[This story is free again]
A social klutz and certified bookworm, Autumn Lyne is content with having just books as companions--that is, until her extrovert of a sister drags her out to meet her band. But nobody has expected that this would mark the...
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In a text I received one night, Michael asked me if we could meet up at the sycamore tree after school. He wanted to show me his drawings to which I replied that I would bring some of my writings for him to read.
It was just a friendly meeting, but I was anxious and thrilled all together. I could hardly concentrate on my last class the following day. What was there to listen to, anyway? It was history class yet the teacher was droning about when she'd met a celebrity. To pass the time, I stared at the world map on the wall and thought about the things that could happen when Michael and I met. I wondered if he'd enjoy my work. I wondered if he'd smile.
My heart jumped as I heard the familiar beep of my phone, its sound muffled in my bag. When the teacher was facing the chalkboard, I dug the phone out and read the text under my desk.
Michael: I'm here.
I groaned and made a quick reply.
Me: Wait.
The bell had rung two minutes ago, but my class was still stuck in the room. It was either our teacher had serious hearing problems or she was having fun punishing us. When she dismissed us, finally, I almost shoved my classmates out of the way as I made a mad dash across the hall, down the stairs, and finally to the meeting spot.
"Hey," I said between my gasps.
Michael stopped fingerpicking his guitar to look up at me. He must've been keeping himself occupied with his instrument while waiting. "Hey, what held you up?" he asked.
"History class. It was torture," I said.
"Who's your teacher?"
"Miss Toland."
He snorted. "Huh, that old hag. Understandable. She teaches you more about her life story than the actual class content. Come here." He motioned his hand on the space next to him on the leaf-covered ground, and I sat there, ensuring a space between us. He placed his guitar to his side and drew his backpack closer to him.
"So, ready to show your masterpiece?" he asked and pulled out a black Moleskine sketchbook. Judging from its dog-eared pages and dirty edges, it must have been used for a long time.
"Masterpiece? More like a disasterpiece," I said, fishing out my special notebook, the one that contained my writings no other soul had ever read. He held out his hand, and I pulled away, pressing the notebook against my chest. "Promise me you won't laugh."
"I won't," he said. But he was smiling already.
I eyed his sketchbook. "Show me your art first."
"Nah, ladies first."
"What a gentleman."
"Indeed I am. I appreciate you for pointing that out."
Before we could waste our time bantering, I sighed and said, "Okay, let's exchange our stuff at the same time so it'll be fair."
