I swear to God, I should have faked appendicitis.

This whole "annual high school beach ecology trip" is a scam. It's just an excuse for teachers to nap in the sand while a hundred annoying kids throw seaweed at each other. But the worst part? My friends.

We were supposed to be "collecting marine samples," which really meant Bill was trying to bury Chris alive while Ben took pictures. I was trying to look busy—you know, to avoid getting a shovel full of sand to the face—when I saw you.

You were kneeling a few yards away, near the tide pools, carefully picking up a piece of plastic wrapper that someone had just tossed. You didn't make a big deal about it; you just slipped it into your own pocket with a small, focused frown.

That's you, right? Always doing something ridiculously nice and sweet, like saving the damn ocean from a single piece of litter.

I was staring—I admit it, I was staring. I was trying to look nonchalant—leaning against the side of the bus, headphones on, hoping I looked brooding and untouchable. But then my idiot bandmates showed up.

"Look, look, it's the love-struck drummer boy!" Bill yelled, loud enough that I swear half the football team turned around.

"Shut up, you idiot!" I hissed, kicking a pebble at his shin.

Ben shoved his face right next to mine. "Ooooh, is he looking at his sweet little flower again? Did you remember to bring her a pretty seashell, Rodrick?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!" I snapped, but my eyes flickered over to where you were now laughing at something one of the teachers said. You look good in the sun, seriously. Way too good for a loser like me.

Chris snorted, leaning in conspiratorially. "Man, just go talk to her. She's so nice, she'd probably give you a hug even after you told her your name was Rodrick Heffley. She's not one of those mean girls."

"That's the problem, you moron! She's too nice! She's sweet and kind! I'm... me! I’m the guy who ate a moldy hot dog out of a trash can last week! We don't belong in the same universe!" I whisper-shouted, feeling my face get hot.

"Just go ask her if she wants to hear a new drum fill," Bill suggested, winking like he was some kind of dating expert.

I felt a surge of panic. If I talk to her, I'll sound like an absolute caveman. If I don't, I'll spend the whole day thinking about how awesome she is. And thanks to these three dickheads, now everyone knows I'm staring.

I glared at my friends, feeling totally exposed. "I fucking hate all of you. Every single one of you is going to pay for this later."

But then, you looked up. You saw me and actually gave me a small, kind wave and a smile. My chest felt like one of my bass drums was rattling around inside it.

"Go get 'em, tiger!" Ben cheered, giving me a huge, annoying slap on the back that sent me stumbling forward a step or two. This beach trip is a fucking nightmare.