September

"He likes you."

"He does not."

"He does." I grab my Calc textbook and stuff it in my bag, causing it to sway violently. Then I exasperatedly sigh and turn to him.

"Silas, look. Remember last year when he went to that convention and met that guy who he said was cute? That's who he likes. Okay? I know what I'm talking about."

"Grace, that was like a year ago."

"Ten months." I turn back to my bag and in one smooth motion sling it over my shoulder.

"Which is basically a year! Come on, you guys spend all your time together-"

"Yeah, cause we're best friends. And I don't want to ruin that."

"You won't, because he likes you.

I grab my chair and shove it under the table before turning to stride out of the classroom.

"You won't know if you don't try!" His voice calls after me as I continue striding forward, my steps heavy and forceful. What does he know? What does he know about holding expectations in your heart, expectations that you know make you greedy but that you can't help having? Expectations that cause your heart to be pricked by little needles of disappointment and guilt each day when they're not met. Expectations that make you to choke back words for fear of crossing a line or play it off with a fake smile, calling it a "joke" when you clearly know it's not-

He's there. Through the glass in the classroom. I can see his fuzzy curls bouncing around the top of his head as he laughs and the corner of his eyes crinkle in that adorable way. I see him wave goodbye as he hoists his bag, pushes his chair in, and starts walking towards the door. He notices me outside the glass and, if possible, his face alights even further. His steps quicken and with it I feel something within my heart like an active volcano, boiling, churning, about to erupt-

"I like you." He's about to step through the door but upon hearing my words, he freezes. A moment later his face relaxes back into a smile.

"I like you too."

"No. As more than a friend." He stops short, his eyes widen. I gaze at him intently, waiting for a response.

"HEY GRAC-aw shit, you're doing it now?" Suddenly, a voice comes from my right and I exasperatedly turn to face my friend Simon.

"Yes, I'm doing it now. Now shush."

"Ok, if you say so. But um..." His gaze is pointed towards the classroom and mine follows his. He's gone. Chris is gone. The doors to the classroom are empty and he's nowhere in sight.

Five minutes later Simon is carrying me down the last flight of steps to the art studio and I'm sobbing my eyes out, droplets falling like marbles down my splotchy red tomato of a face.

"He rejected meeeeeeeeee!" Silas was wroooooong!" I moan, the words coming out in a garbled mess along with the waterfall of tears. In the midst of all this my other friend, Jason, ambles over.

"What happened...oh". Simon gives him a look. "Well, um, you can have my sweatshirt if you'd like...?"

Grabbing the soft navy sweatshirt from his outstretched hand, I bury my face in it's cottony fluff.

"Oh, uh, do you mind washing that before giving it back...?"

"Shut up!"

"Got it."

I spend the rest of class crying and by the time I head out with my bag and Jason's sweatshirt (to be washed) in tow, my eyes are two giant, puffy peaches. I sigh, and make my way to bio, resigning myself to be flooded by an onslaught of questions.