Chapter One

We were the queens of stolen glances, Spencer and I. For three years we rode the same bus on weekday mornings, the S2 down Sixteenth Street. Spencer rode twelve stops and got off on P Street. I rode three stops beyond that.

I can still remember the first day she got onto the bus. She stood at the bus stop in black slacks visible beneath a gray trench coat. The temperature was somewhere around twenty or so degrees, cold enough for her to wear a hat, or scarf, or even ear muffs, but I was glad that she hadn't. I was glad that her golden hair was down, and curly, and flowing about her face. The sunlight bounced off of each curl and seems to warm the air surrounding it, surrounding her. She wore these gray-tinted aviators that covered much of her face. She could have been a movie star really.

She stepped onto the bus as if she were weightless, one black boot before the other, and signaled to the bus driver with just a wave of her hand that she would pay him in a moment. She dropped into the seat across from me and began rummaging in the green messenger bag over her shoulder. She pulled out a leather wallet and produced a dollar bill. When she stood again and approached the driver, he simply smiled into the mirror and waved her away. I didn't blame him. I wouldn't have bothered making her pay either. She smiled at this and then returned to her bag, shoving the dollar bill into her coat pocket.

It was then, that I realized I was staring. My mouth was hanging open and I was gaping at her, eating up every inch of her tiny frame. Well, she wasn't tiny really; she was a bit taller than me give or take a few heel inches, a goddess if I've ever seen one. Anyway, upon this realization I turned away, peering out of the front window. The bus roared on down sixteenth. I prayed that she hadn't seen me staring, that those aviators hadn't hidden the glare that she gave this creepy teenager staring at her, me.

No such luck.

When I finally found the energy to turn away form the window, she was gazing silently back at me, aviators in her lap, and a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I considered smiling back, wanted to even, but I was too busy lost in her eyes. They were, big and wide and blue and seemed full of hope and happiness and excitement. I didn't understand how that was possible, for a person's eyes to look as if they held the world inside of them. But hers did. And she was looking at me.

I must have blushed because after a moment she tore her eyes away stifling a laugh. I didn't like where this was going. I pictured her stepping off of the bus once downtown, and going up to all of her witty, sexy friends and ragging on me, the creepy little high-schooler that checked her out on the bus. So I buried my head in my chest, eying the logo of my t-shirt and then cursing myself. It read "Seasons of Love". How lame. I kept my head down until she exited the bus.

That was midway through my sophomore year. By the end of that year I was already in love with her, already in love with her walk, and the way she tilts her head to the side when she doesn't understand something, how her smile can light up a thunderstorm, and how when she moves, time seems to stop whatever it's doing to pay attention.

But before I get into to that I should tell you about me. My name is Ashley Davies. I live in Washington DC, born and raised. My father is a failed musician turned stockbroker, my mother is an actress. She's a fierce woman really, so scary in person that she just belongs on stage. Kind of like Glen Close. I think she wants to be Glen Close. And she wants me to be some warped brunette version of Gwyneth Paltrow. So she sent me to arts school.

She sent me to Duke Ellington School of the Arts, this run down, shab of a school, known for cranking out the nation's best in premiere talent. I auditioned for theatre and received my admission within three days. Within two months I was at the top of my class and had a supporting role in the school's production of The Laramie Project. It was great. So I guess you could say that it all got even greater when Spencer came along.

Well, that is if you call it coming along.

After that first day of humiliation, I boarded the bus praying that she wasn't on it. And she wasn't...for about three stops. Then I saw her, running after the bus. Though I feel bad about it now, I prayed that she would trip on a slab of ice or suddenly have an asthma attack. Anything! I didn't want to run into her.

When she clambered onto the bus she had a monthly pass this time, and I gulped. She was going to be a frequent rider. She flashed it to the driver and then walked with her head down to the same seat as before. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts, her brow furrowed. She took the same seat as before, across from me, but kept her gaze on the floor.

She wore jeans today, with brown cowgirl boots and a green turtleneck sweater, the same gray trench coat, which I realized now, was lined with fur and was probably very expensive. I was almost sure that my mother owned it.

I tried not to stare, but it was too hard. Besides, while her head was down this was my only chance to really see her. I took in her flat stomach, the curve of her hips, and the shine of her pink lip-gloss. She was gorgeous. Just then the bus gave a lurch and her messenger bag fell from her lap. A few of its small contents poured from the opening and around my feet. Just my luck. I gasped and then bent down to retrieve the small items, MAC mascara, eye shadow, and gloss, plus cherry-apple Lip Smackers. I snickered to myself. I grabbed the bag too and I when I looked up she was right in front of me, staring.

"Thanks," she said breathlessly, and I was sure that she didn't remember me. I smiled in response, handing the bag over, and almost as if my smile were infectious one spread across her face. And though she tried to hide it, a mild blush spread across her cheeks. My smile widened, returning to my seat, gaze still glued to those gorgeous blue eyes. We just stayed that way for what seemed like a million millenniums until a cell phone went off. It took a moment for us to realize that it was her own. Britney Spears chanted the words "Gimme More" again and again and I chuckled to myself. A Britney fan. She answered it.

"Spencer here?" she said with an almost geeky cheeriness and I finally allowed my gaze to fall. I couldn't let her know that I was that smitten with her. Besides, what would she want with a sophomore like me anyway? She chatted on for a few moments, replied with various monosyllabic answers: "No, Sure, Maybe, Okay, Sounds Good." And then after a minute or two, she finished "love you too baby." I snapped my gaze up at this, and immediately regretted it. I was like a wounded puppy. But to my delight, she was clasping the phone shut and looking back up at me. Except she only held my gaze for a moment and smiled a sweet, slow smile, then began toying around in her messenger bag. I grinned from ear to ear and hugged my arms about myself.

That was three years ago. Her name was Spencer and she smiled at me.