I waited patiently for the class to move on from the exhibit, down the long, narrow hallway of the museum. Teachers always like to talk on and on, but Mr. Blakes, my history teacher, would babble on for days about anything, and if you wanted to get him talking for longer, all you had to do is mention something –anything –about Ireland or the Irish. We tested it in class once and he spent the next week in class talking about it. Never did that again!

Today, the class had taken a trip to the museum, Mr. Blakes pausing every few minutes to explain what we passed as if by memorization. I felt the memories of being a five year old return as I looked down the hallway leading to the exhibits for the little kids. I snapped out of my little flashback when I realized the class had begun moving again. When we stopped again, I knew I should make myself comfortable. We all rested in front of the exhibit that was probably the whole reason for going, the Blarney Stone exhibit.

I actually have m own little story involving the stone. Last year, when I turned 15, I was gifted with a ticket to Ireland where I saw the Blarney Stone. Luckily for me, no one was around at the time, probably because of the hour at which I visited it, so I chipped off a piece when I finished marveling it, kissing it goodbye, partly for luck, even though I would never truly be leaving it.

I looked at the exhibit, reading about it and staring at the pictures, knowing that laws forbid them from removing any part of the stone. I instinctively reached in the pocket of my jeans and pulled out a chunk of rock. All the memories of that trip flowed through, leaving me behind the class once again. I kissed my little chunk of rock, hoping it would give me luck for what I was planning later on.

I was one of the only sophomores in my history class, the rest being juniors, and even a few seniors. There was one senior who I had barely ever even talked to, but I planned on changing that. He would have to notice me after my little plans.

I waited for some sort of interesting, even though that can be relatively difficult in a museum, topic that would give me the chance I was waiting for. I finally settled on a statue that looked like a handsome, young god, his features so perfect that it looked as if it were impossible to carve it. The origin of the statue was unknown so it would be a good topic to ask the opinion of a classmate, and to keep us behind Mr. Blakes' class.

When Mr. Blakes decided he wanted to go to some Irish exhibit again, I waited for my chance to talk to him.

"Hey," I called out, hoping he would hear me over Mr. Blakes' booming voice.

"Oh, hi! Um…Clara right?" He asked, kind of surprised that I was actually talking to him I think.

Butterflies fluttered rapidly in my stomach, making it even more of a struggle to open my mouth. I forced the words out. "Yeah, and your…Mike?"

"Yep."

"Anyway, where…where do you think this statue came from? The sculptor has to be a good one," the words came a little more easily now.

"Yeah…" he started talking, but I was hardly listening, too focused on body language, moving slightly closer. I never was too good at this, but then again I never really did like too many guys.

"Clara?"

Oh, he stopped talking. "Yeah?"

"What so you think?"

"Um…" I stalled, trying to figure out what to say, and what he'd just said. My stomach started doing little flips again, acknowledging my nervousness.

I finally decided on my answer. I closed my eyes, knowing my answer would be impossible for me if I was staring into his gorgeous brown eyes. I leaned in, hoping to meet him halfway, and kissed him. I felt lips against mine, but it was unlike anything that I had expected. His lips were hard, cold, and almost completely still. I opened my eyes, wondering what could have possibly caused this kind of reaction. I was horrified, embarrassed to see the truth of it!