“What do you mean? You always have a plan.”

“This one’s different. He doesn’t even look at me. I have to be more careful.”

“I thought you said he finally noticed you?” I asked, confused.

Sara turned her head to look at me, her eyes still sparkling from that place she was slowly returning from, but the smile was lost.

“I don’t get it really. I made sure to sit next to him in business class yesterday, and he said ‘hi’, but that was it. So he knows I exist. Period.” I could hear the exasperation in her voice.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Or maybe he’s gay.” I smirked.

“Emma!” Sara exclaimed with wide eyes, punching my right arm. I forced a smile while gritting my teeth, hoping she hadn’t noticed my shoulders tense with the impact of her harmless blow. “Don’t say that. That would be devastating - for me at least.”

“Not for Kevin Bartlett.” I laughed, causing her to scowl.

To see Sara so distracted by this guy was amusing and disarming at the same time. She had a way with people - the results almost always ended in her favor, especially with guys. It didn’t matter who she was trying to persuade, she would put an endearing spin on what she wanted so that the person was actually eager to accommodate her.

Sara was obviously flustered by Jason Stark. It was a side of her I almost never saw. I knew this was new territory for her, and I was interested to see what she was going to do next.

The only other people who have given her a greater challenge have been my aunt and uncle. I kept assuring her that it had nothing to do with her, but it only made her more determined to win them over. In doing so, she hoped to make my personal hell a little more livable. Who was I to stand in her way? Even though I knew it was a lost cause.

We parted after homeroom. I entered A.P. English and sat in the back of the room as usual. Ms. Abbott greeted us and began the class by handing back our most recent papers.

She approached my desk and greeted me with a warm smile. “Very insightful, Emma,” she praised as she handed me my paper.

My eyes met hers with a quick, yet awkward, smile. “Thank you.”

The paper was marked in red pen with an “A” at the top. There were additional positive comments written in the margins throughout the paper. It was what I anticipated and what my peers expected of me. Most of the other students were leaning over to see what the person sitting next to them received in comparison to their own marks. No one looked at my paper. I tucked it into the back of my binder.

I wasn’t embarrassed by my grades or what other students thought of my high marks. I knew I earned them. And I also knew that they were going to save me someday. What no one understood, besides Sara, was that all I really cared about were the days I counted down until I moved out of my aunt and uncle’s house to go to college. So if I had to put up with the whispers behind my back as I received the highest marks in the class, then so be it. They weren’t going to be there to save me if I did anything but succeed, so I didn’t need to get involved in the gossip and typical teenage tripe.

Sara was the closest I was going to get to any semblance of the high school experience, and she definitely kept it entertaining. She was admired by most, envied by many, and could discretely seduce a guy with a grin. What mattered most to me was that I trusted her with my life - which was saying a lot, considering the unpredictability that awaited me at home each night.

“How’s it going?” Sara asked when we met at our lockers before lunch.

“Nothing new and exciting here. Any progress in Business class with Jason?” This was Sara’s class right before lunch, so it usually gave her enough to talk about until we reached Journalism after.

“I wish!” she exclaimed in annoyance. “Nothing – it’s so frustrating! I’m not being overly aggressive, but I am definitely putting the obvious signals out there that I’m interested.”

“You don’t have what it takes to make him interested,” I teased with a grin.

“Shut up, Em!” Sara looked at me with stern eyes. “I think I’m going to have to be more direct. The worst he can say is -”

“I’m gay,” I interrupted and laughed.

“Laugh all you want, but I am going to get Jason Stark to go out with me.”

“I know you will,” I assured her, still smiling.

I purchased lunch with my weekly stipend from the money I earned during the summer – money that was strictly regulated without allowing me direct access. Just another irrational rule I had to live with for the next six hundred and seventy-three days.

We decided to have lunch outside at the picnic tables to take advantage of the Indian summer day. Fall in New England was very unpredictable. It could be frosty and cold one day, and the next would be warm enough to pull out the tank tops. But once winter hit, it stuck around for longer than it was welcome.

As most of the other students were shedding clothes to take advantage of the warmth, I could only push up the sleeves of my shirt. In contrast, my wardrobe revolved around the colors of the healing bruises on my arms, and had nothing to do with the temperature.

“What did you do to your hair today? It looks good. It looks straighter. Very chic.”

I looked at Sara sideways as we headed outside, knowing the only reason my hair was in the ponytail was because I ran out of my allowed five minutes in the shower this morning, and didn’t get to rinse the conditioner out of my hair before the water was turned off. “What are you talking about?” I asked incredulously.

