Touch and Go

01 • Total War

October 19, 2010
Monday

This seems to be the 402nd time that I had been staring at Ford Turner today. He was sat at the opposite end of the room with one leg crossed over the other the way men always do, a hand caressing his light stubble, hazel brown eyes absorbing the light of Sir Ralph's dragging History lecture. His hair was tousled upwards, charisma flowing from his system like water from a river. His guitar lay beside him.

To put things shortly, he was a work of art.

I sighed and looked at my notebook. Heck, I had barely written anything down aside from 'Total War' which I hadn't even finished, as I knew that I wouldn't be needing it, to be fair. I looked at the clock. 40 minutes remaining. Hmm, lots of time. I tucked my short black hair behind my ear and began to draw. History sucks.

A long, sharp nose attached to a slim face. Almond-shaped eyes, upturned hair. Some  dark shading at the ends of the hair strands, an edgy jawline that ended with power. Lashes, lashes, lashes. That fold I was mesmerized with just before the upper and lower of his eyes meet. Shade the eclipse of his iris and pupil, his eyelids stenciled with varying shades from the pencil.

What do I have on Ford Turner that I couldn't hold against him? A crush. Yes, for the past two years of my stay here in Somerset High I have developed a thing for Ford that I couldn't exactly undevelop - a crush. Or maybe it was a bit more than that.

20 minutes.

I was pretty passionate. Drew him, brought him to life, admired the paper instead because admiring him in real life was too difficult a task without being caught.

I sketched his lips, articulated that dimple, which, to me, is the next best thing in the world after chocolate-covered cheese cubes.

"Ford."

It was not my name being called, but I still looked up.

"Ford."

I turned to Ford. He was sleeping, for Heaven's sake.

"Mr. Turner!"

Ford jerked awake. He rubbed the back of his head groggily. "Sir?" he said, half awake, half dead.

"Sleep in my class one more time and you're having a date with Ms. Tina," Sir said, rather proudly. "I'm sure Christine wouldn't want that, now would she."

The class chuckled back to life. Oh Lord. Some of the more jockey boys, led by Quinn Finley, hooted and hollered at Ford, and Ford shrugged and laughed, even reddening a bit. Christine was giggling too, but her blushing couldn't be hidden.

I laughed too, or was trying to laugh, but deep inside I felt this somewhat sharp pain stab my chest. I looked down to see if I was actually being stabbed by a pencil, but no, this stabbing sensation was merely a tinge of heartache.

I internalized what was happening around me. I could translate it into a drawing. A girl's eye. Crying. And in the orb of her eye a silhouette could be seen. A silhouette of a girl and a boy kissing. Yes. It'd be a landscape.

     Damn, was I one fragile heart.

"Now, what is Total War, Ford?"

"Uhm, I know this... uh" he flipped through his textbook. Chuckled a bit. "Hold on, sir." He glanced at Christine.

Christine is the certified gorgeous, most beautiful girl our school could boast. In contradiction to most stereotypical beliefs these days, Christine's exceptional beauty does not come with a bad attitude, nor is it paired with a slow mind. In fact, Christine is brainy and kind, very kind; she does not speak ill of anyone. I could almost swear her soul was made of honey and marshmallows.