Notes Of A Love Stricken Dork

Listen quietly to my song

You may just hear bits of me

I’ve kept hidden for so long

Please listen, but do not judge

For if you do these words on paper

Just might smudge

This song is my cry

My call for assistance

And by listening to my song

You are coming the distance

So keep walking, keep going

You’re almost here

You are so very close

So very near

But as you walk up, my song comes to an end

For just by coming, a broken spirit you have helped to mend.

“Well, that’s just brilliant! Another stupid, sensitive soppy poem.” I think to myself. I clinch the paper in my fist beginning to crumple it.

But then again, they say girls like sensitive guys. And I, Will Lucas Knol, am as sensitive as it gets.

Thus if we use the above logic, girls should be all over me like flies on honey.

 Oh but wait… they’re not. And I've got to say, I don't blame them. I'm not exactly People’s Sexiest Man Alive.  Even if you ignore my looks, I’m not Mr. Congeniality either.  I’ve tripped on nothing more times than I care to remember.

All in all, I have nothing that could possibly interest a girl. I’m not good looking, athletic or “smooth”. I’m doomed to spend high school alone.

Now I know I must sound like a lifeless sack of rice but I’m not; I can write poems and if I must say so myself, they are pretty good.

"Mr. Knol!" My thoughts shatter into tiny pieces as I come back to reality

"Yes, Mr.  Cole?”

"Are you ready to hand in your poem or would you prefer to hand it into me at a later time, lunch perhaps?" Mr. Cole inquires.

 Of course I am ready to hand in my poem; I was finished writing the stupid thing ages ago but I then started hating myself so much I got distracted.

"Here's my poem. Sorry I wasn't paying attention." I tell Mr. Cole as I hand him my paper.

"Well, Mr. Knol, maybe if you could keep your eyes from wandering over to Miss. West so frequently, you'd have heard my instructions." Mr. Cole smirks.

As the entire class bursts out in a fit of laughter, I try to think of way to prove to them that I wasn't staring at Miss. West, or as the rest of us call her Bella. But I can't think of one but I wasn't staring at her, I was thinking about why a girl like her would never date a guy like me. It’s clearly completely different.

And by girl like her, I mean a beautiful blonde, tall, blue eyed and curvy girl. The one every high school nerd dreams of dating; it is as if dating a beautiful girl will make him “cooler”. Oh, right it will.

I mean, don't get me wrong, I have a crush on her (I am not above being a cliché), a huge crush and I do stare at her a lot. But I stare, in a subtle way to make sure no one notices me. This is a hard thing to do, considering the blandness of my surroundings. No one wants to look at cracked white brick walls, a roof covered in spit balls or the floor which I swear hasn't been mopped since the school opened in the fifties. Since none of us want to stare at any of that, we stare at each other.

So, there's always someone looking at you, wondering what you are looking at. So you have to be subtle when you’re looking at someone. Most of the time I manage it, but apparently this time I did not.

OW! Someone threw a piece of paper at me; it hits the back of my head and lands on the ground. I reach for it and open it. It reads:

"SHE'S OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE, CRY BABY"

Yes, we are indeed, seniors in high school. Hard to believe I know. The note is from Lawson. And in case the note didn't make the point, he doesn't like me. Well, no one likes me, but Lawson Parsons HATES me. Why? Don't know, and I don't care to know. He just does.

I roll my eyes, crumple the note and push it on to the floor. I look at the clock. Praise the lord, this damn class is finished.

"Class is almost over, so it is time to assign the night's homework." Mr. Cole announces (oh, just for reference, we call all of our teachers by their first names). The class groans. See, with Mr. Cole, it's never just homework; he wants you to go home at night, learn a life lesson and then write a compelling and world changing poem about it. This never happens; we’re high school seniors, we don’t do “deep”.

"Tonight I would like you to write a love letter, it doesn't have to be a poem, to someone, but in your letter do not name the subject of your love. Pour your hearts into these letters people! Write as if this is the last chance to confess your love to your one and only! Look deep inside yourselves and pull out your deepest feelings and put them on to paper!" Mr. Cole cries dramatically as if he is acting it out, (he's an ex-drama teacher).  As he finishes he looks at us, probably expecting some grand response, but we wear indifferent expressions.

Mr. Cole rolls his eyes.

"Since the class seems so completely unenthused about the assignment, I will make it interesting for you! Tomorrow, once you hand them in, I will grade them and then I will distribute them to one of your classmates. So, mind what you write, as someone in this class will be receiving your letter." Mr. Cole says equally dramatically as before. His enthusiasm is usually met with scoffs but this time he’s got us under his spell.

The entire class is now sitting about whispering, wondering who will get their love letter. I am of course, extremely nervous. The entire class knows I am very, very sensitive, and whoever gets my letter will no doubt tell everybody what I've written and then they will all proceed to make fun of me. And then I will start to cry and then they will make fun of me again. It’s like a ring of hell that just never ends.

"Class dismissed." Mr. Cole smirks, knowing he had just sealed the deal on the entire class of 28 students doing their homework that night. He must be pretty damned pleased with himself.