Before I can stop myself, I’m looking back up at Ben, who is watching me bend down to pick up the arrow, or pen, or whatever he sees. Please don’t see an arrow. Please don’t see an arrow. He’s walking this way. Zoe is staring at his back, looking gobsmacked. She shakes her head and darts for the bathroom, her cheeks matching her flaming red hair. Still crouched and starting to panic, I glance at Deya, who looks confused. She must not see the shimmery point of ichor on my finger from the arrow, just her improbably fumbling friend, being impossibly approached by her target.
“You dropped your pen,” he says. His voice is low and soft and could sing the stars to sleep. He picks up my arrow, and for a moment, I see what he thinks he’s holding: a pink, glittery pen covered in hearts. I groan internally. Nice, Cosmo.
“Thanks,” I say. Our hands brush as he gives me my arrow. Goosebumps spread all over my body, a sensation I haven’t felt in ages. Our eyes connect again, and this time the current is electric.
In my periphery, I spot Deya’s eyes flicker down to my newly cut—and healed—finger. I see her eyes widen and her mouth fall open.
I don’t really process any of this, though. I only have eyes for this gorgeous, awkward boy with hair falling in front of hazel eyes. All I see is the boy of my dreams. The love of my life.
“Benicio,” he says, extending his hand. “But you can call me Ben.”
“Kalixta,” I say. “You can call me Kali.” We shake hands, neither of us letting go.
“Kali,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “Are you new? You seem familiar, but . . .”
“I just transferred last month.”
“Wow. How have I never noticed you before?”
My heart drops to my stomach. Not because he hasn’t noticed me—of course he hasn’t. But for him to notice me now, he must see past my anti-glamour. Even an iota of my glory is as powerful as any arrow.
Yet instead of the sonnets and random bits of worshipful poetry my glory inspires in him, Ben is smiling at my T-shirt. “I mean, how many people in this school have even heard of The Smiths, let alone have a shirt from their ‘Meat is Murder’ tour? Where did you find that?”
My heart goes tha-dump, tha-dump, tha-dump.
I smile, thinking about how one day we’ll laugh when he learns that I got the shirt from the actual 1985 tour, a gift from Hector, whose mentor was musing for the lead guitarist. It doesn’t matter that I can’t tell him now, or that in his years I’m older than his grandparents. Someday, I will. Someday, I’ll tell him everything.
I won’t have a choice.
I’ve been lovestruck.
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