“Forget it. You can never take a compliment.” Changing the subject, she asked, “So will you be able to go to the football game tomorrow night?”

I just looked over at her with my eyebrows raised, taking a bite out of an apple.

Realizing I wasn’t going to answer the obvious, Sara picked up her soda, stopping with the can raised to her lips.

“Why is he torturing me?!” Sara whispered, slowly lowering the can with her eyes fixated on something behind me.

I turned to see what had captured her attention. Jason Stark and another well-built senior had their shirts off, tucked into the backs of their pants, and were throwing a football back and forth. The attention he captured was painstakingly obvious. I watched him for a minute as Sara moaned behind me. Oddly, he seemed oblivious to all of the girls drooling over him – interesting.

“Sara, maybe he doesn’t realize he’s as wanted as he is,” I observed objectively. “Have you ever thought of that?”

“How could he not know?” she questioned in disbelief.

“He’s a guy,” I said with a resigned sigh. “Have you ever seen him out with anyone other than the two years he was dating Holly Martin? Just because we think he’s a god, it doesn’t mean he puts himself on the same pedestal.”

We looked over at the tall figure with the defined muscles and playful smile. Even I couldn’t help but get lost in the details of his tanned body. Just because I was focused on school, it didn’t mean I was dead. I still noticed - well, sometimes.

“Maybe,” she considered with a devious smirk.

“You guys would make an amazingly beautiful couple,” I sighed.

“Em, you have to go to the game with me tomorrow!” she pleaded with an edge of desperation.

I shrugged. It wasn’t like it was my choice. I had no control over my social life; hence, I had no social life. I was holding out for college. It’s not like I wasn’t participating in the high school experience. I just had my own version - three varsity sports, editor of the school paper, along with participating in the yearbook, art and French clubs. It was enough to keep me after school every day, and sometimes into the evenings when I had games or deadlines with the paper. I needed to create the ideal transcript for a scholarship admission. It was the only thing I felt like I had control over, and it was honestly more of a survival plan than an escape plan.

2. First Impression

While Sara and I walked to Journalism class, I could tell the lunch performance was still lingering. She looked enchanted, and it was a little eerie. I paced alongside her in silence, hoping she’d snap out of it.

Upon entering class, I went straight to the computer with the oversized screen and pulled up the latest draft of this week’s Weslyn High Times. Focused on the screen, I zoned out the scraping of chairs and murmuring voices as everyone found their seats. I had to get this edition to the printer before the end of class so it could be distributed in the morning.

Faintly, I heard Ms. Holt gather everyone’s attention to review the progress of the assignments for next week’s paper. I blocked out the conversations. I continued scrutinizing the formatting, moving ads to accommodate article space and inserting the photographs to compliment the featured articles.

“Is it too late to consider another article for next week’s paper?”

The voice distracted me. I didn’t know this voice. The guy spoke without hesitation, with a sense of purpose and confidence. I stared at the computer screen without seeing what was in front of me, waiting. The room was silent with anticipation. Ms. Holt encouraged him to continue.

“I wanted to write an article about teenagers’ self-image and if they’re able to accept their flaws. I’d like to interview students and hand out surveys to find out what part of the body they’re most self-conscious about.” I turned my chair around, interested in who would think of such a controversial topic. “The article could reveal that despite a perceived social status, everyone's insecure about something.” He glanced over at me during his explanation, realizing I was paying attention. Some of the other students also noticed I was no longer working on the computer and were watching me, trying to decipher my pensive expression.

The voice belonged to a guy I’d never seen before. As I listened to him finish, I was irked by his request. How could someone, obviously without flaws, think it would be okay to interview emotionally vulnerable students to reveal something they didn’t like about themselves? Probably confiding an insecurity they had a hard time admitting to themselves. Who’d want to openly discuss their embarrassing whiteheads, or admit that they wore an A cup, or that they had the muscle structure of a ten year old? It sounded cruel. The more I thought about it, the more irritated I became. Honestly, who was this guy?

He sat in the back of the class wearing an untucked sky blue collared shirt and a pair of perfectly fitted jeans. His sleeves were rolled up and the buttons undone enough to reveal his smooth skin and a hint of a lean muscular frame.

The shirt complimented his steel blue eyes that moved across the room, connecting with his audience. He appeared relaxed, even though everyone in the class was staring at him. He probably expected people to take notice of him.

There was something else about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on – he seemed older. He definitely looked like he was either a junior or senior. He had a youthful face with a strong jaw that extended to the angles of his cheekbones, complimenting his brow line and straight nose that pointed to his perfectly defined lips. An artist couldn’t have chiseled a better bone structure.