"Call me Sanaya," I said, reading into the obvious perplexity in his expression.
He glanced at me and then back to the transcript.
"Sanaya?" he asked, still looking at the paper.
I understood his confusion. The transcript didn't say Sanaya. It said Abcdef, my legal name. And with a first name like that, wouldn't you figure that my last name is Ghijk? Ah, yes... I answer to the first eleven letters of the alphabet, and I have no one but my erratic, impulsive mother to thank.
"Nice to have you aboard, Miss Ghi...?"
"Irani."
"Irani?"
"Yes, sir."
"Come on in. I'm Mr. Samrat." I nodded and decided to skip another awkward introduction. "This is first period English." He turned to walk to the large desk in front of the classroom. "Let's find a place for you to sit, shall we?"
He pulled a black binder from the drawer and flipped through the pages.
"Okay," he said, looking at the spread of empty desks. "Looks like the second chair in row three is all yours."
I nodded in thanks and turned to the assigned desk as he marked the change in his seating chart.
I slid in the chair and stared at the desk. My eyes darted to the carved initials in the upper right corner-BW+NB; romanticized puppy love, how cute.
I pulled a notebook, binder, and spread of pencils from my bag as Mr. Samrat moved to the chalk board, turned his back, and wrote in small strokes.
With nothing but his backside to stare at-no complaints here-I continued watching him. He was young-no older than twenty-five-and obviously a fairly new teacher. Tanned skin, brown eyes, black hair. I guessed he was of Indian descent, though his voice carried no audible accent.
When it came right down to it, he was beautiful in every sense of the word.
I tried not to let my mind go there; after all, he was my teacher. But try as I might, I failed miserably.
Mr. Samrat was easily the most gorgeous man I'd ever seen at the front of a classroom.
"Is something wrong, Miss Irani?"
Through my daydreaming, I somehow failed to notice that he'd turned from the board and was staring directly at me.
I snapped out of the fog, but still found myself blinking excessively. He'd caught me looking-staring, actually-and I had to come up with something that wouldn't make me look like a blubbering idiot.
Surely I couldn't admit that I was watching him, wondering how on God's green Earth he'd won the genetic lottery. So, I stammered for a minute and then finally managed to say, "Makeup assignments?"
"No worries," he said grinning, and I suspected he knew exactly why I was flustered. He seemed like the kind of guy who was used to leaving girls a little speechless. Still, he placated me.
"You're only coming into the course a week late. Given your grades," he said, looking over my transcript. "I think you'll be fine."
I humbly agreed. Like Mr. Samrat, I didn't foresee any problems catching up. I'd worked hard over the past twelve years to maintain a perfect GPA.
"That's an interesting transcript," Mr. Samrat said, still at his desk. He held the paper for a few seconds before tossing it down on a stack of folders.
Hesitantly, he walked acroos the room and leaned on the edge of the desk in front of mine. "Where exactly did you come from?"
"Just a small town in Kentucky," I said, twisting my lips. "Before that... Tennessee."
