I hate depression. I know when I’m depressed because my whole body feels heavy and sleepy, as if I have to drag it around. My eyes also feel heavy with tears. And deep inside, I know that I shouldn’t be depressed. I’m not ugly. In fact I’m cute, I know it. My facial features are in proportion, although I have to tweeze my eyebrows into arcs or else they’ll look like caterpillars, and I think my nose is too pointy. Still, I get compliments. I’m not stupid, because my grades are excellent. And what takes most people a half an hour to figure out I can solve in minutes. When it comes to writing research papers, I do them the night they’re assigned, rather than waiting until the last minute like everyone else. I have a drawer full of trophies and certificates dating back from elementary school. So I have plenty of things going for me.

I believe that there’s happiness in the future—so many things to do and explore—but something is blocking me from it. One of my teachers long ago mentioned how many third world countries have slums, and not too far from the dirt and grime are beautiful beaches and sprawling hotels for tourists. She showed us a book with pictures of South American ghettoes a few blocks from luscious water views. There were photos of buildings falling apart, and on the other side of these cities were hotels bustling with room service attendants and rich people. I want to leave the slum. I want to be in the paradise that’s a stone’s throw from me.

Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I need to make things happen. I feel my spirits lift up at the idea of that. I know I can get things for myself. I’ve done it before. A few years ago, Dad pleaded that he was too busy to go to the store to get me science supplies and that he’d have to take me another day, but I couldn’t wait. Our house is deep in the suburbs away from most stores, in a driving town, but I walked in the hot sun until I found a drugstore. I used my allowance money to buy different colors of wax paper, construction paper, and paper plates (I was making large models of cells) and when I came home, I did my project. The next day I won the sixth grade science fair. I made it happen, even though Mom and Dad both told me that I wouldn’t know what to buy. There was also the time that I had a paper due but my computer was infected with a virus. I spent all night deleting things from the registry and running my virus scan over and over until the computer was free of viruses and I could finish my paper. Of course I got an A. My parents both told me on that occasion to wait until they took the computer to a repairman, to tell my teacher about my problem, and to get a lesser grade. But I didn’t want a lesser grade. I didn’t want a lesser anything.

In the past I was able to get tickets to sold-out concerts, soothe over hurt feelings between my friends, talk other people into and out of things … so there were countless times when I had the burst of energy to save myself from a situation and ensure that only the best happens to me. I deserve the best, just like everyone else believes they should get what’s right. Why should I be unhappy and boyfriendless?

I want to know exactly what’s in Peter’s sketchpad. Curiosity hits me hard. I really need to see what’s on those pages. Maybe I’m on them. Maybe he’s secretly longing for me and deep in that sketchpad is a picture of me, his secret crush.

It’s early in the morning, with ten minutes left until the first bell rings. Buses and cars are still pulling up. People are busily talking about Parent Night. Who wore what? Who pulled off their look and who didn’t? Lisa simpers, as she imagines that Peter is infatuated with her.

“Could you believe how he couldn’t keep his eyes off of me?” she says.

Our friend Jillian sits there, nodding. Jillian is emo and wears a lot of black—dyed hair, clothes, shoes, nail polish, bookbag. She keeps nodding as Lisa speaks. I see a white tendril of a headphone running from her left ear—the ear away from Lisa—which means she isn’t paying an iota of attention to any of us. I feel like doing the same, nodding off as Lisa speaks, but she’s my best friend. She’s so happy about having Peter in her life, even though they’re not boyfriend-girlfriend. I want to be happy, too. But I don’t want to live a lie like Lisa is, imagining things between me and Peter. I want the real thing.

Peter darts into my line of vision.

“Peter is the darlingest boy I have ever known,” Lisa continues.

“Yeah,” Jillian says.

“Hmmm,” I say.

My eyes follow Peter. Lisa hasn’t spotted him yet, which means I have strong radar for him and she doesn’t. I see him head toward the west wing of the school. I decide to follow. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I say.

Lisa doesn’t even notice that I’ve said anything. Her eyes are rolled to the sky as she rhapsodizes about Peter. “He’s the only man for me,” she says.

“Yeah,” Jillian repeats, bopping her head to AFI, or maybe it’s My Chemical Romance. Her heavily lined eyes are glazed over and Lisa doesn’t stop talking, happy to have something of an audience listening to her ramblings. I know that Peter is a great guy, but even I think Lisa is being a bit extreme. There are other things to talk about, other things in life, other great concerns. And he isn’t her boyfriend! There’s nothing for her to discuss. She should keep her feelings inside, like me, but then that would be dishonest. At least she’s heartfelt by being out in the open. I love him, too, but if I revealed that I would hurt Lisa tremendously.

With ninjalike moves I follow Peter to the other side of the school. My footfall is barely perceptible amid the hubbub of hundreds of high schoolers ranging from runtlike freshmen to sophisticated seniors. I see these two thousand people every day, and I don’t know most of them. I half-recognize faces as I stay a few feet behind Peter.

“Hey, bro,” a boy says as he approaches Peter.

“What’s up?” Peter gives a high five to his shaggy-haired friend. His friend has a large, black portfolio under one arm—he has to be an art-class buddy. Peter takes his bookbag off and tosses it onto a bench.

“Finished your assignment?” the friend asks.

