“What am I doing?” I ask out loud as I add a second layer of lip gloss. Staring into the girls’ bathroom mirror, I apply a coat of mascara, then roll my eyes at my reflection.

So he’s cute. That hardly makes him worth the considerable effort it took me to decide on lip gloss this morning. I’m not a makeup-in-the-bathroom kind of girl, and I feel like I’ve lost it completely. Yesterday, I thought I was crazy because I was seeing things. I think I prefer that crazy over this one.

 As I leave the bathroom and head to fourth period, I start to feel it—the adrenaline rush that I usually associate with the last half mile of a race. I stop outside the classroom for a moment to catch my breath and remind myself to enter the way I planned—looking cool and disinterested. I shake out my arms, rock my head back and forth, and take one last breath before I walk through the door.

I spot Jiyong right away. He’s reclining in his chair,  twisting his pencil back and forth between his fingers. I expect him to look away when we make eye contact, but he doesn’t. In fact, his face seems to brighten, like he’s happy to see me or something. Then he looks down, still smiling to himself, and starts doodling. He doesn’t look up again.

I take my seat and let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. For something to do, I start extracting my homework from my backpack while everyone else ambles in.

When the bells rings, Argotta throws his arms high in the air and shouts, “Pop quiz!” Thankfully, the chorus of collective groans and the noise of paper being ripped from notebooks drowns out the sound of my heart pounding against my rib cage.

My palms are sweating, and I’m pretty sure the heat from my body alone is about to make my curls frizz up. Without thinking, I sweep my hair back, gather it into a ponytail, twist it around my finger, and hold it in place at the top of my head with one hand while I search through my backpack for a clip. I feel books, a collection of gum wrappers, a roll of Certs, a jewel case, but no clip, no hair band. I look over at the pencil on my desk, which always works in a bind, but I have only one and I need it for the test. My elevated arm is falling asleep and I’m just about to give up when I hear a noise behind me.

“Pssst.”

I whirl around, still holding a handful of hair.

 Maybe it’s because he’s leaning so far forward he’s practically lying on top of his desk, but he seems so much closer to me right now than he did yesterday. Or perhaps it’s not only his physical proximity; it’s also the combination of the  distance and the expression on his face. His eyes aren’t vacant like they were when I stared him down in class yesterday, or confused like they were when my best friend accused him of being a creepy stalker. Today his eyes are soft, like they’re smiling completely on their own, and I notice that they’re an interesting shade of smoky blue, dotted with little gold flecks that catch and reflect the light. When I finally realize what I am doing—staring into his eyes like a complete moron—I lower my gaze to his mouth to find that it’s not only his eyes that are smiling. His mouth is too. Like he’s amused. Like he’s laughing at me. And that’s when I realize I’m missing something.

He points with his chin, attempting to direct my attention away from his face and toward the hand he’s been extending in my direction this entire time. The one holding a pencil.

I look at it, and then back at his eyes, puzzled.

 Then understanding takes over, and I reach forward and take it from him.

Thanks, I mouth.

 I turn toward the front of the room, stick the pencil through my hair, and get self-conscious when I realize that in the process I’m revealing the flush creeping up the back of my neck. I take a deep breath and force myself to pay attention to the quiz, which has already begun, but I can’t stop the smile creeping onto my face.

He was paying attention to me yesterday. He noticed me put my hair up. It’s probably just a plain yellow Dixon Ticonderoga  number two pencil—exactly the same as the one I’m using to  complete this ridiculous quiz—but perched in my hair, holding the strands in place, it feels a lot like what we had at the track yesterday: a connection.

Somehow I’ve managed to go all day without running into Bom. Until now.

 I just finished track practice and I’m walking out of the locker room, heading for the student lot and chatting with a few of my teammates, when I see her. She’s striding toward her car with her field hockey stick swinging by her side as she moves, and even though I assume she broke into a sweat at some point you’d never know now. Her makeup looks perfect, and her knit cap and gloves match the piping on her warmup suit. I look down at my sweats. I came straight out of the shower, towel-dried my hair, and piled it under a baseball cap to keep it from freezing on my walk home.

“I’ll get the heat going!” she yells when she sees me. After she opens the door and starts the engine, she gets out of the car and relaxes against the hood, waiting for me.

I take a quick look up at the sky and see a mass of dark clouds moving into formation, preparing to send down fury in the form of hard snow. I look down again and see Bom, smiling and beckoning. For just a split second, my resolve melts a little and I picture myself collapsing into the heated seat. I really don’t want to walk home. But there is no way,  no way, I’m letting her off that easy.

I keep walking with the group, straight past her car.

 “Dara!” I can hear the shock and hurt in her voice. “Wait.” The sound of her tennis shoes padding cautiously behind me closes in and I pick up my pace a little. “Seriously, can’t you just stop and talk to me? I’m trying to apologize.” My teammates look at me and then at one another. I wave them on and slow down so Bom can catch up.

She grabs me by the shoulder. “I really am sorry.” Her remorse looks genuine and her British accent makes her sound so sincere that I’m