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Mr. French is old and speaks like he's stuck in molasses. I swear his hair isn't real because it's a perfect pat of white on top of his head the hair on the sides is a lot more thin. Usually Tristan and I sit on opposite sides of the classroom but I decide to try something new, and sit next to him in the back. He doesn't seem to care that someone's invading his planet.

I take out my binder and open it to the notebook paper I keep at the back. I find myself writing a very in-depth story about a boy who has super powers but faints every time he uses them. I include some very tricky details, supplied by the babe mom of the main character, that he lacks sufficient electrolytes to withstand the energy it takes to produce lightning from his fingertips. I hope Tristan isn't looking. I glance out of the corner of my eye and catch him drawing someone. At first I think it's Mr. French because of the short hair, then I notice it's supposed to be me. As he draws my eyes in with extreme care, I look away slowly, hoping he can't feel my real eyes on him. My face is hot and I know I must look like a retarded tomato right now. Tristan is drawing me, and I don't look like a string-bean with Astro Boy bed-head in his picture. I actually look like me. The me that I pray other people see, instead of the me that I have convinced myself they see. I can't help but feel a little flattered and begin to round out the main character's description so he looks like Tristan the way I see him. Blonde, brown eyes, freckles, and definitely not ugly. Or so I hope. He'll never read it, but if he ever does, I want it to be just as flattering as his drawing is to me. And it's safe to say I don't know what the heck happened regarding actual Biolody in Bio class today.

After school lets out, I go straight to the front of the school to see if Tristan is walking home again today. As expected, there he is, doodling on a bench under the school's front awning thing. I walk up to him as casually as possible and wave a hand in the space between his face and the paper.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Wanna come over tomorrow? You know, just to hang?" He looks at me with an indescribable expression that I would place somewhere between surprise and excitement.

"Yeah. I'll ask my dad."

"Sweet. Well, see you then!"

"Wait! Finley! What's your number, so I can let you know if I can go or not." Shit. I'd actually have to give him my phone number which meant I was practically inviting him to call me which made this whole thing five frickin' times more awkward.

"Uh… Lemme borrow your pencil a sec," I say, and he hands that and his notebook to me. I spot the drawing of myself on the bottom left-hand corner of the page, but pretend not to see it as I write my number at the top. I hand his two pieces of property back and jam my hands into my pockets. He looks at it, then nods at me. I wave over my shoulder as I jog down the sidewalk to my mum's car. I guess I've made friends with Tristan O'Keefe after all. Whatever.