L is for Lily of the Valley

     I look into two cerulean saunas, heating up my face.  They seem to look past my flesh, peering into my basest essence.  To my vices, they dart away; to my virtues, they glisten.  Gentle, they set me at ease.  Beautiful, they nearly bring me to tears.
     The swathes of beige around them are smooth.  Not a hint of red mars the surface, save some rosy pink.  Two knolls rise from the plane.
     She is the Lily of the Valley.  Perfume seems to radiate from her, yet you shan’t see her dab a drop.  If only…
     I swap out the books in my hand with others in my locker and shut the door.  The rightward hallway looms ahead, the math wing, taunting me with “cute” little signs of anthropomorphic numbers.  I catch a glance at Lily’s light blue dress, spotted with small white circles.  She walks into Mr. Lewis’ Trigonometry classroom, her lips not quite frowning but certainly not cheery.
     The top book in my stack reads “Trig” in a ragged hand on a torn brown bag of a cover.  I sigh.  At least she’s there.
     Mr. Lewis steps up to his podium, blinking far too often for fourth period, his bearded face drooping.  He asks us if anyone has any questions on their homework.  I do.  I don’t raise my hand.
     “Twenty-five,” Lily says, her voice level.  My heart thumps its next beat.  I look down at my paper.
     “I can do it,” I say, my tone a little shaky.
     Mr. Lewis points to the board.  “Finally know what you’re doing, Acherson?”
     “This time,” I reply, looking him square in the eye.  My gaze holds for barely a second.  I walk to the board, lift a fragment of green chalk, and start copying from my homework sheet.
     “Well done, Acherson,” Mr. Lewis says.  I hide a smile by pretending to scratch my nose.
     “Thanks,” says Lily.  This time I can’t hide my grin.