Every Little Thing

02

He asked me for a pencil once.

It was two years ago, freshman year, and I had just sat down in World History. I didn't even realize that he was behind me until I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I turned, and of course, there he was, smiling.

"Hey," he said, like we'd talked a million times before, "Mind if I borrow a pencil? I screwed up and forgot my stuff—"

He didn't even have to finish his sentence. In an instant, I'd already given mine up, trying my hardest not to smile like a maniacal stalker. Be nonchalant, I ordered myself, but it just wasn't happening.

"Thanks," he grinned at me, and I ordered myself to speak. In my head, I was debating on whether to say It's no problem or my pleasure, but when I looked into his eyes all that came out was a sputtered,

"It's not my problem."

His eyes widened, and he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

"No," I said, suddenly aghast. I tried for a half-hearted laugh, willing myself to ignore the wild blush that overcame my face. "No, sorry, I got mixed up. I was trying to—"

Bascially, the first time I actually held a conversation with Reed Bishop was the first time I had to wildly explain myself for accidentally mixing up two phrases to make one really mean-sounding phrase. Not to mention the fact that the phrase was delievered to a really cute guy.

Thank God, he just laughed. He laughed like he actually thought it was funny, not just the laugh you get when people are confused or don't know what else to do.

He laughed like we'd been friends for ages, and I guess that's when it started. Two years ago, with a fourteen-year-old Evelyn and a fifteen-year-old Reed and a shared pencil and sporadic hellos and goodbyes in-between classes for months to come. The beginning of a crush that would soon wreak havoc on my personal and social life. Of course, I probably could have avoided it if I'd realized it earlier, and evaded the situation as a whole.

But hey, where's the fun in that?

________

"Did you talk to him today?"

"Georgina—"

"Well, did you?"

"No."

"God, Evelyn. You're never gonna get anywhere if you don't at least make an attempt."

"Shut up! I'm trying to focus."

"On what? The number of freckles he has?"

"Jesus Christ, Georgie."

She snickers and leans back in her seat. It's the last class of the day (Study Hall, in which everyone sits around and pretends to do homework), and the girl will not leave me alone.

"He's in History now, right?" she asks, and I nodded, swallowing.

"Okay; here's what you do. Go out into the hall, find his classroom, and burst in really quickly. Act like you're about to pass out, and then faint, and next thing you know, he's giving you mouth-to-mouth."

I glare daggers at her, but she looks dead serious. I release a sigh.

"And what happens when Mr. Verano decides to take charge and help the fallen student before everyone else does? And he gives me mouth-to-mouth?"