It's warm today. Warm enough to perspire by simple looks. The sun eventually finds me in the shade while I watch Edward pace, clap, shout toward in and outfield. There's an air around him today, a mask he wears. Our eyes don't meet until after he blows the whistle. I begin to gather the bats while the tight pants boy army fill their paper cups with water. A flicker on my arm summons me and Emmett is there, skin glistening beneath the sky we share.
"Hey, give me twenty minutes. I'll meet you up front," he says.
I nod, summoning a smile after him. His eyelashes are dark and long, his curls and forehead bond with sweat. I stare after him longer than necessary. He's tone and bulging in very appropriate places. Edward sees, setting his maroon Spartans ballcap deeper on his head until it meets his glasses. I keep stuffing the long bag until it's full. Edward begins to help as the players leave the field. When we're alone, and I pretend to barely give him notice, he digs into his khakis and pulls out a piece of paper. He isn't aware my mind already belongs to him, so he clears his throat, and I make sure he knows.
Without a word, he hands me the folded piece from his pocket. As I stretch it open he says, "That's what my day is like tomorrow."
So it is. Listed are several things he must do. His handwriting is beautiful, fluid, confident. Drop off mail at the post-office before coming to school. Lab set-up. Lunch duty. The list seems endless. Between some of the items is a quick doodle, a six-line star that I learned to draw when I was very young. I shake my head, and offer him the paper. "I believe you, Edward. I know you're busy."
He doesn't take it, and instead steps next to me, but keeps home plate between us. To a spectator we're going over tasks to complete for our baseball team or upcoming away game. An innocent exchange of words. They don't see the inner tick between us. They wouldn't see the cogs turning to keep us apart, yet winding us together.
He points to the three black stars he's drawn so carefully between the tasks. I regard them. One after third period. One during sixth, his planning period and when I'm doing free study in the library. Then another after practice. He looks at me through dark lenses, and even though it's bright and the light blinds me, I see his eyes holding out hope and waiting for me to take it. His lips tick in a small smile only I can see. "I wrote you in my schedule."