Song of a Sophomore

CHAPTER 2 - Kiss From a Rose

When he walks through the gate, Ryan runs a hand through his messy dishwater blond hair and gives a quick nod and smile to a group of kids his age, probably 12 or 13 years old. I wave to be polite but no one notices me, as usual so I pick my wedgy and tug on my baggy t-shirt to cover my thighs.

"Not so fast, slick." The beautiful, red-headed lifeguard doesn't even look up from the YM magazine she's reading from behind a folding table. "Where's your pool pass?"

"We don't have one yet." I say it like it is a question.

"Was I asking you?" She glares at me over her tortoise rim sunglasses and pops her gum.

Ryan flashes his charming grin. "What my sister meant to say is, we went to get one today, but the home owners' association office was closed. There's no way we can pick one up until tomorrow morning, so I'm sure you can let us go. Just this once?"

The lifeguard studies him then looks down at her magazine. "Nice try, squirt."

"Come on. What's two more people in the pool on a hot summer day?" Ryan asks with all the charm and confidence I lack.

At least one of us is made for this world.

As Ryan continues to sweet talk the lifeguard, I scan the pool which is a tangled mass of goggled kids and water-winged toddlers. Then, I see him.

On the other side of the sparkling water, stands a bronzed, shirtless lifeguard who could be Luke Perry's body double on the set of Beverly Hills 90210. He is still and exquisite as a statue, then turns to stare in my direction. A choir of angels seems to break through the clouds and sing "Hallelujah," but it's actually the chorus of Seal's latest single blasting from the speakers. I look over my shoulder, expecting to see a bunch of rowdy kids or maybe a hot girl in a bikini, but no one is there.

Just me. The realization hits me like a Mac truck. I might as well be plastered to the pavement in agony.

"Uh, Ryan." I tug at his Dallas Cowboys jersey. "We don't need to go swimming today. It's going to storm anyway." I motion to the sky as if the storm clouds on the horizon are self-explanatory.

What I really want is to escape the familiar sting of self-consciousness I've known all of my life. Through the years, I never failed to be the punch line for someone as plastic and perfect as those lifeguards when they vied for a spot at the popular lunch table.

"Freckle face."

"Chubby cheeks."

"Pirate's dream."

"Ugly."

"Fat."

"Dork."

"Loser."

Whoever came up with that "Sticks and Stones" crap was probably quarantined during adolescence. Words hurt. Even though I grew a few inches and finally fill out a bra, I can't seem to shed the shame I wear as a second skin.

I tug at Ryan again. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Yeah, why don't you take a hike," the redhead mutters without gazing up from her magazine.

I freeze as the Luke Perry look-alike walks toward us in sync with the music, as if he's a muscled lifeguard moving in slow motion on the TV show Baywatch. He stops at the table, just a few feet away, and twirls his whistle around his finger. My first instinct is to run away, but I can't move because my eyes are glued on him. The boy is gorgeous and terrifying at the same time, like a tornado on the horizon, and I can't stop staring.