This doesn’t bode well for me. Honestly? I tried to make an effort in calculus today, but then Joe happened. Instead of paying attention to Mr. Day, I found myself entranced by Joe’s beautiful hair. How silky it seemed—and then I imagined running my fingers through it. A harmless daydream, really.
But get this: Mr. Day had us pass new worksheets to the person behind us, and Joe’s fingers brushed mine when he handed me the stack. I swear, the briefest touch sent a jolt of electricity down my arm. And then he smiled again—atme—and swept some hair away from his stunning green eyes before turning back to face the front.
“Sara? Did you hear what I said?”
I blink away the Joe haze. Patrick and Tammy have started walking ahead of me, and now they’re glancing back to see if I’m going to catch up. Meanwhile, I’m stalled at the top of the steps with my head in the clouds.
I adjust my cozy plaid scarf around my neck. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, are you coming to karaoke?” Patrick repeats.
There’s this karaoke spot we found a year or so ago on our walk home, but the best part? It’s cheap. Fifteen bucks and you can have a room for an hour. We’re not great singers, but it doesn’t matter. We have fun combing through the gigantic songbook and picking out surprise musical numbers for each other, and after, we’ll usually stop in for hot pot.
“Ah, I forgot—I can’t. I have tutoring, remember?”
“Aw, come on! Tammy’s going”—he slings an arm around her shoulders—“and she never comes to anything. Just reschedule.”
Agh, it’s so tempting. Dad will never know if I skip this once, right?
No. Best not to risk it. I’ll totally get grounded if he finds out.
“I can’t.” I begin retracing my steps. “Sorry, have fun, though! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Spinning on my heel, I reach for the door and head inside before I can clock the disappointment on Patrick’s face.
Almost everyone has left for the day. The halls aren’t bustling with activity. The corridor walls are speckled with handmade posters promoting school activities.join track and field,one reads. Uh, no thanks. I’m not much of an athlete. Another says,eagle gate school festival september 15th! remember to sign your club up for a booth!
As I make my way to the library, I unearth the paper Mr. Day gave me last week.Oliver Yang,Library Room 12-B.There’s a contact number printed underneath.
I’m familiar with the library. We come during English class sometimes to find reference texts, which are a bit dry, but I could get lost in the fiction section all day. Reading is sort of like daydreaming—the way you get lost in a story—and I love that feeling. I think it’s partly why I like writing my blog so much.
As I reach the library door, ready to push my way in, I freeze when my eyes land on a familiar face through the window. Because there, sitting at a study table, is none other than Subwayboy.
I gasp and flatten my back against the wall so he won’t spot me if he glances up. No! Why do I keep running into this guy? Maybe I’m in the wrong room, so I check the information again.Room 12-B, Library. This is it. He’s currently the only one inside, so that must mean he’s my tutor.
Or—maybe not? What if that isnotOliver Yang, because Oliver Yang is running late? Yes, I’m sure that’s it.
There’s only one way to find out, so I whip out my phone and text the contact number.
Sara: Hi, this is Sara Lin. Are we still meeting in room 12-B?
I tilt my head ever so slightly, eyes on him as he glances at his phone. He picks it up, types, then sets it back face down. A second later, my phone buzzes. I scan the message, heart sinking.
Unknown Number: Yep. I’m here already. See you soon
Itishim. Subwayboy has a name. Oliver Yang. Oliver Yang, my calculus tutor.
What did I do to deserve this? And more importantly, what the heck do I do now? I don’t have time to text Patrick and ask for advice. Besides, he’s half the reason I’m in this mess. Vicky would know what to do, but she’s already started her shift at Kiki’s and won’t have access to her phone.
Okay—think. Hadn’t I been brave enough to ask him to kiss me? If I could do that, surely I can channel that same courage right now. All I have to do is march in there and face the consequences head-on. If he recognizes me, so what? It’s a chance to clear the air, isn’t it?
I spare another peek. He’s got his chunky headphones over his ears again, just like when I spotted him at the station, soft golden hair sticking out in every direction. His eyes are focused on writing something down, pen scribbling, looking lost in whatever he’s doing. It reminds me of, well,mewhen I’m typing out a blog post. Like the entire world around you disappears and it’s only you and your writing.
Here’s my opportunity to start fresh. To prove I’m a different person this year. Someone bold—confident. Determined. So I take a deep breath and—
Completely wimp out.
My scarf is a handy disguise, it turns out, and I use it to cover my nose and mouth while tugging my short hair into a bun that sprouts like a flower from my head. I’ve got a few spare bobby pins in my shoulder bag, so I clip my bangs back before fishing my round glasses from their case and sliding them on. There! No way he’ll recognize me now.
