t catch the last part but was glad that I did.

You seem cool too. And next to it she drew a small smiley face. I had hated it when my ex-girlfriend used those things in her pointless notes to me. Maybe it was because she used the smiles and oversized hearts so much, that they had just lost any meaning they once had. However, this was the first smiley face I had seen in her handwriting. That made it special, at least in my mind.

I responded with a letter telling her where I sat during lunch and saying it would be cool to finally meet her.

I folded the note and slid it under the desk, never feeling so nervous and so excited at the same time in my entire life.

Only one more day.

I don’t know how I made it throw that next day. Everything seemed to pass in a long, seemingly endless blur. By lunch I was so hyped over everything I couldn’t eat.

I sat outside with a few friends. I loved the courtyard, it was always better than the cramped lunch room, still more people chose to eat in there, even now when it was spring and rather nice outside. There was a large open area filled with picnic tables and smaller benches and a few small trees. I had a brief overly romantic thought of sitting under the trees with the mystery girl, but I laughed at it. I had gathered that she, too, disliked the overly formal, mushy stuff that seemed to come with high school dating---not as though we were dating.

I excused myself from my friends’ table and moved to a smaller one off to the side; one with a good view of the doors to the school. Any second. Needing something to do I fished a bag of chips from my bag and munched at it. My head jerked up when I heard the doors open above the laughing and chattering of the few people outside. But when I saw that it was only a guy I was about to go back to eating my chips when I noticed a ripped and empty backpack was on his shoulders while he was struggling with a large pile of books and binders.

I was the closest one to him, and he was a smaller guy too, and it made the sight that much more pathetic. I had to help. Besides, I needed something else to busy myself, so I stood up and walked over to him.

“Hey, need a hand?” I asked, but was already grabbing for the top notebook.

“Yeah---um, thanks,” he said, meekly, and I couldn’t help but notice how soft his voice was. He flashed a grateful smile as I took a few of the top books from him, lightening his load. Suddenly a piece of paper sticking out from a book caught my eye.

The handwriting. That was her handwriting. I had pretty much memorized it, and there was no doubt in my mind. Was this guy a friend of hers? I didn’t say anything about it though. I didn’t want to sound too creepy.

“Where are you sitting?” I asked, calmly, though I was still unnerved by the sight of her handwriting in this guy’s possession.

“Um, over there is fine----” he tried to motion over to where I had been sitting but the remaining books and notebooks slid from his arms and fell to the ground, scattering papers everywhere.

“Oh crap!” he exclaimed, but even though he was obviously distressed, his voice still seemed soft, and timid. He muttered, obviously embarrassed and dropped down to start gathering up the papers before a spring breeze carried them away. I knelt down, too , and started helping with gathering up the paper.

Then it hit me. I froze and looked around at the papers. No. It couldn’t be.

Every last paper was covered in her handwriting. No. Wait. His. His handwriting. I stayed still, a stack of his papers clutched in my hand. My mind was wrestling this; it didn’t make sense! Well, actually, it all made sense, that’s why it was so senseless! We had never disgusted genders. At least she…he hadn’t. I mentioned something about having an ex girlfriend sometime during the notes, but no, she….he, never said anything one way or the other. I had assumed that much. All based on her…HIS handwriting.

I looked down at the papers in my hand, taking in the fact that it was HIS handwriting starting back up at me. That handwriting I had grown to love.

I looked up at the guy, who seemed oblivious to my state of shock as he stuffed papers back into binders.

“Thank you,” he said, and reached out to take the papers from my hand. I was so surprised I let go quickly and jumped to my feet. I wasn’t sure what to do. This was the same person, right? I looked at his hands, they were small, with short nails, but there was something soft looking about them; those were the hands that created the letters I loved.

“You’re welcome,” I said, and smiled without thinking. I wondered if he knew of my assumptions. I decided he didn’t and I wanted to keep it that way.

I had seen him around somewhere. He wasn’t the most popular kid; my eyes went to his torn backpack. A normal high school problem, but his bag didn’t just look torn, it looked ripped, slashed. I didn’t think it broke on its own. I had heard the rumors about him. But wasn’t sure I cared. Actually I know I didn’t care.

“Sorry I was late,” he said, and I could imagine his soft words, printed on paper in that beautiful handwriting. “Bag broke!” He smiled and moved to set down the notebooks he was still holding on the table. He sat and I followed suit, sitting across from him.

“It’s okay,” I said, quietly. And it was okay.

It didn’t matter what hands wrote the words. What mattered was that I was in love with his handwriting.

-I know, slash hints but I couldn’t label it slash because that spoils the plot x3-