4I watch her in the halls, mesmerized by her soft grace of which she moves. She laughs, shaking out her long, thick hair. Quickly, before anyone can see my staring, I put down my head, and shuffle to my next class.
I sit, pulling out my worn book to entertain me until class begins. I pretend not to notice her sitting down in the seat next to me. She turns, smiling, and taps my desk. I look up, putting a generic smile on my face.
"Did you do your homework?" she asks, her face hopeful. I just nod, sliding it out of my backpack and onto her desk. She flashes me a grin, and my breath catches at the beauty of her features.
"How'd you guess?" she said, already starting to copy down my answers.
"Oh, I don't know. Couldn't be because you've been borrowing my work since eighth grade," I tease. She mockingly glares at me, then returns to our papers.
I try not to notice the way her mahogany hair falls over her shoulder as she works, the smooth, pale skin of her back disappearing into the cloth of her shirt. I pick up my book again, but I cannot force it to capture my attention.
The teacher is talking by then, but no one pays him mind. I just continue to read my book, trying to not stare at her, sitting just a foot away.
Finally, the class ends, and I scramble to gather up my books and supplies. But no matter how I try, I cannot help but slow my foot steps when she calls out my name. She half-jogs to catch up to me.
"What's up? Since when do we not go to lunch together?" I just shrug, unable to answer. She begins to talk, unaware of my discomfort. We sit at our usual table, and I try to ignore the blow to my chest as the boy she sits next to pecks her cheek, and she laughs, smacking his arm playfully. Some days, I hate him more than any one else, even myself. Others, I wish with all my will to be him, if only for a moment.
She talks and laughs with the others at the table, capturing everyone's attention, as she always has.
Gym is the hardest. How can I possibly keep my eyes from traveling up her bare leg as she changes, studying her thigh and small fabric around it? From relishing in the soft curve of her body and beautifully sculpted breast?
She glances up at me, and I quickly look away, pretending to be trying to pulling up my mess of tangled hair.
"Here, let me help," she offers, taking the band from my hand. I open my mouth, to protest, but I can't. It's amazing, feeling her hands stroke my hair.
"Thank you," I whisper, trying to keep my voice from breaking.
"What are friends for?" she asks, not seeing the pain in my features at the word. "Now come on, we're going to be late." With that, she hurried out the door with the rest of the girls, leaving me standing there, alone again.
Hello, my name is Jamie. And this is my story.