~Andrea~

 I was fourteen, a freshman, when he transferred to my high school.  From day one he made an indelible impression on the student body.  Instantly, he was popular.  He had good looks, a bad boy aura, and a killer smile that drew girls like nectar entices bees.  He was everything I wasn’t.  Everything I wanted to stay away from.  And, from the moment he stepped into my art class for the first time, our paths were sure to cross again.

 My high school was small.  Rumors about the occasional new kids spread more quickly than the brushfires in the west during a drought.  According to rumor this kid smoked, dealt drugs, was a player, a notorious sweet-talker, and blessed in the department of physical appearance.  I had a full background story before I even saw him. 

Then I did see him. 

I remember wondering how someone with a smile that sweet and a voice that smooth could have such a bad reputation.  At the same time, as I watched him sit down on the far side of the art room, I was pretty sure most of the rumors were plausible if not entirely true.  Then he opened his mouth and spoke…

 We were examining a piece of art work, an intricate abstract painting.  You know the type: the kind of painting that makes you sure the artist was on some sort of hallucinogen when he painted it.  But, come to think of it, I don’t remember what it looked like or exactly what he said about it. But his interpretation of that painting was…beautiful…breath-taking.  Enough to find myself wondering what kind of person really lay beneath his surface, beneath and beyond the reputation that had preceded him. 

 But I was sure that I would never know.  I was too different from him.  Quiet, conservative, shy, and awkward, I was the girl everyone overlooked unless they needed academic help.  I spoke when spoken to but spent my free time hidden behind a book in the quietest corner of the school, the typical book worm.  Too shy to start a conversation with kids I had known since kindergarten, there was no way I would talk to him and even smaller chance that he would see me at all.

 But he did. 

The library was closed during my study hall so I was forced to journey into the gossiping grounds of the school café, which also served as the study hall location for the masses.  Keeping my head bent and my eyes away from those of my peers, I extracted my sketch book and pencil from my bag.  I was putting my favorite mentality into play: If I can’t see them, they can’t see me.  Usually it worked for me and I was left undisturbed and unseen.  And, frankly, nothing would have pleased me more than if I could have continue through the rest of my high school years as the class wall flower.  But he saw me in a way I had never been seen before…and it scared me…a lot.

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 ~Micky~ 

 That town was probably the dullest I’d ever lived in.  The teen hang-out was the town park.  Not even a dark corner in the park.  That corner didn’t even exist.  Instead, the high school-aged kids thought it was cool to hang around the outside of the basketball court, right next to the area new mothers gathered in and preschool children screamed while they swung on the jungle gym. 

 The high school was no better.  Yeah, it had its share of juvenile delinquents, drug-dealers the teachers and society had given up on way back in the preschool days, but the school was still as sleepy as the town.  I had no problem attracting attention and interest and making so-called friends.  I was a pro at it by then.  I’d transferred several times.  Once I transferred all the way from Korea to ia, USA.  I didn’t even know English.  As they say in America, it was a piece of cake. 

 Within a week I was positive I would die from boredom.  After school I was busy and I didn’t mind.  During school was a different story.  Boring lessons, boring friends.  The more I got to know my new “friends” the emptier they seemed.  The people I hung out with were always the same.  It was like they were some type of prototype.  People were the same no matter where I was.  The useless, mindless conversations, concerns, and lame jokes that weren’t funny…all the same.  I seriously would have died from the boredom and monotony of school life if it hadn’t been for her…

 She was one of the first people I saw from the new school.  On my first day at that school, in my first class, she was the first person I saw.   She was sitting at the front table on the side closest to the door.  Her head was rested against the palm of her hand and she seemed completely engrossed in the painting that was projected onto the white board.  I remember exactly how she looked and what she was wearing.  Faded blue jeans and an ped, knit sweater.  Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a braid and her fingertips were holding her thick rimmed glasses against her face.  There must have been at least eighteen other kids in the classroom, several at the same table as her, but she seemed completely and utterly…alone.  And she didn’t seem to mind at all.

 My teacher knocked lightly on the side of the door, clearing in an attempt to gain the attention of the art teacher.  All eyes turned to me, the new kid. 

 I heaved an inward sigh and raised my eyebrows in greeting.  I was used to the drill by now.  The teachers talked for a few minutes. I was introduced to the class. I was asked to take a seat.  From the curious glances, I could tell my reputation had once again preceded me.  Not that I minded, it made things easier on me.  Whatever they already assumed, all I had to do was fit their picture, leave the rest to their imaginations.  No explaining, no actual conversations about the real me. 

 That girl glanced at me a few times but seemed more interested in what the teacher was saying than in me.  I readily admit, I was a bit disappointed.  Even with her slightly mousy appearance, she was still kind of cute.  I began to focus on what the teacher was saying about the painting projected on the white board.  Before I realized it, I was voicing my opinion about the meaning of this abstract painting and I had that girl's full attention. 

 I think I said more than I meant to, showed more about my feelings and myself than I wanted to…but I only remember the surprise and interest that emanated from her as I spoke.  

 When my words were gone and the class was over, so was her attention.  But I found myself looking for her, observing her out of the corner of my eye.  A person can learn a lot while simply observing.  In one day I knew more about her, a girl I had never spoken to, than I knew about my new “friends” who, by the way, were too dense to notice my attention was on a girl no one seemed to notice instead of whatever they were talking about. 

 Almost all of my classes were with her.  She always sat at the seat closest to the door, as if she wanted the quickest escape route possible.  She never spoke unless she was spoken to first and didn’t gossip with the other girls when we had free time to chat.  She always carried a book and looked nervous when someone spoke to her requiring her response.  She would flip or finger the pages of her book as if it brought her comfort. 

 It was during study hall when I saw her smile for the first time.  She had entered the room late.  Slipping into a seat, once again by the door, she took out a pad of paper and a pencil.  I pretended to laugh at whatever the guy next to me was saying, but my attention was focused on the girl.  She was making marks on the paper.  It took me a few minutes to realize she was drawing.  The tension in her body and worry on her face seemed to melt as she drew.  It was like the barrier she always had up was slowly melting away. 

And she started to smile.  Not the open-mouthed, flirty, fake-laughing-to-get-a-cute-boy’s-attention smile but a soft, close-lipped smile that was meant only for herself. 

 I had had enough.  My curiosity was killing me.  I had to talk to her.  I had to know what she was drawing…and I had to know her.  I stood up, much to the surprise of my new gang, and strolled over to her table.  The first thing I saw about her when she lifted her head was her eyes, almond shaped and gray-brown, hidden behind thick glasses.  I raised my hand in a short wave. 

 “Hey, I’m Micky.”