Not My Type

Prologue

Prologue

It all started with Abraham Lincoln.

We both sat next to each other in our eighth grade accelerated history class. He was the popular blonde-haired blue-eyed white guy--he always was, but his status was even more prevalent in junior high for some reason--who wore Ralph Lauren polos with khakis and white Vans, talked too loud and too often, yet for some reason every girl thought he was hilarious. I was the nerdy, socially awkward Indian girl with glasses and braces that said the wrong thing at the wrong time, desperately searching for a place to fit in. (Otherwise known as every other teenager on the planet.)

My history teacher, who was partially insane, had just told us that she had a crush on Abraham Lincoln and was proceeding to justify it as well. Our entire class, which had previously been quietly finishing a study guide, burst into laughter.

For some reason, he turned to me and I turned to him, mid-laugh, and we just sort of locked eyes for a split second longer than we should have. Unfortunately, that split-second was enough to have me entranced with those gorgeous, crystal-clear blue eyes, so blue I felt like I was gazing into an ocean. I was hooked, I was in, and now I was just another stupid girl falling for this idiot of a guy who acted far too cool for a thirteen-year-old.

Thankfully, my flighty hormones and then-extremely high standards only had me crushing on him for a week, and I decidedly labeled him a "complete and total jackass" after he failed to pick up my pencil for me when I dropped it in front of his desk by accident.  

And that was the last I ever thought of Jason Roberts in a romantic, butterfly-inducing way that had my stomach turning and my heart racing.

At least until our senior year of high school.