"Max... Max! You're staring again, aren't you?"

I jerked my eyes away from the one-hundred-and-fifty-pounds of gorgeousness in front of me and glared at my best friend beside me. "I am not," I hissed under my breath because the teacher's desk was near ours (intentionally, I'm sure).

"I've called your name at least ten times now." Iggy turned slightly, his gaze a few inches to the left of my face.

I groaned. "Sorry, you're right. It's just... he's RIGHT there."

"I get it. But I need you to help me do this," he said, feeling around on his desk before finally tapping the worksheet with the eraser of his pencil.

I sighed. "I'm sorry, Iggy. I really should be helping you more."

Iggy just shrugged. "Yeah, the glasses don't help much."

My friend-brother Iggy here is legally blind. No, not legally blonde, although he does have strawberry blonde hair. He can see a little with the help of these thick, nerdy-looking glasses, but he prefers to have me help him instead of wearing them. The counselor arranged our schedule so that we have every single class together. Except for Math, which is the one subject the blind boy beats me in. He's super good at visualizing and doing things mentally (because it's not like he can do it any other way), so his writing buddy is Fa-

Ugh. I didn't want to think about him right now.

"So, Prom's coming up so I hear."

I gritted my teeth. Another subject I didn't want to hear. "Sure," I said, fighting for nonchalant. "Even a blind guy like you can see all the neon flyers everywhere."

He laughed bitterly. "Oh how I wish."

Before we could get into stickier topics, I tapped the worksheets on our desk. "So where does the semicolon go in this sentence?"

Iggy snorted. "Do you think I know?"

I silently breathed a sigh of relief. We quietly bickered about the whole English arrangement ("Well it's not fair that I have to do all the work!" "Well, you did agree. I think you signed a paper") and quickly the time flies by, and soon it's time for the dreaded seventh period:

Math.

Ever since Iggy's math assistant (we shall call him "he-who-must-not-be-named") moved from Virginia to Colorado last summer, I've dreaded handing Iggy off more than I hate the class of Pre-Calculus, which I used to hate more than anything in the world.

Used to be the key words.

I walked rigidly down the hallway, stiffly holding Iggy's arm as we meandered through the bustling halls. I flinched every time someone with black hair walked by, reminded of he-who-must-not-be-named.

I finally saw him, leaning casually next to the door of their Math class, Calculus. I let go of Iggy's arm, feeling guilty about the way his hands went out in front of him before he-who-must-not-be-named put a hand on his shoulder. Then all my guilt melted and I was rigid again.

"Thanks," he-who-must-not-be-named said, nodding to me. I nodded stiffly before wheeling on one heel and walking off to class.

I grimaced as I passed through a particular hallway just covered with prom flyers reminding us to buy tickets and corsages and whatnot.

I made it to class and was in my seat just as the tardy bell rang. It was only then I looked up and noticed our usual teacher, Mr. B, wasn't there. In his usual place was a middle-aged lady with shiny brown hair and stern grey eyes. She was standing stiffly by the whiteboard, her eyes fixed on me.

"Ms. Ride, would you care to explain your tardiness?" she barked.

I felt everyone's eyes on me. "Do you want to the truth or the lie?"

"The truth, Ms. Ride. Always the truth."

This whole "Ms. Ride" business was pissing me off. "I'm sorry I was late because I was escorting my blind friend to his next class!" I snapped at her.

She raised one trimmed eyebrow but didn't comment. Ms. Prim-and-Perfect addressed the class and said, "Mr. Batchelder is not here today, as his wife is in the hospital. He says he hopes to return by Friday, and you are to have this period as a study hall until he comes back."

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. It was very unlike Mr. B to just assign study hall.

"My name is Mrs. Quell," she says, scanning the room with her eyes. "Please keep busy and no trouble will come."

Next to me, my best friend Sam murmured, "I wonder how she became a 'Mrs'? She's pretty unsmiling."

I suppressed a laugh and bent my head over my chemistry homework, which I sadly have yet to start. I scribbled a few answers down before my thoughts started to drift over to he-who-must-not-be-named against my will. I grimaced, and I saw Sam shoot me a questioning look, but I just shook my head and he returned to his work.

Let's get something straight. Everything you're about to find out was done out of love for Iggy. And also for my conscious.

You see, he-who-must-not-be-named has been friends with Iggy since preschool. He-who-must-not-be-named moved away to Virginia summer of seventh grade, which was the year I moved here to lovely Colorado.

Flash forward to freshmen year. Iggy, who was a crazy adrenaline junky, decides to illegally buy some sort of pyrotechnic stuff online and set a row of stratiegically placed bushes on fire while he ran as fast as he could trying not to get scorched. The whatever-illegal-stuff exploded as soon as he opened the box, and he's been blind ever since.

He-who-must-not-be-named finds out and decides he HAS to return and take care of his friend. His mom finally agreed last summer, and so for the past year, he-who-must-not-be-named and I have been trading off assisting our blind friend.

But there's this stupid thing that makes me regret becoming friends with Iggy. Because he's blind, you kind of have to follow through with his requests. So when he asked me if I would go to prom with our fellow senior.

I really didn't want to. I was actually hoping that the one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of gorgeousness would ask me, but being the good friend, I accepted Iggy's request, because apparently he-who-must-not-be-named really wanted to go with me. So now I'm stuck going with some guy I met this year. Fun.

Oh yeah, there's just a couple things you need to know.

One-hundred-and-fifty pounds of gorgeousness is Dylan Walker. He's got perfect blonde hair that dips perfectly over one of his Caribbean blue eyes.

He-who-must-not-be-named, on the other hand, is named Fang.

A/N So I'm typing this up on my iPhone (which loves me so, so much) and every time I typed in "blind", it autocorrected to "blonde". I guess my phone really is into Iggy's hair or something.

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