Turning

I sit in the middle of English class, one spark of interest among a throng of homophobes and conformists; the narrow-minded and shallow. The daylight outside murky windows races good-naturedly with the ever-slow hum of the classroom’s clock, while anxious fingers and sighs wait for the last period to finally set them free.
I’m as nervous and jittery as the rest of my caged classmates, but not for the finish of another tedious day of school. No, I’m anticipating how many glances of disgust and glowers of loathing I’ll get from a certain desk behind me in one 45-minute block.
She walks through the doorway into yet another depressingly overused room, full of self-confidence and false godliness. As she strides past me to her desk, deliberately avoiding my hard stare, her sweet scent of chocolate milk and rose water fills the space between us. My many memories of wonderful days, when I could still hold her tight as she shivered unwillingly against the bitter cold and an arguing family, came slamming back apathetically. I wonder dully if she ever felt disappointed in the way I reacted to her playfulness, if she was as bruised by last winter as I.
Time ambles by, and I find myself in an indirect argument with her about tragic heroes. Of course, we’re still not talking, so she and I both forcefully convey our points of view at a nearby classmate, a furiously silent debate.
I turn subconsciously at the sound of my name, coming from the poor bystander, caught in the midst of our battle. I concentrate on him, willing myself not to pay attention to the peripheral vision, whatever I do. I don’t want to look at that wolf in sheep’s clothes. But as I rotate my head back to the front, I can’t control that demon inside me that still begs for her.
Our eyes catch for an infinite second.
My mind reels and an explosion of memories shoot to the front of my mind.

We’re at her house, videotaping our stupidity, admiring each other through the tiny screen…
We’re baby-sitting her neighbors, and though she moans about how she hates kids, a small smile places uncertainly on her boyish face. I laugh quietly, enjoying the birth of her newfound maternal instincts…
We’re lying on her bed, nothing more than a lumpy mattress thrown in a corner. The silence of closeness comforts us, ending briefly as she sings, This is where you belong…
The same bed, a different night. She wakes me unintentionally, and I try to figure out whether she was crying, or has allergies. I rub soft circles into her shoulder, the one spot that puts her back at ease. She sighs gratefully, and we sleep…
The next morning, I try to express how scared I am. It comes out wrong, all wrong. Her face betrays her for a second, and the hurt shows. Then, laughing, she shrugs it off, always in control of herself…
At school, she ignores my telepathic pleas, match them with her own silence…
The final dance, I’m steered away as I see her yell and shove my best friend. I discover the idiotic reason later: She thinks I’m copying her with my hair and shoes…

The second breaks, and I’m back in reality. I jerk my head to the front, cursing myself. I really should try to avoid getting caught in such a vulnerable situation.
I spend the rest of the period sulking, my angry half winning over the half that still wants her.
Even so, as she stands to leave while the meek bell chimes our escape, I glance hopefully her way. Maybe…perhaps today, I’ll get another shot…
My hope breaks as she hurries out. And, once again, my fate is decided by this arrogant girl, turning her back again.