Back to.you know, I'm not sure.

I'm trying to make this a very interesting story which will make me seem very interesting which will keep you interested, but to tell you the truth (which is not something I do very often) my life is incredibly boring. Actually, astoundingly boring. I myself fell asleep during the writing of this sentence.

My parents are divorced, but then again, most people are, except the ones which aren't married or in a long term relationship or dead, which of them, I'm not. Money Mother is rich and lives with all of the stars of the world; like Mary Poppins and other famous people. My dad and his boyfriend, Mike are my legal parents. It took my Money Mother ten years to work out my dad was gay in an astonishing (now that I come to think about it) mirror-imagey- sort-of-thing to Ross and his lesbian wife on Friends. I suspect that they will be coming to bankrupt Money Mother soon on accounts of copyright.

I'm sure that O God Please Say Yes has many girlfriends, many more goat- like and therefore more attractive than me. Maybe I can concentrate on being goat-like. Lengthen my face and therefore my goat-like-ness. Grow a goatee, like that guy on TV has.

What's it like having a goatee? Maybe kind of fuzzy, like O God Please Say Yes has. Maybe I could be in one of those freak shows: The Bearded Girl Named After A Toilet. But then again, maybe the mocking and chanting wouldn't be so great. You know, like all of those people who decide that just because a girl has a beard means that she is less feminine and attractive.

To be a goat, I will need to have those long ears and furry cheeks. I'm not sure I want furry cheeks.

They'd tickle, for a start.

Mrs Fester-Pester, you are still looking at me. I am sinking into the ground that is below my chair. And you are looking at me with a sick twisted kind of triumph that people like you can't get enough of. People are still laughing.

There is nothing in the known universe that can save me now. The walls are thick and prison-like, so it is unlikely that aliens will come down and beam me up to their mother ship. Nor is a lethal fire likely to destroy the brick-slash-tupperware-slash-cardboard school walls in the next five seconds. I am sorry to say that I cannot predict an earthquake happening in Plymouth happening soon. I am doomed. Dooooooomed.

I cannot feel any sympathy with Mrs Crazy-Wazy, even though she has saggy breasts that reach down to her thighs, and wears polka dot skirts. And, I am horrified to see, yellow eyes, and ITEACH earrings that you possibly think are at the height of cool. You are a cool cat. Dude.

Maybe I should come back to the whole movie star wannabe thing. Why do you do this? Perhaps you think that all of this is actually a movie-theatre cunningly disguised as a school and you are auditioning? Well, I'm sorry, Mrs Nasal-Frasal, but this is notiGone with the Wind/i. It is not even iGone with a Faint Breeze/i. This is anti-math and you are supposed to be teaching. This is anti-school.

Why is it anti-school? Because school is a fun place and this is not fun. School is for learning and this place is stupid. This place has not even got a library and who ever heard of a school without a library?

Mrs Moony-Loony, please turn around so that I can pass the note to O God Please Say Yes. Please. Stop your torture, stop your smirk.

"Well, Miss Brewster? What is wrong?"

Billy Beezer nudges me in the ribs and says "Just say you don't know. You're making a doofus out of yourself."

Billy Beezer is called that because she has a nose three times the size of a normal one. She could be an aardvark, a type of anteater which lives at the front of the dictionary. I don't know if you've tried, but in any dictionary you look in, there are no ones which do not have Aardvark as second entry. Billy could also be a sloth, a tailless mammal which sleeps, eats and dates upside down. But she is neither Aardvark nor Sloth; she is Billy Beezer, my friend who is not a friend.

She is not a friend because she is also going after O God Please Say Yes. But I am going to ask him out soon. Before Billy Beezer.

And then, it happens. O God Please Say Yes raises his hand and shouts out the answer without hesitation, thereby saving me from eternal doofusness and mockery for the rest of my life.

"That is correct"

He gives no obvious indication that he knows that he saved my life. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't say anything to me. But what he does is move his hand up to scratch the back of his neck, which can only be a secret sign that he loves me.

I scratch my nose in reply.

That is when I realise I will ask him out.

Mrs. Moonface turns her back on the class, slowly, slowly, almost like a morning slug who is trying to gain access to a puddle of beer.

Hurry up.

There is only five minutes of the lesson left, and I need to ask him out soon.

She turns, and completes her journey, and I smile, making the corners of my mouth turn up and up. The moment is at hand! My heart pumps.ik-wang, k- wang/i. My heart escapes from its ribs, swimming valiantly up my aorta and into my cartoid artery like a salmon heading for its breeding ancestry ground, somehow vaulting the blood barrier to my brain, pushing the main switchboard operator who normally sits there and is a notorious coward out of her swivel chair, and begins pulling levers.

My right hand rises, and begins to move slowly, sideway, like a submarine, travelling a sub-desk level to avoid teacher radar.

My right finger makes contact with the sacred warm of the hand of O god Please Say Yes!

He looks to see the notes hanging from my fingers like a maggot. He understands instantly.

He brings it up to his face.

Time stands still, literally. The sweeping second hand of the clock is frozen at 7.56.

He does not need to speak. The love which we share is beyond the boundaries of ordinary love. He does not need to tick the yes or no box. He need merely blink, and I will understand him. If he wrinkles his nose, I will fully understand the true fullness of his nose-wrinkling. In fact, so total is my concentration that I am sure that whatever he does I will be able to fully interpret it.

I would stake my life on it.

But what he does is this. He brings the note up, and, without looking at me, or even blinking, raises it to his lips. For a wild instant I think he is going to kiss it. But then his lovely lips, like rosebuds on a summer morning spread.

I can see his pearly white teeth.

He eats my note.

I am happy to say that no chewing was involved. He swallows it in one gulp, like a vitamin C tablet. I watch my note slide down his wide oesophagus.

He still has not looked at me.

The bell rings. The double void of space and time is fractured irreparably. Everyone suddenly stands and O God Please Say Yes is one of them. He is swept out of the classroom by his many friends without even a backward glance.

My deepest secret is now lodged, literally, deep inside him.