What You Want

I used the library to hide out, partially due to the fear of coming into class late, and also because I could lay my head down and sleep a few more minutes. My stowaway was in the back near the magazine rack, as there was an alcove that was just big enough—assuming one was limber—to squeeze in and not be seen unless someone was looking right at the area.

I thought too long about why I had stayed up all night as the bell ending first period rang and I had to wipe the sleep from my eyes and force a smile on my tired and zombified face. I took a deep breath, walked out of the library and stepped into the current of students long enough to reach my locker.

I opened the door and felt a presence behind me. Usually it was Melissa, waiting to either clap her hands in front of my face as I turned around or it was someone asking me if they could borrow my homework for Spanish II.

I glanced around my shoulder and the person moved slightly out of eyesight so I had to run around. If it was Melissa I was going to slap her for leaving me in the car earlier.

It wasn’t her, but it was him, Stephen.

“Don’t think we met but I think I know you.”

“Haven’t heard that one before,” I replied.
“Sorry, old hat?”
“No, seriously I have’t heard that before. It was new.”
“Well, your sister talked with me yesterday.”
I only nodded.
“Okay, well, I like to say I have this rehearsed, but I don’t, so—Would you like to go to the game with me on Friday?”
“Game?”
“Basketball.”
Reardan was known for it’s Basketball. The boys and and girls team would trade off stellar seasons. Sometimes the girls’ games were rougher, rowdier and louder than the boys’ team. That Friday night would be the girls team with Reardan versus Davenport, his old school
“Yeah, sure.”
“Granted it’s not a really outstanding first date.”
“Date?”
“Too soon? Can I rewind it a little and try again?”
“No, it’s fine. Casual, right?”
“Yes, except I have to give you this.”
He handed over a multi-folded piece of paper. I tried to hide my surprise as I seldom ever received such a missive and as as much as I wanted to open it right there, we had to get to our own classes.
“Thank you.”
“Just to let you know, it’s a beginning, it’s like a training wheels are off and I’ve fallen down a couple of hundred times kind of thing.”
“How about we meet at lunch?”
“Here?”
“Sure,” I replied as the bell to second period chimed.
“Great. See you later, Clarissa.”
I pocketed the note and went back to finding my notebooks and binder for Spanish.
I left the note in my pocket during class because Mrs. Daiglar was known for picking up such foreign pieces of basura, as she would call it before throwing it away, so I dared not opening it. I had to wonder what was on it though. An epic sonnet? Some outlandish limerick or a overly-sappy romantic-ish poem put together in a crazy and mad rush of emotion. The kind where you have to wonder if the writer is either crazy or he’s all there, but the recipient just isn’t seeing it.

I excused myself from class to go to the restroom and stopped short of opening the drop. Instead, my head was buried in the note:

“A Letter from Anonymous
I sign my name this way, for I cannot tell you who I am I will not say for you may not care. You won’t hear
Me...my cry...for you...so dear
Anonymous
A name, a phrase, doesn’t matter it’s still a praise
To you, it is...I’ll repeat
To me, you’re the one who is sweet
Anonymous
Would you hear me if I was to call
Would you listen, if my words were to stumble and fall?
Anonymous
I sign my name this way.”