Heather's next day seemed to all focus on seventh bell. It seemed that the first six bells of the day were weak introductions, paling at what was to come. Heather knew that when that second bell rang she would be seated across from Louis Christianson. All through lunch, as she sat quietly in the lunchroom, staring out the window at the dreary day, she let her mind wander. And when it came to her English class, she was waiting, expectant. Her hands were interlocked on the front of her desk, like a young student in a classic film, her back straight, her ankles crossed. She sat, the perfect image of studiousness, waiting for Louis. Of course, when he came, he sat with his two friends, already swept up in a conversation that Heather was not a part of. But she listened. Not so much to the words, but to the warm tone of his voice, and took note of the casual way in which he swept his brown hair so that it brushed his eyelashes. And when the second bell rang, calling the class to order, he turned his brown eyes to her.

"Heather." He spoke his name. Her heart thudded uncomfortably, her fingers nervously sliding in their own grip. And she didn't understand. She couldn't understand that when he lowered his head down a few inches so his eyes were level with hers it was simply to make her breath catch in her throat. For all her artist's eye and quick-working mind, Heather was unable to recognize the flirtatious manner as an act. And it wasn't because Louis was overly cunning or seductive; it was because she didn't want to.

As she sat, staring dumbly at the jock before her, she could only note the cocky half-smirk that played across his face as he slid the outline over the facing desks toward her.

"Here's the outline. It's due at the end of class."

"Oh." She had somehow recovered her voice. She reached out hesitantly to take the paper, and when she looked up he had turned back to his friends and was talking. Ignoring her.

"Uhm, Louis," she tried hesitantly, and when he glanced up at her, she found that her eyes were suddenly glued to the worksheet in front of her.

"This is a group project," she reminded him quietly. The cocky grin on his face seemed a bit fixed.

"But your ideas are so much better than ours, Heather," Brad replied.

"Couldn't you just help us out?" asked Mark.

"You told me you would," Louis replied, and Heather found that she could no longer look away from his eyes, not now that they held such accusation.

"I–I," Heather stuttered, for once unable to use her words.

"You only have thirty minutes left," Louis reminded her.

"You should get working," added Brad.

"Yeah," Mark told her with a sarcastic smile, "you wouldn't want us to get a bad grade because of your sloppy work, would you, Heather?"

And from her desk, Mrs. Flett glanced up and watched angrily as Heather slid the paper onto her desk and bent over the paper, furiously writing.

At the end of the bell, Louis and his friends walked out. Mrs. Flett watched them go, her eyes narrowed, but she didn't move from her desk. A few moments later, the classroom was empty except for one student. Heath quickly scribbled a final note at the bottom of the page and, hastily stuffing her books in her messenger back and slinging it over one shoulder, she walked to the front of the room.

"Here, Mrs. Flett," she murmured, handing her English teacher the paper. Mrs. Flett looked at the paper. Unlike most papers from Heather, the writing was dark and smudged, as though the pencil had been pressed onto the paper as hard as it could. The thick lines had been smudged, the excess pencil lead marking the margins and the side of Heather's hand. Most alarming, however, was a cluster of damp spots at the bottom of the page, as though the writer had been crying.

Mrs. Flett couldn't see Heather's face, as the girl had let her honey-blond hair down, and it fell, like a sheet, covering her face.

"Heather," she began, her tone careful and warning.

"I'm sorry it's so messy, Mrs. Flett." Heather spoke quietly, but her voice was even. "I hope you can figure it out. I think I did."

--

Heather sat in front of the computer screen as she had for several nights, the white glow of the screen the only light in the dark family room. The laptop had been on for a while; the heat was becoming almost unbearable, making her legs burn under her jeans. After a while, she sighed, and began typing.

The scratching noise abruptly ceased, after a sudden harsh noise. For the fourth time, Draco's quill had snapped, the feather breaking down the middle in his large, strong hand. His parchment was flecked with ink from his frustration, and the multiple cross-outs and inkblots made his essay a disgrace.

"Here," a gentle voice murmured. He look up, and Amber was leaning toward him, a quill held carefully in her hands.

"Thank you," he replied, and she smiled at the gratitude apparent in his voice.

"Had a hard day?" she asked sweetly, as she slid comfortably into the chair beside him. Their location, in the library, necessitated whispers, and therefore she leaned in close to him, close enough so as to smell the cologne that he wore and feel his warm breath on her face when he replied.

"You have no idea."

"Me too," she whispered, and he was surprised to see her perfect eyes glisten with tears. It hadn't occurred to him that he wasn't the only person in the world. He hadn't realize that maybe other people have feelings.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he replied, and instinctively reached out to hug her to him. She nestled against his strong chest —

In an angry gesture, Heather shut the laptop. She knew that there was a chance that her work wouldn't save. She understood that. But she couldn't stand to continue writing, not when she realized that it was too similar. That every moment Draco opened his lips to speak, she saw Louis Christianson, and the flirtatious habit of his of running his hands through his hair and looking her in the eye when he spoke just so he would make her nervous. And it was ridiculous that his callousness, his blatant manipulation of her, his insensitivity, should make her want him more. He was Draco Malfoy, except he played basketball, and wore his warm-ups to school and listened to hip-hop and rap.

As Heather sat in her family room, her legs curled under her on the old couch, she made a thousand excuses why she shouldn't confront Louis. For a moment, she lived a thousand scenarios, each proving to herself that Louis was sincere and truly cared for her. Part of her clung to the idea that this was her fault, as it was she that had promised to help him out. It had seemed only fair at the time; he had basketball, the team needed him. And by doing the project, wasn't she just helping him help the team?

The rest of the house was dark and silent. It comfortably was home to Heather's fantasies, as her mind whirred in a desperate attempt to make sense of that day's events and still keep Louis Christianson as the hero to her story. As narrator to her life, Heather tried to create a scene in which Louis explained his motivation, a true, earnest motivation. The need of basketball practice. That, beneath his cocky exterior, he was gentle and fragile. That, when he left the room, he would turn to his friends and exclaim over having spoken to her. That having to make her finish the project hurt him just as much as it hurt him. In this version, she could still write herself a happy ending, involving the two of them together, when they could explain how misunderstood and alone they had both felt. As much as her mind rejected the fact that Louis could ever want her, as inferior and unpopular as she felt, she wished desperately, that once, just once, he would see her as she saw him: perfect, desirable, and beautiful.