At this point, there is regrettably no telling how long such confusion will last, nor what various manifestations it may take. There is the possibility that said female will crop up in your classes with unnerving frequency over the next two years, making your already questionable public speaking skills degrade completely upon seeing her rapt eyes expressing a completely inappropriate level of interest in your presentation on the subjunctive tense. In Chemistry, the professor may assign her as a temporary replacement when your lab partner is sent home with a cold that turns into mono that leaves him incapacitated for the rest of the semester--all while she stays occupied accidentally setting your sweatshirt on fire with the Bunsen burner and giving you copies of the lecture notes you can never seem bothered to take, thereby allowing you to get by the weekly notebook check. Even if such circumstances must indeed be endured, one need not exacerbate the situation by making a habit of waiting for her at the end of each shared class; letting her just pass you by so that you can better sidle up behind her in the crowded halls, close enough to be hit accidentally by one of the swinging earrings that sparkle like miniature chandeliers against her brassy hair. Likewise, at lunch time great care must be taken to not have one's hour of literary solitude interrupted by the sound of ineptly-repressed laughter as she hunches over one of the library computers reading The Onion, accompanied by a cohort of likewise easily-amused friends.

Do not, despite your natural inclinations, ignore these friends. Within this group is the very key which may, if used correctly, unlock the iron maiden that is already beginning to mold itself around your heart. Do not despair when you notice that the dark-eyed Fencing club junkie pays too much attention to the same part of the anti-target's anatomy that distracts you constantly; pushed up as it is just beneath her low, square-cut tank top collars. This may seem like the very antithesis of a good thing, but remember the alternative. Remember the position of absolute powerlessness that you will throw yourself into if you do not overcome these small jealousies, these gathering concerns...

Those companions, both male and female, may appear devoted, but it will nevertheless be very easy to find your target (of avoidance, of course) alone, whether in the aforementioned circumstances, or, increasingly, in all the times before, after or in between. Whether this is her doing, or yours, or some mutual unspoken agreement is irrelevant so long as one remembers that it is definitely, absolutely forbidden to indulge in any of those activities officially sanctioned for teenage social interaction. Parties and dances unquestionably head this particular list.

In the event that this advice is ignored, do not panic by rushing into any impulsive declarations, confessions or the like, of which you can be assured would result in having to a. somehow codify and officially sanction this attachment b. either introduce her to your mother or explain to the girl why such a thing is frankly impossible, and in fact, you can't promise her anything beyond the scraps of corny poetry and industrial mix CDs until you've managed to both obtain a double-major in Political Science and Astrophysics while simultaneously attaining Russian Orthodox priesthood. There is also some footnote about having an ethnically correct wife in this fantasy your mother has spun since your infancy, but any mention of this would both raise and lower hopes to ridiculously unnecessary extremes.

As comical as it all may sound, these are serious matters to consider, and accompanied by many vaguer concerns as well, some of which you might admit as fears.

What does any of this mean? You are afraid because the sight of her unbearably loopy scrawl alone makes your heart beat like a cocaine addict's when you secretly pore over her notes later at home, looking in the doodled-over margins for some secret message of her similarly deranged state? You are afraid because you feel compelled to shadow her to the art studio every Seventh period, however late it makes you to Pre-Calc? You are afraid because you were foolish enough to entrust her with the first edition of Tolstoy's "Resurrection" that has, despite its heretical notions and general lack of good form, traveled over the Pacific after seven generations in the family library?

You are afraid because this all means something, something which you cannot bear to label.

(Furthermore, all of these emotions are almost definitely indicative of the fact that you, not her, suffer from some mental illness).

All of this self-important musing notwithstanding, you'll have to think up some retort in preparation for the moment when, out of some exuberance produced either by too much Cherry Coke, the darkly lit surroundings, some cultural illiterate's idea of what electronica sounds like (or, admittedly more likely, the fact that the two of you are close enough to feel the slightly damp warmth of each other's breath), she says, "Alex--I...I really like you," in a manner so strangely innocent and offhand that you can almost ignore her huge grey eyes unabashedly pleading for the kiss that you are absolutely sure you should not give her, however much you want to.

You will likely kiss her anyway, so it's probably useless to discuss the saner alternative. At this point, any words you say will carry far too much weight in the future, so it's better not to speak at all, if possible.

So yes, you will kiss her, lingering on her lips just long enough to taste their sweet, artificially fruity flavor, holding the hard bones of her shoulders with a clench that explains everything with embarrassing clarity.

You will turn away while simultaneously dropping everything, dropping her. She will stagger at first, then follow you outside to where you stand pensively against the damp, lemon-colored walls of the gymnasium; your dramatic exit unfortunately cut short by the fact that it is pouring rain and you left your jacket inside. You can't turn to face her; your legs are frozen in the mid-evening chill.

"What did that mean? What does any of this mean?" (Her thoughts echo yours word-for-word; is this consolation or another step further down into madness?) Her eyes flash now; their former fawn-like submissiveness turning to hard, silver glitter underscored by jet eyeliner. "Is this amusing to you, nothing else? I don't understand. Why do you...why did you...if you don't..." She will stop herself, holding her hair back with one fishnet-gloved hand, waiting for you to explain what she is too afraid to ask. She knows everything; everything will be absolved if only you find the courage to admit it aloud. To accept all that it means.

This is the point on which everything turns. Though the coming months, years, will be a trial; will make you think that you should have shrugged off every consideration other than the impulse to make out with her madly in the rain, it will all be worth it in the end. However recklessly she thrusts her heart at you in this moment, she too will regret it, will reconsider, will waste everything for the sake of a fickle spirit that cannot help but run self-destructively after admiration--

There is no answer. Just wait, counting raindrops, until she turns back to the sweaty warmth and droning beat, leaving you as alone as you wished to be.

An achievement, surely, but not the end.