Star Crossed

She lies with Miguel beneath the blue-velvet sky.

It's not Miguel she thinks about, wishing upon the bright, bright star. She runs her hand through black silken hair, and wishes they were tumbled brown curls instead.

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She takes Robby to the prom.

It's not Robby she looks at, twisting on the dance floor. She grips at hard muscle-sinew, and wishes they were smooth, giving curves instead.

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She pins Sam against the dojo wall.

It's Sam she smells, cinnamon and cherry blossom. A second's work to bend, to securely capture – warm, sweet lips against lips –

Tory picks up the nunchucks instead.