I guess it started with the two of us putting our fists together. It was back in August or September, the first time we did our teacher's version of the Soul Train Line in French class. There was the boys' line and the girls' line and you happened to be the boy who ended up across from me. Our teacher told us to touch fists with the person across from us so we were clear on who our first partner was. I remember thinking you'd be hesitant to do that, as if your hand was somehow too good to touch mine, even for a second. I thought you were one of those people who thought any activity that required you to communicate with kids outside of your own social group was a major waste of time and you'd be anxious to get it over with and go back to talking to your jock and cheerleader friends about whether or not they were getting the iphone 5 when it came out. But instead, you treated me like you treated everyone else and, unlike a lot of our class, you actually made an effort to pronounce the French correctly and have some emotion when you said it. And even though it sounds silly, that's how I first felt felt an attraction to you, and when I went back to my seat all I could think about was how I never noticed how cute you were before. Finally I had a reason to look forward to French.

     

Ever since that day I've worried even more about how I look in the morning because I want so badly to measure up to the girls in the class who are so much prettier than me, girls you've known for years. I've been wanting you to see that just because I'm shy and not a member of the popular crowd, doesn't mean I'm not worthy of your attention. All year, I've been trying to get you to look at me with every little thing I do. Playing with my hair, crossing my legs. Whenever I stare off into space, I like to think that you're staring at me, even though I know you're not. And every time I answer a question wrong or our teacher embarrasses me, I think that you must consider me even more of a loser than you did the day before, even though you probably don't even remember what happened by the time you get home.     

I'm not even positive you know my name, but there's so much I like about you. I like how you have just enough of an accent to where you sound Southern but not obnoxious. I like how you babysit the little kids at your church. I like that you're close to your big sister. I even like that you have a cat named Scuttles. And I know you play baseball and your dad's a school board member and last semester you were Homecoming King. But a part of me still hopes that you'll realize how much we're like Jenna and Matty from Awkward, and maybe you and one of your popular friends can fight over me.

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