AN:
I don't know where this came from, so...sorry?
Red
Grace has seen him before.
She's seen those vibrant red strands in the middle of class, brilliantly shimmering between her and Natalie.
She knows the boy's a genius, that Krupnick guy. She's seen the test scores and thick flimsy packets with scribbled A+'s and tiny praises from the teacher in the top right corner. Or the amount of classes he's taking from the large blue glimmering binder assembled with organized yellow folders—AP Physics, AP English Literature, AP Calculus. There's a pile of highlighters always scattered on his desk, because he's always taking notes and he never moves his head from the direction of the blackboard. She knows that he's earning better grades than she ever could in any class. The redhead is obviously a genius with the IQ of Albert Einstein and she doesn't need to talk to him to notice that.
However, she wants to.
She's seen him walk around the halls with his friends, and her friend, Kim, talking and blabbering about. He's got this vicious, yet hilarious way of talking and large eyes that open when he's passionate about something. He's also honest. Though his plaid sweaters and slacks sometimes render her speechless with their ridiculous design, she enjoys staring with small delight.
Grace wishes a lot of things when she passes him by in the hall. Sometimes it's the friends he's got by his side, or the grades that scatter his report card. Other times it's the way he's so happy and carefree, despite the fact that he's a huge dork with bullies that'll encounter him even through college—where that karate kid won't be able to follow him. She wishes all sorts of ridiculous things, but she always passes them off and the moment is always brief, because these aren't the things that bother her. Mostly, she learns, it's the things that do bother her that she can't pass off not even in the middle of cheerleading practice when her mind is elsewhere. It's the things that he does, the small habits that she's taken notice of, that bother her intensely.
Like…why doesn't he ever look at her?
She could be passing some papers in the middle of class, test packets, or worksheets, but he won't even lift his head to bat an eye at her. He isn't even fazed. She's not even worth gazing at, after all these classes. And it's like he's had better…—and that bothers her so ridiculously much.
She should be his better.
She should be the girl that he looks up and gets all nervous talking to. She should be the one he talks about on weekends and gets all red, redder than his hair, thinking about. She should be.
However, she's not. He's had a whole village of girls to crush on, which is so weird and off balance in a place like this, but it's true. He's had girls that are prettier than her and taller, for pieces sakes! He's kissed Kim! He doesn't ever have to look at Grace with warm eyes and a funny feeling in his stomach, because he's had better and he knows he can get better. She could never be his better. It grinds her freaking gears to the max and she'd rather not even talk about it, because she knows that this is more than just a thought. She knows this is more than just "she's not." But, it's true Grace, she tells herself, you are no one's better, only those guys-who-flunk-their-exam's better.
Because the smart ones, the genius IQ ones—like Milton Krupnick and his red, shimmery hair—don't bat her an eye.
"Hey," Grace begins, placing his worksheet softly onto the frail desk. Her smile is as warm as the blood running through both their veins.
"Uh, hi?" He doesn't move his head from the blackboard, taking her sheet in his hand. Her warm, sweaty palms collide with his. She thinks it feels it better than any other guy's hands or anything perfectly warm she could get her hands on.
Her heart skips.
If she would have listened a little longer, then she would have heard his skip too.
