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“The principal is ready to see you,” a secretary says.

I get up and walk inside the office. I see a lot of brown and red furniture, which almost obscures the people inside it. Behind the massive wooden desk is the principal, Mr. Lopez, and framed by a large red-leather chair is Peter with his sketchpad in his lap. He indeed had taken it out of his bag, and I wasn’t able to see it at all during those few minutes in the girl’s bathroom.

Mr. Lopez is in his fifties with bushy white hair and a wispy mustache. “Almira, have a seat,” he says in his deep voice.

I swallow a lump in my throat and sit down.

“Peter, you approached me in the hallway before class saying that your bookbag was missing, and a security guard saw Almira in action as she took it,” Mr. Lopez says.

“Almira isn’t the type to steal,” Peter says. He wrinkles his brow because no one associates me with thieving, even though I have sort of done that.

“Well, that appears to be what happened. Unless Almira has another explanation.”

“I do,” I say. I clear my throat to strengthen my voice. I have to bluff my way out of this. There’s no way I’m getting suspended for this, for following my heart. I had been nosy and wrong, but love makes people do foolish things.

“Well, Almira, I’d like to hear this,” Mr. Lopez says. “You’re a wonderful student and I can’t believe that you’re sitting here for something like this. On prior occasions you’ve come here for your accomplishments, but now it’s for this offense. I rely on you and other students like you to raise the school’s name. Look at the certificate behind me; it’s from when you and your classmates raised money for the community. Look at the trophy outside of my door from the math bowl that you helped us win. You’ve helped make the school successful, and now you want to bring it down by stealing. Trust me, I deal with issues like this all day—petty theft, fights, vandalism, things that go on in every school—but when I have someone like you doing these things, then it’s a cause for great concern.”

I gulp. Mr. Lopez is just as good as my parents at making me feel guilty.

“Okay, but I have a really, really good explanation,” I manage to chirp out.

Mr. Lopez and Peter continue to look at me. And I still have nothing to say.

“It was really quite simple—”

Both males wait for me, and then the lies pour out of me.

“I saw Peter’s bookbag by itself on a bench and I figured that his first period is right next to mine and that I’d give it to him.”

“But I didn’t leave my bookbag alone,” Peter said. “I mean, I was at the water fountain. Maybe you didn’t see me.”

“Peter, I swear you weren’t around. I know where you go for first period, so I thought I’d give you the bookbag.”

“The security guard said that you were watching him until the coast was clear for you to take it,” Mr. Lopez said.

I gulp again. All this gulping and not a drop to drink. “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” I say. “I was going to the bathroom and saw Peter’s bookbag lying there. I recognized it because of his pins and patches. Sir, I really meant no harm.”

Peter has a strange look on his face, as if he might believe that I’m some crazy stalker chick.

“Almira, you have an excellent record with us,” Mr. Lopez says. “I’m sure this was some harmless prank. I don’t feel like doing anything except letting you go with a warning. But next time this happens, we’ll have to bring your parents in and you’ll get a few days of indoor suspension. We don’t have time to be chasing stolen bookbags. Students need to get to work and so do we.”

“Mr. Lopez, this is just a big misunderstanding,” I say.

“I hope so,” Mr. Lopez says.

Peter’s face relaxes. Yes, I’m normal, there’s nothing wrong with me, there’s no reason to take a bookbag. He shifts his sketchpad in his lap. All because of that thing! And I never got a chance to see it.

Ten minutes have passed since the bell rang, so Mr. Lopez issues us hall passes. This is the first time I’ve ever been late to first period. And for what? But at least I can say that I tried to go after something, somebody I wanted. I’m not standing in the sidelines. I’m an active participant, even if I fail miserably.

Peter walks alongside me. I steal—there I go stealing again—glances at his gleaming hair and broad shoulders. I want him to put his arm around me absentmindedly, but we aren’t there yet. We aren’t anywhere yet. A big idea starts forming in my head: He will be mine.

“That was pretty stupid,” Peter says. “I know you don’t steal things.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“That security guard must be seeing things.”

