Okay, so I know the whole college thing is unrealistic - you'll see why - but I'm working on that. I am trying to think of something major he can do for her that involves writing... If you have any ideas, PLEASE share. Oh, and again, the Italics aren't working. Man, I'm getting pissed about that...

Chapter Six

I would catch him looking at me sometimes. In the beginning, if our gazes met, he would instantly turn away. Just pretend that there wasn’t that spark between us, that he didn’t think of me as more than a student. After a time, I began to dread and anticipate Journalism in a burst of pain in my stomach. Was that normal? No, I don’t think so.

But was anything in my life normal? Was the whole situation normal? No. And after more time, I left normal behind, knowing that I couldn’t be a part of it.

Will Sheldon started to stare at me. He stopped pretending. Even Ann noticed.

“He’s looking at you again,” she whispered to me. “God, what a pedophile!”

My stomach clenched, but I didn’t glance up to see if what she said was true. I knew it was; I could feel his eyes on me, probing, watching, knowing.

We hadn’t exactly spoken since that time he had read my poem, but somehow—there really is no explanation as to how—everything between us evolved in a slow smolder of ice and fire. Without words, without acknowledgement. It was there, wrong and all-too real.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” Ann went on, not caring that I hadn’t responded. “We should report him!”

I didn’t mention the fact that if it had been she Will Sheldon had been staring at, reporting him would have been the farthest thing from her mind.

“Why are you acting like you don’t care?” Ann demanded when I still remained silent. “It’s disgusting the way he stares at you!”

I sighed, fed up. “Because.”

Scowling, Ann opened her mouth, not about to let me get away with that. The bell rang just then, saving me from having to listen to her some more.

“Asshole!” a kid shouted at another, shoving him. They both stormed from the room, and Heath jumped up with a whoop and ran after them, his friends behind him.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” he was shouting. Ann followed hurriedly, not wanting to miss anything.

Eyes down, I gathered my folder and notebook to myself. The door to the Journalism classroom was narrow, and students had to go single-file to get out.

I was almost free, just seconds away from the doorway.

Then, “Becca, can I see you for a moment?”

His voice rooted me to the spot. The person behind me glared as they passed, and another girl gave me an odd look. I held my breath, telling myself to calm down, and turned.

“Yes?”

The room was empty. There was only he and I. Alone for the first time. Mr. Sheldon sat in his chair, leaning back slightly, so beautiful and cool. As I stared at him like an idiot, that left dimple deepened in his cheek.

“I won’t bite,” he said, motioning me closer. Clutching my folder so tightly it ripped a bit, I nodded and took three steps. A drift of his cologne reached my nose, and I wouldn’t let myself inhale. There’s something wrong with me, I realized. Thinking about him like this…

“Are you okay?” my teacher asked me, looking truly concerned. He sat up straight, bending towards me. “Do you want me to bring you to the nurse?”

The question jarred me, brought me back to reality. “N-no, I’m fine,” I said, smiling tightly. His hand had extended toward me, and after I’d spoken, he drew it back slowly.

“I wanted to show you something,” Mr. Sheldon said, pulling completely away to slide over and open a desk drawer. “Something I’ve been working on ever since the day I saw your writing.”

I frowned, nervous for a reason I couldn’t name. “What is it?”

He grinned, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. “Here.”

He held out a piece of folded paper to me. Timidly, I took it, relieved my hand wasn’t shaking from being so close to him. I unfolded it quickly as he watched.

My eyes took in the words unbelievingly:

Dear Mr. Sheldon,

We here at the University of New York would be pleased to offer your student, Rebecca Chapman, a writing scholarship in order to attend our classes in the year of 2011. She shows much talent, and we look forward to seeing more of her work.

The letter went on to inform the reader of the class schedules, the rules and regulations of the school, and more. The paper limp in my fingers, I looked up at Mr. Sheldon. Words were stuck in my throat.

“What…? How…? I—”

“If you have other schools in mind, I understand,” he interjected.

I finally recovered. “No! I-I mean, this is just so… You shouldn’t have… Why? I’m not that, well, that good. I just—”

“They don’t agree,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I sent them your poem.”

“What? How? I didn’t give you a copy…”

He looked away, at his computer monitor. “I remembered it from when you showed me.”

He… he memorized it? “Mr. Sheldon,” I offered him a small smile, my emotions a turmoil, “Thank you. This is… amazing. My parents will be so excited.” But something felt so wrong about all of it…

The man looked back at me quickly, his grin curiously absent. “But are you excited?” He sounded so worried, was so intense, that I had trouble answering at first.

“Yes,” I told him after a moment. “This is like a dream come true for me.”

Mr. Sheldon nodded, seeming satisfied. “You can go to class,” he said. “If you have any questions, or need anything, just come to me.”

Still smiling, I moved to the door. Just as I put a foot over the threshold he spoke up again, “Oh, Becca?”

I turned.

“Will you be at the football game this Friday?” he asked me.

I nodded; Ann would be pissed if I didn’t go to watch her cheer. “Yes.”

He turned around yet again and moved the mouse. “Just wondering.”

What? Why…? I shook my head, finally leaving. I was being stupid. He probably just wanted to know because he was going to mention tomorrow about how he wanted one of us to write an article about the game for the school newspaper. He just didn’t want to tell me yet because it would unfair to the rest of the class.

As I walked to my locker, the letter still in my hand, I began to realize for the first time that I looked forward to Journalism more than anything else in my life. More than being with my friends, more than writing, more than being home.

And it wasn’t because of the writing.