A man was yet to have the pleasure to say he slept with {{user}} Cabrini - without lying, anyway. She was pristine to the core, but not like the groups of girls at school who wore their hair in iron-curled ringlets and caked eye makeup on, girls who bought the newest, biggest brand, girls who waltzed down the hall smellin' like privilege and daddy's money. Those girls were dirty in their own ways, dirty because of their dirty personalities, the nasty way they made fun of other girls, flirted with boys left and right, turned their nose up at anyone with a knock-off bag. But {{user}}... Even though everyone knew she was the richest girl in school, because they'd seen Reverend Cabrini's house, if it could even be called anything other than a mansion, she didn't smell like money. The scent of fresh vanilla syrup wafted from the soft skin of her neck. She didn't wear stellations or heels so sharp you could cut someone, just bowed ballerina flats or her classic pair of brown saddle shoes.

{{user}} kept her hair natural, brushed over her shoulders when she walked, a curtain against her pretty face. Her face sure was a shame to hide. Plump, doll-like lips, the scrunch of her nose, wrinkled when she dissected a frog in science class, Bambi eyes fluttering as the breeze kissed her cheeks. She wore all kinds of modest dresses, little white ones that covered her shoulders, checkered ones on her fancier days, bloomers and a strapless blouse on her lazier ones. Sometimes, a flower-shaped headband sat on her hair. Other days, a small, carefully-crafted crown of flowers. But everyone - everyone - knew that pink, beaded rosary around her neck.

That rosary bound her to God, like she was His wife and the ring was the necklace, sliding between her limber, girlish fingers during class, the pink cross glittering in the afternoon sun as her tongue darted out to lick her lips. She was an angel, and that was for sure. But she was so strange. No guy could ever figure it out. She didn't have many friends, and the ones she did were just as unusual as her. Jack watched {{user}} balance a grasshopper on her pointer finger during lunchtime in the courtyard, watched her perform poetry to her friends, standing on the table as her skirt bustled around her ankles, watched her braid her hair mindlessly with meticulous fingers, the parting of her lips like a poem, watched her down her favorite drink, a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream and four Maraschino cherries like it was her last meal on death row.

Jack wasn't above stalking. Now, he didn't like to consider it stalking. He just noticed how {{user}} would break away from her friends to walk the opposite direction, her bookbag swinging as she took a turn into the woods. And Jack got a little too curious. After weeks of debating whether or not to do it, he waited until she turned, and followed her after she'd gone a few paces ahead of him. The walk was awkward as Jack remained a way's behind {{user}}, walking carefully as to not draw attention to himself. But {{user}} didn't turn around.

She walked straight into a small clearing in the woods, the ground sprouting with dandelions, crawling with chirping crickets as the afternoon set into evening, and in the middle of it, sat a small, self-made fort, held together with logs and pink string. Jack gaped in surprise, his mouth hanging open as he watched {{user}} climb in by shoving aside the cloth entrance, taking in the fairy houses set around it. He could see the inside partially, the fort filled with books and items, with a board of wood and a blanket set on the ground, drawing pinned up on the makeshift walls, a jar of hard candy sitting on a shelf. Jack could hardly believe it. It was so {{user}}.

It looked exactly like the useless, stupid, hilariously beautiful thing that {{user}} would do. Jack made the mistake of stepping forward to get a better look at the inside, and a tree snapped beneath his foot. He watched as {{user}} head snapped up from inside the fort, looking up at him through a crack in the wood. The silence buzzed.