"Thanks," I say, trying to be nonchalant while one of the highest acclaimed writers on this side of England approves of my poem.
I think George notices my swallowed girlish squeal, judging by the way he is currently rolling his eyes. George is an odd one. I've only known him a few weeks, but Ross likes him, so how could I not? Ross is older than everyone, so I'm sure his taste in character is more specific than mine.
A voice is reverberating off the gray, slightly damp walls of the poorly lit classroom. I look around and everyone is writing again, and this time, I don't know why.
This tends to happen more often than not, that I pull myself too deep into my own mind, that I can't keep my external senses alert. I try making eye contact with George, but even he is writing. I look in front of me, and nothing is writen on the board. Then I focus to what's actually in front of me.
Margo.
I reach out to tap her shoulder, but pull back. I've already asked her one thing during this class. If I ask her something else, she will surely catch on to the overpowering crush I've had on her for the longest time. I used to stare at her in the eighth grade, to a point where I failed four subjects and had to take summer school in order to go to high school on time. I usually wouldn't care, but she was so smart, I couldn't run the risk of not entering highschool at the same time, because she was so smart and could skip a grade at any time, without me knowing.
Against my better judgement, I reach out towards her arm once more, and this time, I touch her. Her pale skin is warm under my icy touch, and she turns around. I try not to stare, but her long dark hair moves elegantly, as if it has its own mind at that moment, and then settles behind her left should.
"Y-yes?" She stammers.
Her voice was soft and her smile graceful. If you didn't pay enough attention to her, you'd miss her smile. She was constantly alone and never given a reason to smile. I used to pull pranks freshman year, to make her laugh, even though she didn't know they were meant for her to laugh at, not anyone else.
Her deep brown eyes, that sometimes look black and make her seem all the more intriguing, flash down to something. If she's looking, it must be important, since she only pays attention to the best things in life, so my eyes follow her gaze.
They land on my own rough hand that has been daring enough to remain on her porceline skin that is left uncovered by her strangely unique style of attiure.
I remove my disgusting hand from her beautiful self, too quickly. It gets caught in her hair a bit, and I stop to calmy unwind her long hair from long fingers. I look over to her face, and she's smiling and blushing. I know I must be doing the same, so I decide to get back to the reason for this terribly awkward encounter.
"Oh, um. What were we doing exactly?" I ask.
"Just making a list of good writing subjects." She whispered back.
I smile sloppily and run my hand through my hair unknowingly.
"Thanks, Margo. You're a real life saver." I whisper.
"Anytime Mathew." She replies sweetly.
She begins to turn around and my heart drops. I know she isn't going anywehre, but my mind can't help but think that if I let her turn around, I'll never get to speak to her again.
"Mar-" I say too loudly and earn some eyes, George's included. "Margo," I whisper her name that time.
She looks back at me and I smile wider at the fact that she is looking directly at me. Selfishly, I pause before speaking and stare at her, not caring what she thinks. My eyes wander over her dark brown eyes with flecks of green and gold and even black. I travel all across the freckles that adorn her cheeks and nose and even the one that rest exactly where her dimple is. She only has one dimple, though, and it only carves into her right cheek when she's truly laughing. Fianlly, I decide to speak.
I lean forward so that my lips are only mere inches from her ear, and she surprisingly doesn't flinch.
"Call me Matty," I whisper.
