Social Studies. Day 40.

Seated at his desk, nothing looks more beautiful than the angel totally relaxed. He sits, his puppy dog eyes wandering as he contemplates life. I must be the one to snap him from those thoughts.

“Hey,” I called out, loud enough for him to absorb, but not loud enough for the whole class to hear my embarrassment.

His head whips around, and for a split second his nearly black eyes meet my eyes of opposite shade, light blue. He directs his gaze elsewhere, but I know the angel is listening.

“You’re on the hockey team right?” It sounds immature, childish, stupid. But it’s the only thing I’ve got to bring back to my friends when the bell rings.

A slight smile spreads across his gorgeous face. I wonder if my invisible arms pull at his cheeks, or if it’s the hockey puck’s arms. By one look, you could tell he loved the game. “Yes, why?” he responds quickly, but not rudely.

“Well…” I stammer. Come on, girl. Get to it. “I was just wondering when the next hockey game is because my friends and I wanted to go but I just wasn’t sure when it was.” I let out a huge breath when I am done. It feels as though I have said the whole sentence in one single puff of air.

“Oh,” he smiles. Still debating about who is pulling the delicate skin that lays across his perfectly sculptured cheek bones. “It’s always the day before Thanksgiving. It’s an annual thing.”

“Oh,” I reply stupidly. I nod to follow up the “Oh.” I think the conversation ends then.

“Yeah, and it’s so much fun because all the kids from our school sit on one side and all the kids from the annual opposing team sit on the other.” I barely finish tilting my head up and down before he is spewing support for the fun-status of the game.

“That does sounds like fun. I think I’m going to go to that.” I end my sentence with a smile as we both sit, preparing for the days’ lesson on some ancient Roman.

Before I can make another mark with my pen, he makes me swallow a bag of Monarch butterflies to take my mind off the pain from the jello-filled needle.

After 15 minutes of boring nothingness, I notice out of my peripheral vision someone staring. I can tell because of the hairs that stand up on the back of my neck and the way I get the chills.

It’s the angel.

I shake my head to the right, where he is sitting at our table. I meet his eyes, and our invisible arms tangle as they extend to pull our cheek skin. I know this time that it is my arms doing it. The glint in his dark irises tells me so.

Hockey Game. Day 49.

The varsity team lost - a whopping 3 goals to 1 goal. We suck. I sit, watching the angel swoop across the ice on his hockey skates, more graceful than ever before. Hopefully his team, the junior varsity team, will play better.

Did I mention he’s a starter? He’s a starter on a team full of mostly juniors and sophomores. Just adding that to my list of the qualities that make his being perfect.

As she screams his name when he checks an opposing team member against the wall, I look up to see his older sister. I know it’s his sister because she has the exact same face of the angel – girl form. She’s beautiful. One glance around her lets me know that she is sitting with the grandparents and the parents, the four people who made this beautiful creature possible. I silently wish that I could be sitting with them, accepted as part of the family. My heart told me that someday I would, while my brain told me to focus on the reading I had due Monday.

The game passed quickly, three quarters to 15 minutes, on the dot. His team lost 6 goals to 0 goals.

Did I mention that all of the other teams’ goals were scored when the angel was sitting out? I am still pondering why the leader of this team would sit him. The angel deserves to play always.

I head to the lobby; he heads to the locker room. I desperately want to say something, anything to his golden figure. I know we lead different lives, but my heart tells me that it doesn’t have to be. My head reminds me that he probably doesn’t even know my name.

There he is. Right across the lobby, heading for his family (where I belong). The bathroom is right past him. I grab the thin arm of my closest girlfriend, and we clumsily stumble to the door that leads us to the sinks.

As he glides past, I decide it’s now or never. Troy Bolton has spoken.

“Hey, nice game,” my fountain spews with an uneasy smile. Why, his unseen arms have slipped to one side. What has happened?

His beautiful mouth opens to respond as I pull the corners of his mouth into a blinding smile. “Thanks, Michele.”

My heart mocks my head in a tormenting, terrorizing swirl of insults and reassurances.

He knows my name.

Monday’s going to be a fine day.