The Italics for the poem aren't working - I don't know why. So sorry if it looks sloppy, but I don't know if it is the site or the computer...

Chapter Four

When I was normal, when I had friends and spoke up during class, when my life hadn’t been changed by Will Sheldon, I loved insignificant facts. Like the fact that donkeys kill more people annually than airplane crashes, or the fact that Venus is the only planet that rotates clockwise. My boyfriends called the habit endearing. My friends called in annoying.

After that first day in Journalism, the butterflies in my stomach settled down. Mr. Sheldon treated me like any other teacher I had ever had, and I realized how ridiculous my behavior had been. Ann, however, made no such discoveries about hers, and continued to flirt and smile and giggle at our Journalism teacher.

Again, I can’t recall much about those first days and times I had with him. We were discussing something about trees. Oak trees, I know. I think that we were trying to decide what kind of tree to plant in the front of the school, seeing as a storm had knocked down the old one that had been there for years.

“Dude, I think we should plant an apple tree!” Heath said, grinning widely. “We could eat the apples!” He elbowed his buddy, and they both tried to look wise and self-assured.

No, kidding. How did he even get into the Journalism class? The discussion continued around me, more student making suggestions. I wasn’t listening that closely, working on a poem in my notebook, but no one could tune out Ann’s loud opinion.

“No, Heath,” she said, scowling. “Apple trees are too small. We need an oak tree. They’re huge, and they would give us some nice shade during cheerleading practice. I get so hot out there sometimes!” Ann looked sidelong at Mr. Sheldon, fanning her face with her hand.

He nodded. “Good input, Ann,” he said.

She beamed. “And the acorns would attract some cute squirrels. All we have around here are pigeons.” She rolled her eyes to add to the complaint.

I said it absently, “You’d be long graduated before you saw some squirrels. Oak trees don’t produce acorns until they’re at least fifty years old.”

Ann sighed, and Heath laughed. “Shut up, Becca,” my best friend snapped. “God, you always have to ruin everything.”

Used to her comments, I shrugged, adding another line to my poem.

“At least she doesn’t do everything,” Heath chortled, his meaning clear. Ann hissed and made a swipe at him.

While they argued around me, I remained in my little bubble, lost in a world of words and meanings.

But my bubble was popped when a hand descended on my notebook, and picked it up just as I lifted my pencil. Cross, I looked up to give Heath a piece of my mind. The foul words died in my throat when I saw who had my poem in his hands.

Mr. Sheldon regarded my work, reading it slowly. A blush spread across my cheeks as I imagined what he was reading, line by line.

In the doorway,

time stood still.

Embraced and lost,

it mourns the obvious.

The teeth and the hate,

pour out everything felt.

Regret, tension,

light rays and taps.

An explosion of sighs,

chaos erupts.

“How long have you been writing?” he asked me.

I swallowed. “About six years. I know it isn’t that good, but…”

He didn’t interrupt, and just stared at me with those fathomless eyes of his. “But what?” he urged, when I didn’t go on.

I shrugged again, at a loss. “But I’m working to get better.”

Mr. Sheldon gave me back my notebook, and I clasped it to my chest. He was still looking at me with that strange expression.

“Don’t stop writing,” he finally said. When I didn’t respond, he flashed a smile. It was a beautiful smile, just like the rest of him, and I somehow managed to smile back.

“I won’t.”