âHey, can I, uhâŠhire you?â
I splayed my fingers over the notebook page in front of me. It was blank, save for a few doodles populating the margins. They werenât good, but at least they were recognizable. Wonder Woman. Daphne from Scooby-Doo. A poorly rendered Katara.
I twisted in my seat, back cracking like a glow stick. Tyler stood behind me, hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts. His grin was a little crooked in the way that I knew most girls at school liked. I guess it was pleasant enough, if you took the time to consider it.
âMy going rate is five dollars,â I said, shifting my elbow on my desk so it covered my notebook. The barest suggestion of heat filled my cheeks at the mere thought of getting caught drawing Daphne in my notebook. Iâd drawn little hearts around her head and everything.
Tyler pulled a crumpled up five dollar bill from his pocket, smoothing it out as best he could before extending it to me. It still retained most of its original crinkles, looking more like crumpled tissue paper than money.Â
Snatching it from his hands, I tugged on the bill, holding it up to the disgusting fluorescents that schools were so fond of. I didnât know what I was looking for, exactly, but Iâd seen my dad hold up $100 bills to lamps. And besidesâit made me look official.
I folded the five in half and tucked it into the breast pocket of my old flannel shirt. âWhoâs it for?â
I didnât have to specify exactly what Tyler was hiring me for. All of the boys in school knew about my âservice,â as it were: I wrote love poems for them to give to their girlfriends. They were never more than a few lines long, and rarely specific, unless the boys gave me something they wanted to say.Â
I got the feeling Tyler wasnât going to give me any specifics, the way he kept aiming that stupid grin at me. I kept my expression impassive as I blinked at him, waiting for an answer.
It was truly a struggle to keep my expression tame. Iâd written poem upon poem before, for dozens of boys about dozens of girls. But Iâd never written one for someone like Keira before. Unlike Tyler, she wasnât super popular, but she was super pretty. She had these brown eyes that somehow looked good in the bright hospital lighting of our middle school classrooms, and her curly hair was the color of cinnamon. And her lipsâ
I had to stop. My heart felt caught in my throat as I pushed my feelings down, down, down. âI didnât know you two were dating,â I managed, casting a glance across the classroom where Keira sat bent over her notebook, scribbling away. Throughout the school, she was known for her art skillsâsheâd even gotten an award from the art department last year.
âWeâre not,â Tyler said. He bit down on his lower lip quickly, tossing a look at Keira. âYet,â he added, the word spat out faster than the others. âI hope this poem will be a good way to ask her out.â
âSo you want me to write a poem asking her out?â
Tyler nodded, his floppy blond hair dropping over his eyes. He tossed his head almost violently to the side, clearing the strands from his face. It was a classic popular-guy move. Was it meant to show how nice their hair was? I donât know. It wasnât the same as when Keira twirled a curl around her pencil.
âSure,â I said. âIâll give it to you at lunch, âkay?â
Tyler nodded and spun on his heels, bouncing to his group in the back of the class. He fist bumped with one of his cronies and tossed himself into his chair with reckless abandon. The teacher began her lesson on the Civil War, but I wasnât planning on listening to any of it.
Iâd never admitted this to anyone, but Iâve had a crush on Keira since fifth grade. I didnât even know it was a crush, at firstâIâd admired her art, the way she colored the lips, the way the freckles dotted her portraits, how she knew exactly where the light was supposed to be. And I liked watching her get better over the years. She put my superhero doodles to shame.
At some pointâand I donât know what pointâI looked at Keiraâs drawings less and looked at Keira more. I liked the way she had graphite smudged across her fingertips, or clay still stuck under her nails. I liked the brown of her skin, how it seemed warm no matter what season it was. I liked the sound of her laugh from across the library, and the giggles that followed after the librarian shushed her and her other art friends.
It was easy to write Tylerâs poem. I talked about her art, her callused hands, how she captured images of people so well and I wished she could capture me, too. JustâŠnot on paper. I wanted her to capture me in her arms and hold me and kiss me and stroke my hair and dot paint on my nose.
When I finished, I smoothed my hands across my notebook sheet and carefully tore it on the perforated line, making sure the rip wasnât perfect like a boyâs wouldnât have been. It was a last ditch effort, because the poem was written in my handwriting. Usually I made some attempt to obscure my scrawl and make it more chaotic, harder to read, but Iâd gottenâŠdistracted. It was a common theme with me, Iâd noticed. Always distracted, always thinking about life like it was dipped in rosewater and colored pink.Â
The tinny bell dismissing us to lunch rang throughout the classroom. The teacher clapped her hands together, thanking God that it was lunch because she was hungrier than âheck.â As if weâd never heard a swear before.
I stuffed my notebook into my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder as I watched Keira. She tossed her head back and gave one of her friends a glowing smile. The ticking of the clock even seemed slower, the world stopping to wait as she gathered her things. She tucked her sketchbook into her book bag and crossed it over her body, its canvas body slapping against her ink-stained jeans.Â
At lunch, Tyler was easy to find. He sat perched on top of the lunch table as one of the cafeteria monitors snapped at him to get down. One of his friends clapped his leg good-naturedly as he slipped down from his perch. I caught his eye and jerked my head at the water fountain.
