Her hand shook in her lap as she watched him walk to the front of the class. Hoping it was her he had written about. She doubted in, in reality, but she could wish couldn’t she?

“Her eyes” he read to the class.

Her breath stopped as his eyes locked on her. Knowing it had to be her blue eyes he had written about. Sitting in the back corner of the room, she knew it had to be her he was looking at. Why else would he have to look back here? Her hands stayed in her lap, her feet in red high-top converse, flat on the floor. Her eyes stayed locked on him, though, her head faced down to her hands.

“Her eyes are the color of the sun rise

I dream of them looking at me

I wake afraid

Not knowing what to think

I want to tell her what I think of her

But I think that might scare her away

Her eyes, her eyes

They are what keep me alive

Her eyes, her eyes

Oh, why can’t they be mine.”

‘What a beautiful poem to write about my eyes! I can’t believe it. He likes me, he really, truly likes me!’ she thinks, hoping that the smile she’s holding back doesn’t break through. She smoothed her black, see-through skirt all the way down to the knees of her leggings. But her eyes never left him.

“Okay, Ricci. Tell us, what was your inspiration?” Mrs. Tamblen, rushing to get to the front of the room.

‘He’s going to say my name. I know it! I just know it! Where else would he get the inspiration to write such a lovely poem!’ she thought as she dropped her eyes to her, once again, shaking hands.

“My girlfriend” he said, smugly.

“Girlfriend?” she said out loud.

“Kayla, do you have something to say?” Mrs. Tamblen scowled to her.

“No, mame.” She kept her eyes on her hands, wishing for a chance to wrap them around her throat.

She didn’t bother to look back up, ashamed to have thought he liked her.

“Here.” She heard his voice walked by her desk, on his way to his on the other end of the row.

“Huh?” she looked up to see a folded piece of paper on her desk with “Kayla, darling” scrawled across the smooth white paper.

The only thing scrawled across the sheet of paper is, “Will you be my girlfriend. Love, Ricci
P.S. It was always about you.”