I love you like a fat kid loves cake.

The words stared up at me from the polished surface of my desk one Monday morning, taunting me to reply.

Who are you talking to? I scribbled. Seconds later, my inner grammar Nazi kicked in. I rubbed out my reply and tried again.

To whom are you speaking?

Heaving a sigh, I licked my finger and wiped away the graphite smudges marking my second attempt. Technically, he/she wasn't speaking.

To whom are you making that claim?

Now that sounded like I had an enormous stick up my ass.

"Miss Motts!" My teacher interrupted my internal dialogue before I changed what I'd written. "In what year did the Council of Trent begin?"

Who talks like that? And you, obviously.

My forehead wrinkled, though I wasn't sure whether from consternation or confusion.

That implies you know who I am. The edge of my l hooked up against the curve of the p in a way that reminded me of an open recliner. I shoved my textbook over it before I could obsess over handwriting; my love life was beyond pathetic if I'd been reduced to picking up guys via a desk.

That didn't stop my pulse from racing when I came in Wednesday and read, Didn't I just compare my feelings for you to a fat kid's fondness for cake? I don't say things like that to just anybody. Of course I know who you are.

I found myself looking around constantly, wondering if someone was watching me without my knowledge. Every time someone unusual spoke to me, I wondered if it was Desk Guy. When gorgeous but notoriously aloof Andrew Walsh held the door for me, when arrogant, flirtatious Adam Kim acknowledged me in the hallway, when geeky freshman Henry Wong loaned me his pencil in math… How was I to know?

Monday I skipped into history with more than the usual eagerness, but my disappointed gaze met a pristine desktop. I didn't catch the tiny black scribble along the right edge until I bent over to put my books in my bag at the end of class.

Effing janitors. I should sue for interference with attempted courtship rituals.

A smile spread across my face. This is a sorry excuse for an attempted courtship.

My apologies, Tuesday read. You look especially pretty this morning. Better?

I grinned. Much. How do you know? Are you stalking me?

I passed you on my way to school, the presumed-male responded. You looked happy singing with the radio.

Egads. Sorry you had to see that.

I'm not—I've always found your carefree enthusiasm attractive.

Thus our flirtatious banter continued until I found a message that stopped my heart.

Go to the Valentine's dance with me?

The Valentine's dance induced panic annually, but this year's date had me almost incapacitated. Despite my best surveillance efforts, I knew nothing about him but what he'd written. Of course I'd imagined things based on his tone and handwriting: smart but lazy, quirky, sexy… all right, wishful thinking. It was probably an unattractive nerd who couldn't get a normal date.

I skittered into history torn between anxiety and excitement.

Happy Valentine's Day, gorgeous. See you tonight.

P.S. I left you something.

Eagerly I ran my hand along the bottom of the desk. When I tugged off the piece of paper taped underneath, I found one of those little kids' valentines with a cartoon cat declaring, "You're PURRfect!" I rolled my eyes at the corniness, but the smile it evoked wouldn't budge the rest of the morning.

Minutes after I walked into the gym that night, Henry Wong approached.

"Mr. Franklin's class, second column, back row, right?"

My heart sank as I nodded. Henry was a sweet kid, but he hadn't hit puberty yet and, to the best of my knowledge, had never before demonstrated interest in a female that wasn't computer-generated. Still, if the person I'd been conversing with lay buried within that scrawny frame, I wasn't going to be superficial. "Would you like to dance?"

He was a head shorter than me, but he didn't step on my feet, and he was surprisingly engaging. Still, he didn't talk like my desk romancer. As the song ended, he declared ominously, "I know I don't look like much, but I'll find a way to crush you if you let him down." In response to my bewildered stare, he pressed another cardboard valentine into my hand bearing the familiar narrow scrawl.

Just checking. –Andrew Walsh

My head jerked up. I spied him leaning against the wall, distant and beautiful. My nervousness returned tenfold. When my eyes met his, Andrew offered a tentative smile and a half wave.

"You're Andrew Walsh."

First words out of my mouth, and instantly I knew they were the wrong ones. His smile disappeared and a mask passed over his features. Flustered, I blurted, "What happened with Henry?"

An eyebrow lifted. "I wanted to see whether you'd still like me if I weren't 'OMG, Andrew Walsh!'"

"Oh." I blinked, embarrassed. "Henry's pretty nice."

"Yeah, he's a good kid." His expression remained inscrutable.

I admitted, "I could tell he wasn't really Desk Guy, but I wasn't expecting you. Sorry for my Captain Obvious moment."

One corner of his lips lifted. "Who were you expecting?"

"Henry Wong," I grinned, relieved to see his mask cracking.

He chuckled, and my heart shone to match the stars in my eyes. "Sorry to disappoint." Sliding his fingers through mine, he tugged my hand lightly. "Let's dance."

As I shyly looped my arms around his neck, I inquired, "How'd you know who I was?"

He gave me the first real smile I'd ever seen on his face. "You wrote your name on the desk the first day of school."