All the titles in the world can't capture this moment

December 3, 2009

I run a hand through my short curls, still a little surprised when my hand pulls free so quickly. Mrs. Ramirez is standing at the front of our little ensemble, ordering her music and rambling about the winter concert, which is an entire month away still.

I sigh down at my white t-shirt, pulling funny at one of my hips. I hold my trumpet in one hand as I reach to adjust it.

When I glance up again, something other than Mrs. Ramirez catches my eye. The bass guitarist.. what was the name again? Liam? No.. Ian.

Ian. The name lingers on my lips as my eyes linger on you. Chestnut brown hair, gelled and styled and mussed to perfection. Thin lips and a sharp jaw.. a strong nose. And those eyes.. my sister has always preached about the virtues of brown eyes—cow eyes she calls them. It’s only now that I understand what she meant. Big and brown and soft and..

Flickering to meet mine. I drop my gaze, embarrassed. But when I look up moment later, everything sharp and strong has softened with your smile. You jerk your head towards Mrs. Ramirez and roll your eyes.

I don’t even realize I’m smiling until I feel my smile widen at your gesture. We hold each other’s eyes for a moment, a minute, possibly several hours, or even days.

I’m the first one to look away, finding my peach flip-flops fascinating for a moment. But it’s not the only time in the ninety minute block that our eyes are drawn to each other’s, each time leaving me more fluttery and giddy than the last.

When class is over, I pack my trumpet into its soft case and throw my backpack over my shoulder, stepping out in to a typical cloudy Salinas day with a single word running through my mind.

Maybe.

The amount of potential we have is overwhelming

December 17, 2009

My palms are so sweaty as I step forward to take the microphone from my director. She offers me a small smile, but still, I can’t shake this nervous knot in my stomach. I’m suddenly sure I’m going to be sick.

“Good luck!” A small whisper from behind me, and even though it’s only been a couple days, I recognize the voice. Your voice.

A warm feeling overtakes me and I perform with confidence, belting out the last notes clear and high.

Your messy handwriting and stumbling words just makes me like you more

                January 9, 2010

                I’m fumbling with the lock combination when I notice a teeny corner of white sticking out from my locker. If it’s another flier about winter ball, I swear..

                The lock clicks and I pull it open and twist it off, reach up to open my locker.

                A piece of notebook paper falls out. It’s neat, folded into thirds, the little frilly edge torn off crookedly. On the front, in sloppy hand-writing, Jessica.

                What?

                Distracted, I pull out my Spanish book, realize I grabbed my math book, and try again. When I have my Spanish book in hand, I close up my locker and start down the hallway towards the 700 buildings.

                I struggle to open the letter, cursing water polo for making me keep my nails short. Long nails would make this so much simpler.

                I smooth the paper flat against my book. And read.

                Jessica,

                Well, where to start! First off let me say that you are beautiful! I’ve seen a lot of cute girls, but the first time I saw you was the first time I ever really thought, “Wow.” You have a dazzling smile and don’t even get me started on those eyes.

                This probably seems pretty random, but I broke up with Margaret a couple weeks ago and just had to tell you how awesome I think you are :) Whenever I see you, my throat closes up and I feel like I can’t speak. It sounds like a medical condition haha.. but it’s how I feel.

                I hope I didn’t just make a complete fool of myself!

                Ian

                P.S. My locker number is 281.. ya know.. just in case.