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.
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.
After a time, I began to dread and anticipate Journalism [s]in[/s] with a burst of pain in my stomach.
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.
I knew it was; I could feel his eyes on me: probing, watching, knowing.
It was there, wrong and all-too real.
I didn’t mention the fact that if it had been [s]she[/s] her Will Sheldon had been staring at, reporting him would have been the farthest thing from her mind.
[s]a[/s] one kid shouted at another, shoving him.
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.