I took this chapter entirely from seventeen.com so its all part of PRINCESS
IN LOVE although I edited some parts out that didnt fit into my story, its
basically the same. Keep sending reviews, they're awesome, I dont care if
you already reviewed my story, do it again.
Thanxs
Oh, God. I am in so much trouble. Again.
And it isn't even my fault this time. I mean, I couldn't help myself. It just happened, you know? And it doesn't mean anything. It was just, you know, one of those things.
Because of course the first thing Michael says, when he sees me standing there gaping at him while he is holding that flower, is, "Here. This just fell out of your locker."
I took it from him in a complete daze. I swear to God my heart was beating so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.
Because I thought they'd been from him. The roses, I mean. For a minute there, I really did think Michael Moscovitz had been leaving me roses. But of course this time, there's a note attached to the rose. It says:
Good luck on your trip to Genovia! See you when you get back!
Your Secret Snowflake,
Boris Pelkowski
Boris Pelkowski. Boris Pelkowski is the one who's been leaving those roses. Boris Pelkowski is my Secret Snowflake. Of course Boris wouldn't know that a yellow rose represents love everlasting. Boris doesn't even know not to tuck his sweater into his pants. How would he know the secret language of flowers?
I don't know which was actually stronger, my feeling of relief that it wasn't Justin Baxendale leaving those roses after all...
...or my feeling of disappointment that it wasn't Michael. Then Michael went, "Well? What's the verdict?" To which I responded by staring at him blankly. I still hadn't quite gotten over it. You know, those brief few seconds when I'd thought -- I'd actually thought, fool that I am -- that he loved me.
"What did you get in Algebra?" he asked, slowly, as if I were dense. Which, of course, I am. So dense that I never realized how much in love with Michael Moscovitz I was until Judith Gershner came along and swept him right out from under my nose. Anyway, so I opened the computer printout containing my grades, and would you believe that I had raised my F in Algebra all the way up to a B minus? Which just goes to show that if you spend nearly every waking moment in your life studying something, the likelihood is that you are going to retain at least a little of it.
Enough to get a B minus on the final, anyway. I'm trying really hard not to gloat, but it's difficult. I mean, I'm so happy. Well, except for the whole not-having-a-date-to-the-dance thing. Still, it's hard to be unhappy. There is absolutely no way I got this grade because the teacher happens to be my stepfather. In Algebra, either you get the right answer, or you don't. There's nothing subjective about it, like in English. There's no interpretation of the facts. Either you're right, or you're not.
And I was right. Eighty percent of the time. Of course it helped that I knew the answer to the final's extra-credit question: What instrument did Ringo, in the Beatles, play? But that was only worth two points. Anyway, here's the part where I got into trouble. Even though, of course, it isn't my fault.
| | |
I was so happy about my B minus, I completely forgot for a minute how much I am in love with Michael. I even forgot, for a change, to be shy around him. Instead, I did something really unlike me. I threw my arms around him. Seriously. Threw my arms right around his neck and went, "Wheeeeeee!!!!!"
I couldn't help it. I was so happy. Okay, the whole rose thing had been a little bit of a bummer, but the B minus made up for it. Well, almost. It was just an innocent hug. That's all it was. Michael had, after all, tutored me almost the whole semester. He had some stake in that B minus, too.
Thanxs
Oh, God. I am in so much trouble. Again.
And it isn't even my fault this time. I mean, I couldn't help myself. It just happened, you know? And it doesn't mean anything. It was just, you know, one of those things.
Because of course the first thing Michael says, when he sees me standing there gaping at him while he is holding that flower, is, "Here. This just fell out of your locker."
I took it from him in a complete daze. I swear to God my heart was beating so hard, I thought I was going to pass out.
Because I thought they'd been from him. The roses, I mean. For a minute there, I really did think Michael Moscovitz had been leaving me roses. But of course this time, there's a note attached to the rose. It says:
Good luck on your trip to Genovia! See you when you get back!
Your Secret Snowflake,
Boris Pelkowski
Boris Pelkowski. Boris Pelkowski is the one who's been leaving those roses. Boris Pelkowski is my Secret Snowflake. Of course Boris wouldn't know that a yellow rose represents love everlasting. Boris doesn't even know not to tuck his sweater into his pants. How would he know the secret language of flowers?
I don't know which was actually stronger, my feeling of relief that it wasn't Justin Baxendale leaving those roses after all...
...or my feeling of disappointment that it wasn't Michael. Then Michael went, "Well? What's the verdict?" To which I responded by staring at him blankly. I still hadn't quite gotten over it. You know, those brief few seconds when I'd thought -- I'd actually thought, fool that I am -- that he loved me.
"What did you get in Algebra?" he asked, slowly, as if I were dense. Which, of course, I am. So dense that I never realized how much in love with Michael Moscovitz I was until Judith Gershner came along and swept him right out from under my nose. Anyway, so I opened the computer printout containing my grades, and would you believe that I had raised my F in Algebra all the way up to a B minus? Which just goes to show that if you spend nearly every waking moment in your life studying something, the likelihood is that you are going to retain at least a little of it.
Enough to get a B minus on the final, anyway. I'm trying really hard not to gloat, but it's difficult. I mean, I'm so happy. Well, except for the whole not-having-a-date-to-the-dance thing. Still, it's hard to be unhappy. There is absolutely no way I got this grade because the teacher happens to be my stepfather. In Algebra, either you get the right answer, or you don't. There's nothing subjective about it, like in English. There's no interpretation of the facts. Either you're right, or you're not.
And I was right. Eighty percent of the time. Of course it helped that I knew the answer to the final's extra-credit question: What instrument did Ringo, in the Beatles, play? But that was only worth two points. Anyway, here's the part where I got into trouble. Even though, of course, it isn't my fault.
| | |
I was so happy about my B minus, I completely forgot for a minute how much I am in love with Michael. I even forgot, for a change, to be shy around him. Instead, I did something really unlike me. I threw my arms around him. Seriously. Threw my arms right around his neck and went, "Wheeeeeee!!!!!"
I couldn't help it. I was so happy. Okay, the whole rose thing had been a little bit of a bummer, but the B minus made up for it. Well, almost. It was just an innocent hug. That's all it was. Michael had, after all, tutored me almost the whole semester. He had some stake in that B minus, too.
