The memory of third-grade picture day is so vivid I can almost touch it. That morning Mom set the alarm for seven thirty to give us lots of time. She woke me up giggling, and when I look at the picture, I can feel my heart beating fast, just the way it did that morning. Seeing my mom happy was like staring into the sun . . . it was almost too much to take.
She washed my hair under the bathtub faucet while I bent over the tub. She always remembered to put a towel over the edge so it wouldn’t be cold and hard against my skin. That morning, she used her special shampoo on me. It smelled like the salon where she got her hair cut, and I remember feeling very grown up. Then she towel-dried my hair and sang silly songs while she wove two French braids on either side of my head.
The best part, though, was that once she finished my hair and helped me into my new dress, she knelt beside me and pressed her cheek against mine while I looked in the mirror. “You’re so beautiful, Annie,” she told me. “I’m so proud of you.”
I wish she were here now. I can’t see myself the way she saw me anymore. I don’t know who I am without her.
Jessie
I am in love with Scott Hutchins.
In a staggering sign that the universe is not really as against me as I thought, Scott is my new lab partner in science class. I started the semester as Annie’s partner, but Mr. Donaldson separated us last week. Apparently our constant chatter was getting in the way of our academic success. Annie lost out in the deal. She’s now stuck next to Courtney, while I get to share space with Scott. Or perhaps I lost out, because she got an A on her plant cells quiz while I failed miserably. My first failure ever in school. I don’t even remember answering any of the questions. I spent the whole quiz fighting the temptation to write my name down as Jessica Hutchins.
It’s pretty much impossible to concentrate on Mr. Donaldson’s voice with Scott sitting beside me every day. I keep catching myself contemplating the muscles in his forearms when I should be thinking about chloroplasts.
Scott is basically the hero from every book I’ve ever read. It’s almost funny—like the gods took all my thoughts about what makes the perfect guy and combined them to form Scott Hutchins. He’s tall and built, with arms that make my stomach swoop. He’s one of those naturally athletic guys who live for sports. He walks in these great loping strides and has wavy brown hair that flops across his eyes in a way that makes you want to smooth it back for him. Add that he wants to be a veterinarian and that he famously cried during an animal cruelty video in class last year, and I could die from how perfect he is.
Up until today, I was pretty sure he was merely tolerating my presence as his lab partner, so I’ve been doing my best to keep my drooling over him as discreet as possible. Today, though . . .
I was trying to copy notes off the board while pretending that Scott’s arm wasn’t inches from mine, when he leaned over and whispered into my ear, “Do you get any of this stuff?”
All I could think of was the bag of Doritos I’d devoured before class. The heroine is supposed to have sweet-smelling breath, not smell like nacho cheese when her Romeo finally leans in.
He pulled back and looked straight into my eyes. He’s so unbelievably beautiful. He has the kind of eyelashes a girl would kill for. I smiled at him and leaned over to aim my whisper at his ear, hoping that if my breath was bad, it would blow past his face and he wouldn’t notice.
“I failed the plant cells quiz miserably. I need a serious study session,” I said.
“Me too! Want to study together?”
Yes, it’s true. The one and only Scott Hutchins asked me to study with him. Let me say that again because I can hardly believe it’s true: Scott Hutchins wants to spend time with me. Outside of class.
Of course I right away went and did something stupid to humiliate myself.
As I was sitting there, no doubt smiling the world’s goofiest happy smile, Mr. Donaldson tragically caught sight of me. “Miss Avery,” he boomed. “Would you like to define the term biology for the class?”
My textbook was miraculously open to that page, so for a split second I was convinced the universe really did love me. “Biology is the study of living orgasms.”
Oh. My. God.
The laughter was swift and punishing. I have never wanted to die so badly in my life. Scott’s shoulders were shaking, and even Mr. Donaldson was fighting a losing battle with a smile.
And then the emotional roller coaster continued, because as I was sitting there willing myself not to cry, Scott leaned over and said (in the lowest, sexiest voice you can imagine), “Hey, don’t be upset, Jess . . . It was funny.”
I nodded, looking down at my lap to hide my tears.
He reached across me for my notebook and then pulled it over between us.
Don’t be embarrassed, he wrote. It was a great joke!
It was the perfect solution to my I-can’t-talk-to-hot-Scott-Hutchins problem.
I wish I could say I did that on purpose, but it turns out I’m just a dork. As soon as I wrote that, I freaked out that it was all wrong. Did
