The Makeover

15 | Not a Date

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Chapter Fifteen | Not a Date

Few minutes into my archeology lesson, I was so bored that I was about to come unglued. It wasn't helping that the professor was so keenly into the manual she was reading to the class in a unvaried sing-me-to-sleep tone.

I could hear un-smothered yawns and sighs around the class, bringing the united distaste for the teacher and the lesson aim to twilight. Come on, who wants to hear about excavation of bones all day?

But still, like the nerd I'm not pretending not to be, I was never rarely sometimes always completely listening. Of course I was, what'd she say last? It should be something about... Alright, I wasn't listening okay!

It's fine, Zara. You've gone through worse, this shouldn't be a challenge. There's just one hundred and eight thousand seconds left. I'd countdown but that's what a person intending to get lip cramps would venture into.

I swallowed definitely hard before my hands started to make doddled drawings of a certain someone with a mind of their own. I can't draw to save my life, but at doodles and sketches, I have that peter-pan effect.

With my tightly gripped deep blue german-ink pen, I continued the detailed doodling and I couldn't tell what made a bigger smile radiate off my lips, the emphasis on his long disheveled hair or his pink thin lips or his hooked nose or the dimple stretch I added on his right cheek or the fact that his whole face was so smiley and pretty in a- out- of -this-word way that it almost looked real.

I was smiling at him and he was smiling at me.

Real 'friendship' good will there, my subconscious mocked and I almost rolled my eyes at her, forgetting she was just my sassy inner voice.

I was still holding a smiling competition with the big blueish sketch that occupied the centre of my course note and now, no one could stop me from poking the littlly pronounced dimple now as I traced it with my pointer finger.

I was supposed to be paying attention to the class but I couldn't, all because of him, and he wasn't even trying at all. The evident evidence was the topic at the edge of my pad that read in my small curly handwriting ;

12th of April. 
Archeology 101.        

In place of

Every fucking time.
Hazeology 143.

Fourteenth of March. That was the day we crashed into each other in the hallways by the way. Proudly acting like a masochist, I continued to trace out the lines of his eyebrows, lost in his icy eyes and staring at his pictorial self in a way I knew I couldn't in real life without arousing suspicion and awkwardness or better still, making a fool out of my self.

I feel so freakishly annoyed with myself for failing to be in control of my own emotions, that I wanted to curse myself out in Spanish. That way, I'd understand none of my own words, even though I only know how to say my name in that language. Does that make sense to you? I'm sure it doesn't, cause it makes no sense to me either.

I have to stop it right there. If I don't, these memories and realities would rouse feelings in me that I despise, or rather, that I crave too much for my own good or that I... Ugh this is all too confusing!

By the time I had blinked out of my daydream, the class was over. The rows were now empty and everyone was gone except a few art students who had nothing better to do with their time than argue on the kind of mural they were going hang on the gym walls. Like anyone ever looked at it.

When I glanced at the time on my watch, I freaked the freak out. I was already five minutes late for my next class, Ap English with Miss Smith. I hurried out of the class in a heartbeat and dashed into the hallways that was currently heavy with traffic.