Amber

Chapter 5

September 16, 2014

Dear Journal,

I've been going to the library during study hall every day for the past week. At first, no luck with any sighting of Mr. Sexy-faced Mother Teresa. But then today he arrived, all halo-wearing and surrounded in golden light with a smile as wide as the box of canned goods he carried. Even though I was watching the door like a hawk, I didn't get to hold it open for him as planned. He had some pretty little cheerleader girl with him, fake-tanned and all s of her smelling like a Bath and Body Works factory explosion.

Side note: I'm not a hit list type of person. I can't go from perfectly normal girl to journal-writing girl to crazy hit list girl in one week. But if I did have a hit list, it would possibly include the following:

1) Miley Cyrus.

2) Pretty little cheerleader girl.

I leered from behind my book and tried like hell to summon on-the-spot powers so that my eyes could disintegrate this new nuisance. She bounced in and held the door open (umm ... my job) and laughed at his joke while absorbing the full impact of his cuteness firsthand (also my job). My powers proving useless, I wanted to run over and tackle her but stayed put in the interest of not having as bad of a second impression as the first.

Eventually the little cheerleader girl moved on to talk to some other guy, a football player with assault rifles for arms, leaving my guy all alone and defenseless.

I waited to see if he would notice me first (hard to do with the book plastered against my face). Eventually he did though. He was sorting through the cans, arranging them by brand name or vegetable content or expiration date or thickness of aluminum ... and his eyes drifted up long enough to catch mine guzzling him down like a milkshake.

He did that little finger wave again, and I gave one back, which I guess was as good as an invitation for him to come over to me, which he started to do while I began to go over the internal list of things I banned myself from saying while around him.

1) I'm thinking of starting a hit list.

2) You're gorgeous. Like, lick your face and never wash my tongue gorgeous.

3) Would you prefer a big wedding and honeymoon in Hawaii or Europe or would you rather elope?

4) How did God find a way to fit all of the ocean into your eyes without drowning you?

In case you're wondering, journal, yes you are working so far, so ... nice job. I read over what I wrote after my first meeting with HIM and decided to prepare for our next encounter. For instance, I moved the blue sweatshirt out of wearing rotation and into my pile of emergency clothes I keep in case I need to, like, run outside during a fire or something. I then set that pile of clothes on fire just to be safe. I then proceeded with an entire wardrobe analysis, shifting and arranging everything in order from most cute to least and coming up with a solid lineup of nine outfits that I can safely wear around him. Assuming I see him once a week, (Tuesdays!) I'll have nine weeks before my lineup turns over into repeats, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't notice or care at that point, but I can always buy something new or borrow from Hannah if needed.

Once he got close to me, he ran his hand through his hair all slow and sexy, parting the perfectly long—but not too long—milk chocolate-colored strands that defiantly went right back into place.

"Hey," he said.

God, how can someone make 'hey' sound so powerful? Since when did 'hey' become a fucking lightning bolt?

"Hey, Bradley whose friends call him Brad," I said, holding onto my book with both hands as if it were a life preserver that could keep me afloat.

He laughed. "Just Brad is fine."

"Okay, Brad. Sorry about the other day."

His eyebrows rose. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, just about calling you a liar and what not. I was sort of kidding."

He smiled. Cue the dimples. Bradley whose friends call him Brad doesn't play fair. "That's all right. I figured."

I looked past him, motioning to the box. "So you do this once a week huh? Do you buy all of the food yourself?"

"No. My parents buy most of it. And then some of it is donated from our neighbors, and they all give it to me to bring in. I'm more or less the transporter in the whole system."

So ... not so much Mother Teresa. More like glorified delivery boy. Chances increasing.

"That's cool." My eyes drifted over to the little cheerleader girl hanging off of one of the football player's rifle arms. "And so she's, like, your helper friend?"

Brad looked around the room confused until he saw her and then smiled again, eyeing me suspiciously. "Who—Stacy? Ya, she's a friend. She doesn't usually help, but she was looking for an excuse to get out of class." He nodded his head toward her and the football player. "Plus I think she wanted an excuse to talk to the incredible hulk over there."

So he's not with the cheerleader girl. Chances increasing.

"I think she has a thing for guys with biceps," he said, laughing. "What about you?"

I froze. "Huh?"

"What's your reason for coming here?"

"Oh, I uh ... like to read. And it's too loud to think in my study hall. Everyone talks, and our teacher doesn't care because she thinks she's, like, being cool if her study hall is relaxed and carefree. I guess I sort of think that study hall should be for, like, studying."

He nodded, but it wasn't one of those 'yeah, whatever' nods. It was sincere—like he actually understood. "Well I'm glad," he said. "That you come here, I mean. It's just that I always come here every week and have never noticed—or—seen you before."

I swear to God, journal, those were his EXACT words. I would not lie about something so serious. And do you know what I did? Of course you do. I came up with the perfect response because I'm Hailey the rock star who talks to out-of-this-world cute boys like it's whatever.

"Well I guess you'll have to get used to seeing me."

Then I smiled ... which caused him to smile ... which caused me to come dangerously close to vomiting up the entire list of things I banned myself from saying to him.

"I think I can get used to that." He started to turn to go back to his canned foods but paused. "It's Hailey, right?"

I started to respond but stopped myself. I don't know what it was. Maybe it was some spark of confidence in wearing a cute outfit or the magical dust of the ashes of my blue sweatshirt dancing into my brain or a contact high from cheerleader girl's many fragrances, but I reached down and pulled something out that I swear made him shiver.

"Hailey, yes, that's what everyone calls me. Except my sister. She calls me Lee because it drives me crazy. Since I haven't decided if I want you to drive me crazy, I think you can stick to Hailey."

Better watch out, journal. I think I'm getting good at this ...