“Yup. I’ll show it to you. An easy A.”

“For you. You must be the best artist in the class.”

“No, I think Eric is much better than me.”

“Nah, Eric has nothing on you,” the friend says.

“Well, see my sketchpad first and then you decide,” Peter says.

They go on for a few minutes about who has the best artistic skill in the class. I don’t recognize the names because I’m not in that clique. They also mention techniques and artists that I have no clue about. And my eyes are glued to the bookbag, or they try to be. People walk in front of me, blocking my view, but I know where the objects of my desire are—Peter and his sketchpad. Peter and his friend walk over to a water fountain a few feet away. They leave their bookbags behind. First Peter’s friend dips his head down for water, and then Peter.

I’m fast. I scamper from behind the bushes, grab Peter’s bookbag, and then return to the bushes. It happens like lightening—flashes of the blue sky, the greenery of the courtyard, people’s jumbled faces—and now I have one of his possessions, even though it’s the owner I’m really after. I flatten my body against a building and go inside of it, to a bathroom. I have it. I have his bookbag. I actually stole someone’s bookbag! I have never stolen anything in my entire life.

It isn’t stealing, because I’ll make sure he gets it back.

Yeah. Anything to make me feel less bad.

Inside the girl’s bathroom, I hold the bookbag to my chest. It smells like him: cologne, sweat, and the graphite of pencils. It’s a heady combination. I imagine this is what boyfriends smell like—a mixture of the things that they love. So if I were to date a baseball player, then he’d smell like the outdoors and the leather of his mitt. One of those hippie-wannabes who listens to Hendrix and Joplin would smell like incense and whatever it is he smokes. But it’s Peter’s smell that I’ve been after. And if any boy got to know me really well, then my perfume would become mingled with his scent so that we could become one. That’s so romantic.

I look at my watch. The bell will ring soon. So much time has passed, from stalking Peter to making away with his bag.

It feels so wrong … I slowly unzip his bookbag. I never noticed before that he has several patches and pins on it. He has a Greenpeace pin, a patch with Vincent Van Gogh’s face on it, and a Humane Society pin. He’s so sensitive! He loves animals and art and the environment. I get even more excited as I stick my hand into his bag.

Math book, pencils, a scientific calculator. The bookbag is heavy, but I didn’t realize that so much junk would be in it. Then again, my bookbag has plenty of stuff in it, too. I assumed that boys would carry fewer things, but I’m wrong.

I want the sketchpad!

There’s an assortment of notebooks and folders with his slanted writing all over them, but no sketchpad. Where is it?

Well, see my sketchpad first and then you decide.

Oh no! Peter must have taken his sketchpad out during a moment when people were blocking my view. He probably had his sketchpad either in his hand when he drank water or he left it on the bench so that his friend could look at it. I’ve stolen his bookbag for nothing. I search through the whole thing and there are no drawings. How I wanted to see the contents of that pad! I’m dying to know what’s inside of it.

The bell rings. I don’t want to be late to class. But how am I going to get rid of the bookbag?

I stick my head out of the bathroom to take a peek at what’s going on. People are walking to their lockers and to class. I have my own bag slung on my back, so it’ll definitely look weird to come out with another bag. And I still don’t know how I’m going to get it back to Peter. I leave the bathroom, thinking about how I should approach him with his bookbag. I’ll tell him that I found it and knew it was his. Some pranksters must have taken it from him.

“Miss!”

The adult female voice cuts through the air.

“Miss!”

The voice is getting closer to me.

“Miss!”

A hand is on my shoulder, and I spin around to see a short, burly woman in my face. It’s one of the security guards. “Come with me,” she says.

“But, why?” I ask.

“Come.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say

“I saw you take that bookbag,” she says.

I gasp at the accusation. Okay, she really must have seen me steal the thing, but she doesn’t know why. I’m after Peter for platonic and romantic reasons. I meant no harm by taking the bag, other than to look through someone else’s possessions and rob him of his privacy. I did nothing wrong.

I gulp. I’m seeing stars. This is the first time security has ever had to talk to me about anything other than moving it along to clear the hallway before the bell rings. The chongas with a bad attitude—rolling their eyes and talking back to adults—are the ones who are always led away. Not me. Not Almira Abdul, honor-roll student with no boyfriend.

I follow her, feeling surreal, as if this isn’t really happening to me. This is what it must be like to be handcuffed and booked (I hope that will never ever happen to me, but with the way things are going, maybe it will). I’m doing crazy things in the name of love. I’ve become a bona fide stalker. She takes me to the waiting room outside the principal’s office. The principal’s office! The only time I go in there is when the principal wants to talk to the high achievers about how great we’re doing and to tell us in advance that we’ll have luncheons and breakfasts in celebration of all our outstanding outcomes. I’m always invited to any honor roll or perfect-attendance function. Now I’m in the office for stealing.

I feel so ashamed. Shame is a big emotion with Muslims. Shame on me, shame on you, shame on everyone. How dare you shame the family name! The family name, such a precious commodity. My parents will be so embarrassed by my actions, because they think that I’m a direct reflection of them. I imagine Grandpa’s face if he were to hear the news … a dark cloud falls over me. The Abdul name will be tarnished forever unless I get out of this muck and mire.