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.
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,
“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.