“Oh, she’s in my math class!”

The six words that led me to this psychotic infatuation. The word-counting, Facebook-stalking, face-cringing infatuation. The moment those six delicate messengers of his internal ideas left his perfectly carved lips, I was gone.

Math Class. Day 1.

The pencil tip is dull. What to do? The sharpener seems a mile away. Then, my eye catches his immaculately carved bicep as his arm stretches to itch his neck. There is one stop on the path to the sharpener that will make the trip seem short. I stand, walk past the golden boy and stick the writing utensil inside the device to be eaten by knives.

The gadget has accomplished its job. As I turn to make the long journey back, I find myself staring directly into two puppy dog eyes. To whom do they belong? The angel. The invisible extensions in his arms stretch out and pull at the frail corners of mouth. Can’t. Stop. Smiling. He was looking. He knows, too, that he was caught. A small smirk spreads across his face as he continues to stretch my own. He does not stop until the teacher quiets us. “Get out packet page nine and start working.”

My fingers grab my newly pointed pencil and start subtracting matrices.

As my fingers work, my mind races my heart in a competition to see who can figure out when he first learned of my being. My mind thinks that he probably doesn’t even know my name. My heart pounds strong thoughts. It believes that he knows it, and he knows it well. Maybe I hadn’t been the Invisible Girl, after all.

Social Studies. Day 14.

The angel walks into class, looking determined as his perfect legs carry him across the room to his seat – the one directly next to mine. I make a mental note to thank my teacher for his seating chart. He somehow knew in his history-filled brain that words would never leave our mouths to disrupt the class. Shyness was the gift that had blessed us both.

The class fills with a video. Ancient China was a civilization of famers on the Huang River and the Yan……ajeaighiwoaksdl.

My senses return as Mr. Teacher flips the switch to illuminate his chamber. The angel’s elbow bumps mine as we hastily scribble down tonight’s section, 4-point-3. Thank God for righties and lefties.

As I stand to gather my useless things, my gaze turns upon his shirt. Jimi Hendrix. Purple Haze. Memories flood back from the times in the kitchen with Mom. The stereo gets louder, singing the words in my head, “Purple haze all in my brain lately things don't seem the same.” Before I can process what is happening, the fountain of tongue is spewing rambles out of my mouth.

“You like Jimi Hendrix?” A question is asked from within me. I do not recognize it’s origin.

Shyly, but surely, the angel responds with one simple word, “Yeah.” He avoids my gaze as he starts to pack his own useless things.

Now I started it – I must finish it. Mama always told me I wasn’t a quitter.

“That’s awesome. I’ve always been a Hendrix fan.” That’s right, me. Use your bandy lingo to win over the angel.

With a nod and a slight smirk, he pushes back his chair and elongates his limbs to stand exactly 3 inches higher than I. As he passes by to meet his friends, he takes a long needle out of his back pocket. He pokes the pointy needle into my thigh and I scream. As he squeezes the syringe, a load full of Aunt Judy’s cranberry jello is injected into my bones. No sound passes through this mouth as he retrieves his needle and prances to his friends.

I get my own friend and we walk, side-by-side, to our next class. Right in front of us is the angel, and I almost stumble into him a numerous amount of times. The jello he has so thoughtfully injected into me makes my legs feel weak. I cannot walk properly. Multiple times, I cling to the lockers that surround me as I struggle to keep my balance.

My friend asks what is wrong. When I tell him it’s just the angel, he nods thoughtfully. He understands.

Social Studies. Day 37.

The scent of freshly-baked cookies fills my nostrils. The scent of Snickerdoodle cinnamon and peanut butter delight perfumes the entire room. All classmates are aware of the glowing orbs that sit in a container on my desk. They all want to sink their vicious fangs into own of my creations, but only one is worthy.

A friend of the angel’s walks over to me. “Can I have a cookie?”

I stare him down to let him know he’s not welcome. My voice comes out sweet, but strangled. “I’m sorry, but they’re for Spanish class.”

He walks away nodding his head, but I know he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t comprehend the situation.

In a blur of dates, wars, and tomb-digging, the bell rings. At last, I am free. To Spanish now I venture. But now before my mission is complete. I could not waste my magnificent ideas. After all, I had just wasted my entire period debating over what to do. My head said no, my heart said yes. My academically filled head knows nothing.

“Hey!” I call out to the golden one’s friend. He turns, as does the angel, who was walking beside him. “You can have a cookie if you’d really like one.”

His friend nods. This time, he understands. He really does.

His long, spidery fingers reach into the container I have just set free, and he grabs a peanut butter cookie greedily into his claws.

As he obnoxiously munches on the delectable, I extend the plastic to the angel. “Would you like one?”

His snow white hand hesitates over the cookies at the top of the pile. I have never seen someone so pale, so beautiful. “What kind of cookie are they?”

Golden boy is speaking to me. My heart soars. “Peanut butter.”

“Oh,” he responds, sounding deflated. His angel hand drops from its place, frozen in gravity.

“Are you allergic to nuts?” I ask, curious. I barely knew the angel, and I was hoping someday I would. Placing the stepping stones, as my grandmother called it.

“No,” angel responds. “I just don’t like peanut butter.”

My heart frowns upon the perfect boy. How could he not like peanut butter? I jump at the chance to make amends. “Oh, well I have Snickerdoodles, too!”

His dark, dark brown eyes seem to lighten as he responds affirmatively. I dig into the pile of frozen cookie dough that has been warmed up in the oven before my hand lands on the one I am looking for.

I hold the circle of dough out to him, at which he takes it. My finger brushes his, and for his snow white skin, what fire it caused! I flinched as the boys respond with their thanks. I headed for the door as he stretched my cheeks and filled my legs with jello. This time, too, I think he must’ve made me swallow a huge bag of butterflies. Magical.