We walk slowly, taking our time to get to class since the principal has excused us on the hall passes he wrote. Kids skipping class for real are ducking into bathrooms and stairwells. I’d like to do that too, so I can have more time with Peter.

“I’m glad he didn’t call my parents,” I say. “They’d flip out.”

“You were only trying to help,” he says.

“I know.” I was also trying to look through your things without your permission because I want you.

He looks so calm. I must look calm too, but there are all these turbulent emotions inside of me. He has no idea. Well, I tried. His sketchpad is under his arm. Now I don’t know who he’s drawing, if by chance he has a sketch of me. Maybe he stays up late at night picturing my face in his head. Let me remember what Almira’s cheekbones look like. Ah, her eyes. I need to add more definition to her chin. Yet I doubt it, because he isn’t acting any special way toward me. He’s just his usual friendly self.

We stop in front of Peter’s first-period history class. “Well, thanks for trying to help,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and gently squeezes. I want him to reach down and squeeze my hand, so that we can be seen in the hallway as a couple. A couple walks past us, hand in hand, smiles on their faces, laughing about something. A couple. Two people become one.

Peter gets closer to me. His skin has a moist sheen to it (okay, it’s oily). His lashes look super long, up close. I think this is it. I hold my breath. I close my eyes.

“Almira, did you notice what we had between each other in there?” he asks.

I open my eyes. He’s half-whispering into my ear, his breath strong enough to make my hair flutter. Okay, he doesn’t kiss me—yet—but at least he notices the chemistry between us.

“Of course,” I say. My eyes start to feel heavy as tears collect, but I blink them away. This moment is so sweet that I’ll cherish it forever.

“The way we interacted was amazing.”

“I agree.”

“I mean, we really got together and backed you up so that you wouldn’t get into trouble,” he says.

“Huh?” I say.

“I didn’t believe any of his accusations, and you were so cool, calm, and collected. I remember the first time Mr. Lopez spoke to me, when I was outside of science class with a water balloon when Mr. Gregory was teaching us about water pressure, and he thought I was going to throw it at someone. My legs turned to jelly and I was stammering. But you were so confident.”

“I was?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“Oh.” He isn’t going to kiss me. He isn’t talking about any emotional connection I have with him. He’s straight up talking about Mr. Lopez and how he bore down on me and my excuses when I in fact had taken the bookbag. Not to steal it forever, but just to see that sketchpad, to see if he likes me. But it doesn’t seem like he does.

Peter squeezes my arm again and his hand lingers below my sleeve. Maybe he does like me. He’s perplexing. It’s like chasing the cookie chunks in a Burger King Oreo Shake with my straw. They’re elusive, but I manage to get them. But I usually have to wait until they’re all at the bottom to scoop them out with a straw or spoon. Peter is my cookie chunk. How I want to bite into him and have him for myself. My stomach growls. I could really use a BK shake. Images of creaminess, coldness, and cookies float in my head. Focus! I tell myself. Peter is still in front of me. We’re alone in the hallway, not a soul in sight.

“We really have to get to class,” Peter says. “The time on these hall passes is five minutes old.”

That’s true; our teachers will think we’re skipping. But I don’t care. I don’t want the moment to end. I wish for the school halls to disappear and a beach to appear, and then Peter and I can run off into the sunset. Instead, it’s early in the morning and we’re at school. Blech.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, ruffling my hair casually.

“Okay,” I say. I raise my hand to pat him on the shoulder, but he turns around and all I hit is air. How awkward. I don’t know how to touch a boy, even in a friendly way (and I imagine that if it were in a perverted way, I’d somehow mess up).

I get to English class, hand the teacher my pass, and sit down. People stare at me. There’s some whispering behind me. People know I’ve been in the principal’s office. It’s ridiculous how exciting that is to some people. They will ask me after class what happened. Nothing happened. What I wanted to happen didn’t: to see Peter’s sketchpad and for him to kiss me.

Even though I feel down-and-out, I’m not going to give up. I console myself that next time, if I want something badly enough, then whatever I want to happen will happen.