***************He's so stalking us.
The small white paper look surreal in my hand.
I write quickly, and pass it to her without the teacher noticing.Don't you find it annoying?
She asks another question. Figures; a typical response from her.
Not really. I think he's nice. I don't bother to mention that I have a major crush on him, and that every moment I spend with him is total bliss for me.
Tired of writing, she resorts to whispering.
"He follows us everywhere. He sits with us in all our classes and everything. He's such a geek."
Somehow, I knew she would say that. Her life was so simple. I want = I get. I don't want, I don't like, I don't care; hers was a surface world of unreality. And all she cared about was how cute or how hot a guy was. She never saw anything past it. Nothing at all.
"I bet he likes you," I joked with her, and she made a face of total disdain.
"Gross, he's so ugly," she says, with her slight Russian accent. "I could never like a guy like him."
We turn back to the teacher, who's still talking away about something or rather. She was a tiny little woman, and she seemed to love hearing her own voice, so we were all content to let her talk. She never gave us homework anyways.
"And so myths are passed down because…"
I tune out again, trying to find something to do to keep from falling asleep. I wanted to tease her, to bug her a little bit, so for the fun of it I write a question on my hand.
I poke him gently on the back with my pen so that he turns around.
It's those grey eyes again. Such beautiful grey eyes he has, and he has no idea what they do to me. I lift my hand up, showing him the question.
"Her?" he asks, a little bewildered. "You mean do I like her?"
I nod my head, not wanting to talk, a mischievous grin plastered on my face.
"That came out of the blue," he says, taken back by the straightforwardness of the enquiry. His soft mellow voice drifts to my ears. He considers for a moment before replying.
"I dunno, maybe," he answers with a shrug. I should have been satisfied, and for my own sake I should have stopped, but for some reason I pressed on.
"Come on, you do so like her," I tease him, and his cheeks start to turn the slightest shade of red. I felt my heart drop.
"Maybe I do," he says again, his cheeks redder now. I hadn't felt well all morning, dealing with a very queasy stomach, and that queasiness abruptly returned. I knew I had to stop there, but I didn't. Perhaps it was because I wanted him to deny my accusations and proclaim that he liked me instead, perhaps it was because I needed to know. Either way, I kept pressing forward.
"Just say it, you like her. You follow her around everywhere," I tease with a smile, although inside my mind was screaming for me to stop. The queasiness came in another painful wave, and I almost doubled over in pain.
"I follow everyone," his excuse comes. Why are you following two girls? I felt like saying to him, but I didn't. "Besides, I was in the cafeteria first, before you two came in."
I couldn't believe what he was saying. Yes, he was in the caf first, and yes, we walked past him on our way in, but we didn't tell him to come sit with us.
"You came and sat with us," I say in an emphasised voice. He opens his mouth to argue, but finally admits defeat.
"Ok, I like her," he says, somewhat dejectedly. "I really like her." I stop breathing, and suddenly it felt like the world had ended. I had been trying to convince myself I felt nothing for him, but obviously it hadn't been working. The sharp pang of those words rang in my ears, in my mind, and he had no idea how much they hurt me. It was strange how a couple simple words from one person could end your world. And he had just ended mine.
"I knew it. It was so obvious," I mock him with a laugh, and the corners of his lips curve into a small smile. "Can I tell her?"
"I'd rather you don't," he requests, and I agree. It wasn't something I felt like talking about again anyways.
"I heard you two talking," she pulls me aside as soon as we're out the door. "So, he likes me?"
"Yep," I laugh at her facial expression. "Lucky you." And she never knew how much I wished that it could be her saying that to me instead of vice versa.
"Eew, that's really not funny. He's totally not my type. Besides, I like someone else."
She talks on about her crushes: a cute baby-faced guy, a hot math teacher, and a whole bunch of others she wasn't able to name. I listen half-heartedly, not really caring anymore. I had been looking forward to lunch, but food seemed dull compared to how I felt. The queasiness wouldn't let up.
The outside air didn't do too much to lift my spirits. It was all the same: the smokers, the druggies, the guys checking out girls and vice versa. We sat calmly under the shade of a large willow tree, with an addition of two more to our merry gang. The three of them talk animatedly about something—a TV show of sorts—while my fingers play with the dead grass beneath us. I tuck my knees in and hug them to my chest, staring out unseeingly to the scene around me. I saw no skateboards, no people playing football, no man walking his Great Dane. All I saw was the emptiness I felt—the loneliness—the darkness without him to be my light. He had made me feel special, worthwhile, and I'll always thank him for that. If he would be happy with someone else, her, I would always be his friend, as she was my friend also.
"Are you ok?" she notices my silence. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, just that queasy stomach again," I reply, pasting on a fake smile that I didn't feel. She seemed content with my answer, however, and turns back to her talking.
I stare at her for a moment longer.
You have no idea, do you? No idea…
As if to reply, my stomach sends out another indescribable flash of internal pain. I gasp, sucking in a pained breath. I'm still feeling queasy.