Her name is Sherry, and she isn't into sports and such. Which is pretty cool, 'cos we both sit out P.E., and I get to admire her... from a distance, that is. I don't know how to explain it, there's something about her.

Is she pretty? Heck yeah, she's like an un-plucked canna lily dusted with morning dew. Excuse my figure of speech, but she is that pretty. But that's not all there is – she hardly talks to anyone else. They say she's being snobbish and stuff because she thinks she's better than the rest of us. I think there's more to her than that.

She tucks a lock of hair into her scarf and then rubs her nose before she turns a page of the book she's reading. Head scarves are not uncommon, but in our school she stands out like a sore thumb. Maybe it's another reason why she doesn't get along with the girls. I dunno, I'm no expert at with that kind of stuff, ask my friend, Nate.

I take another glimpse, another mental snapshot, and turn back to the page of my study jotter. Her portrait is gradually coming to life. A standard BiC ballpoint is exactly the ideal tool, but hey, who's going to judge this piece of idle work?

I glance up, and our eyes meet...

SHOOT!

My left hand shoots under my desk for the Ventolin inhaler that I know is... uhmm... not there? I could almost swear...

Wait. It's in my right pocket instead! My pen clatters to tiled floor as I fumble for the inhaler and go through the motions, pretending to use an empty canister: shake, squeeze, inhale, hoooollld and then exhale.

By the time I'm done thoroughly embarrassing myself in front of anyone who's looking, she's gone.

Makes sense. She was probably weirded out. I must have looked like a genuine, vintage type creeper-slash-stalker-slash-freak. I sigh before I remember that I had resolved to sigh less, remembering that makes me sigh again. (I kid you not, it's as if I'm cursed with these sighs!)

"Is that me?"

I almost swallow my wad of mint gum and bring it up again! As it is, I simply swallow it and leave out the horrible regurgitation bit.

Her presence sets off all my alarm bells, klaxons and sirens. Sherry leans over my shoulder - I don't have to look to know that one arm is over my back, her left hand gripping the backrest of my double desk.

She's silent for a moment; her light hazel eyes scan the strokes on the page – strokes that I hope, resemble a graphic-novel depiction of her image. My brain is still frozen, trying to pull up the files that I prepared a long while ago, just in case, for a situation for this (long term memory can be a real drag sometimes).

I've always noticed how her dark, almost ebony skin contrasted with her tawny, hazel eyes. But up close, I reckon how flawless her skin is. Wow. Some guys think "light skinned girl" = "beautiful girl", boy are they wrong!

After a forever second, the corners of her lips curl up and then she speaks up again.

"You're terribly good." Her odd Indian/British accent strikes a chord (B-sharp I think) that sets the hairs on my arm into parade attention.

"Can I keep it?"

My jaw and larynx are slowly coming online, which I think she takes as hesitation, "If you're not using it that is? I don't want to impose."

Is she kidding?

I finally manage to croak a, "Sure", before I rip the page out. She folds it carefully and places it between the pages of the novel she was reading, and then she smiles again.

"Thanks so much. I hope you don't mind the damage I did to your book. I am so horribly vain."

She chuckles, bobs her head in a sort of nod, "Later"

I mimic her words (easy enough to do) and she heads off. A cool breeze replaces her rather warm presence.

I wonder if she even knows my name.

The break-time siren breaks my reverie and the hundred unsure thoughts of high school come crashing back into my mind. First and foremost - tomorrow's Elective Math test.

Sigh.