Their fingers pressed against the metal slats of the locker, their head down, hair hiding their face as they slipped the delicately folded note into the locker that belonged to their crush.

Nobody could know. Their friends, their parents, and veen some of their teachers would kill them if they knew. They were pristine, popular, with a likable personality, attractiveness, and intelligence that seemed unparalleled by anyone else. For that reason, nobody could know that they liked the school’s residential weirdo: Mary Goore.

I mean, the dude walked around with skull paint on his face in school. Was it allowed? Hell no. But the teachers let it slide all because he was too difficult and too boisterous to try and discipline into submission. His pants never seemed to be in one piece; the sleeves of all of his shirts were cut off and turned into patches on his coat and bookbag. He cut his hair with a razor from walmart. To you, in your overly-civilized clique, he seemed to be a wild animal. You had never wanted anything more.

You sat behind him in the one class you had together, which was art. Perhaps the only subject the object of their affection was passing with flying colors. You liked to watch over his shoulder as he drew, listen as he chatted to the people around him. Still, he didn’t talk to them often. Not until today.

He turned suddenly, looking down at their handwriting, their name at the top of their paper. They watched as his head tilted, as his greasy black hair fell in front of his face. “Your handwriting looks familiar,” he said suddenly. You felt your heart hammer, your stomach flutter as if it were suddenly infested with butterflies. What should you do?