I went myself to get a drink, leaving the folded-up piece of looseleaf on the back of it, safe from water splashes. After taking a quick drink, I walked away, my back turned as Tyler approached the fountain in my stead. Careful eyes might have caught him pocketing the note, but it went largely unnoticed. I kept my gaze on Keira, but she wasnât even looking at Tyler. Itâs like he wasnât even on her radar.Â
I sat down at the corner of my little lunch table. I sat with my âfriends,â but we were all bookworms. We just pulled out our latest novels to read while we ate. Some did homework. No one spoke. It was a bookclub of sorts, and none of us minded the lack of conversation.Â
I pulled my book from my bag as I settled into my seat, facing the rest of the student body so I could watch as it all went down. Tyler twiddled the note in his fingers, shaking it like it was burning. It was a sharp contrast to his confident stride as he walked right up to Keira and the rest of the art kids.Â
He handed her the note, his hand not even trembling, that irritating crooked smile on his face. Carefully, Keira took it from him. She pinched it between her paint-stained fingers as she unfolded it, brows furrowed.
I didnât want to stay attached. It wasnât very business-like; I was supposed to watch the girls, write the poetry, and clean my hands of it. And sometimes I did, even if I looked at the girl a little bit later. But I had already been looking at Keira, and the poem just gave me a chance to really say what Iâd been dying to. Tyler hadnât even read itâheâd just taken it with the confidence that Iâd written something good. That feeling glowed in my chest.
Something wasnât right, though. Usually, the girls would say something like, âDid you write this?â It looked like Keira was following the scriptâbut Tyler wasnât. Because he pointed at me.Â
I slammed my book shut in front of me. I hadnât even been reading it, but it didnât matter now. Nothing mattered now.
Stuffing it into my bag, I rose quickly from my table and ducked out into the hallway. I hadnât heard any laughter, but it would only be a matter of time.Â
It was always just a matter of time.
I should have known better than to trust Tyler. The schoolâs so-called pretty boy, Mr. Popular, Mr. Perfect. Boys like him werenât nice to girls like me; they were cruel. Every single movie Iâd ever seen had told me that. Tyler lived up to expectations. Expectations I should have had.
I pressed my back against the cinderblock wall, the painted white bricks only sort of rough through the fabric of my hoodie. Slowly, dramatically, I sank down until I was crouched in a little ball. Burning tears stung my eyes. No matter how quickly I wiped them away, more came.
The cafeteria door swung open. A flash of sound rose through the open door and cut off just as quickly. I didnât look to see who it was. Hopefully theyâd just go to the bathroom and not say anything.
Crap. Crap. Crap. I wiped my eyes one final time, catching my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt as I turned to look up at her. The fluorescent was hidden behind her head, casting her unruly mane of hair in a halo of light. The note was held loosely between trembling fingers.
She squatted down, then thought better of her position and twisted until her back was pressed up against the wall, too. âYou wrote this?â
It was the same old script Iâd heard a hundred times. I sniffled, opening my mouth a bit to reply, but the words turned to dust on my tongue. I nodded instead.
âItâs, uhâŠitâs really good. Like, scary good.â Her words were tinted with a smile, and I blinked through the tears until I could see that she held no malice in her gaze. Just awe, and kindness. âI wish I could make something like this.â
I laughed. It was short, like a bark, and echoed down the cavernous school hallway. âWhat are you talking about? Did you even read the poem? Your art is insane! Itâs the best Iâve ever seen. I mean it.â It was more words than I usually said to anyone. And they were quick, like a river, and just as energetic. Maybe not as smooth.
Keira grinned at me and set the note on the ground between us. âAnd you meant it all?â
I nodded again. I couldnât have another river pouring out of my mouth. That was possibly even more embarrassing than being caught crying on the hallway floor.
There wasnât even time to blink. Keiraâs mouth pressed against mine. For the brief moment we touch, my lips burned. Sheâd caught them on fireâpoured gasoline on me, lit a match, and I was ablaze.
It was over as quick as it had come, as though she was afraid someone would see. Shouldnât I have been afraid, too? Thatâs why Iâd come out here, after all. To hide from people who would hiss the words at me: Lesbian. Homo. Dyke.
But Keira didnât say any of that stuff. She didnât swear, or hiss, or spit. Sheâd kissed me. âYou meant it all,â she repeated.
âI already said yes,â I replied.
There was a pause. It lingered on her lips. I thought lips were supposed to be ripe and red from kissing, but herâs werenât. I guess a kiss has to last for more than a second to make them all pink and stuff. But I couldnât stop looking at them.Â
ââŠEven the part about asking me out? You meant that?â
My gaze drifted from her lips up to her eyes, and it was clear that she was serious. I pinched the bottom of my hoodie. âI-I mean, I was asking for Tyler, butââ
âTyler doesnât want to ask me out, though,â she said. âTyler wanted you to ask me out.â
Keira nodded. Her arm fell as she let her fingers drift across the folded up note, ripped poorly but penned in my hand. And Iâm glad I hadnât changed my handwriting. Iâm glad it wasnât perfect, but that it was mine.Â
âSo what do you say?â Keira asked. âWill you go out with me?â
I could even answer. I just dipped my head in towards hers, quicker than anything, striking like an asp with my lips. This press lasted longer than the first, and my hand drifted up to brush one of her curls away like Iâd seen in movies. I ended up losing my balance a bit and falling into her.Â
The kiss broke, and we both descended into laughter. It was bright, brighter than the school bells.Â
âYes, Keira Haggerty. Iâll go out with you.â
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