He was sitting behind her in class, as he did so very often when able to. He liked the smell of her perfume and the look of her hair, how it sat perfectly as if formed my massive amount of hairspray, like Tracyâs hair in the musical. But she never smelled like hairspray, it was more like hint of strawberry and vanilla, something he was always able to sniff from the air when he sat behind her. It was explainable how she could be so close to him almost everyday, and yet so out of reach for him, it wasnât only a mister to the boy, but also a clutter of frustration, because he wanted to reach out to her, to touch her, but he never could, something always stopped him, as if there was something in the way, something between them, a huge force field, made out of nothing, in the empty air between their tables.
He felt helpless to the fact that he wanted to talk to her, but never could utter one word, be it casually or on more serious terms. As usually when a ball of desperation and frustration hit him, heâd turn to comedy, making a small paper ply and m throwing it casually at Frankie when no one was looking. Perhaps she would notice him, perhaps sheâd turn around and look at him, even laugh, oh how heâd love to see her laugh.
