Page 73 of Kissing is the Easy Part
“I thought AP Chemistry was your favorite subject this semester,” I say, standing up. “You get to exchange smart-people talk with Mr. Miles.”
“History isn’t my favoritesubject. I said it’s my favorite time of day.”
My insides shiver uselessly, and I hide it by ignoring him all the way to the classroom. It’s difficult to concentrate knowing he’s sitting three rows behind me and slightly to the right. Halfway through the class, my phone alerts me to a text from Sean.
Sean:(x² + y² - 1)³ - x² y³ = 0
Sean:Can you please solve this for me?
What is he up to? I text him back.That looks like math beyond my algebraic jurisdiction.
He replies almost immediately.Want me to walk you through it?
I text back.No, just tell me the answer . . . or don’t.
Sean:All right, if you insist. Would’ve been a lot more romantic if I showed you on Desmos, impatient young grasshopper
He sends a picture, and I open it to reveal a graph. Sean’s equation produces a looping curve that stretches outward in both directions, symmetrical across the y-axis and tapering to a sharp point at the bottm. It forms a perfect heart shape.
This is his idea of romantic?
Ugh.Flora, why are you so weak?
I turn to shake my head at him, and he rewards me with a grin.
Not going to lie—the old Flora enjoys the attention and hopes he’ll keep up his antics, although the new, sensible Flora wishes he’d leave her alone. Kind of.
* * *
When I open my locker on Tuesday, there’s a photocopied periodic table. Underneath it, Sean has printed in that goody-goody handwriting of his:
Barium Beryllium Yttrium Oxygen Uranium Rhenium Copper Tellurium
I can’t decide if it’s more considerate or condescending of him to attach the periodic table for my reference. Picking up my pen, I translate his encrypted message:
BaBe YOU’Re CuTe
I bite the inside of my cheek. Smiling at a chemistry pickup line in the crowded hallway isn’t good for my image.He’ssucha dork.
* * *
After we endure another round of history class, Sean comes over. He takes the seat in front of me and sits down backward, placing his legs on either side of the chair. He gestures to my arm and holds up a pen.
“We’re going to be late for our next class.”
“This will only take a sec.” He reaches for my forearm.“Besides, your next class is right across the hall.”
“But you’ll be late for yours.”
“I can run fast.” He scribbles along the inside of my arm, while his other hand lingers over my wrist. The warmth of his fingers sears my skin. What he’s writing begins withwww.
“Couldn’t you have texted me this?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He finishes writing and looks up. “You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to, but I designed a blog for you. It’s a style blog.”
“Astyle blog?”
“Yes, so you can put your talent to good use. Write about what you wear every day and offer fashion tips. Rip apart this year’s Met Gala too.”
