We had it worked down to this: the girl he liked was short, blonde, in Mrs. Bennion’s class, and her name started with a K. We both knew he was talking about me, and we both knew I liked him, too, but we were twelve, and this was how the game was played as we sat side by side, not touching, waiting for our team’s turn to perform.
“Well,” I said, trying to keep my butterflies down, “What color are her eyes?”
He frowned, but didn’t look over at me. “I don’t know.”
And just like that, the butterflies died a horrible, smashing-into-the-windshield-on-the-freeway death. He didn’t know what color my eyes were? He was supposed to like me, have a crush on me, prefer me above all others in our twelve-year-old world, and he didn’t even take the time to notice that my eyes were green?
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