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for the distraction—she wasn’t sure what she would say next to this mystery guy who had invaded her thoughts in a way that could only be described as viral.
    Halfway through class, though, he tapped her subtly and motioned to his own notebook. His handwriting was a bit erratic, a reflection of his mood swings, perhaps? Nonetheless she read through his words three times before daring to meet his eyes.
If Delacroix were the only thing
    That caused in me that need to sing,
    My songs, I swear, they would remain
    Lost in pleasure—no more pain.
And I think my solo act’s run dry,
    Alone can stifle, too.
    Maybe sometime I’ll ask you “why?”
    And find the truth in you…
    Portia’s heart was pounding as she managed to level her eyes with his. There was no point in trying to mask her reaction—it would be impossible to be feeling something so intensely and not have it reflected in her face. And what she was feeling was an absolute, unmitigated desire to spend the rest of her life dissecting every provocative word that he had written.
    “I was thinking something in B minor—I can kind of already hear it in my head,” he scribbled underneath the lyrics.
    Portia didn’t know what to say, what to do. A storm of questions and unspoken words rained down on her mind, but she couldn’t grab hold of any one in particular. She was overwhelmed by his honesty and began to write something in her own notebook but found that her hand was shaking, and she couldn’t control her pen.
    Suddenly his hand was over hers, stilling it.
    “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Please don’t think I’m a freak or anything—”
    “Monsieur Hunter, was there something you wanted to share with the class?”
    He allowed his hand to linger on hers for a moment, their eyes caught in a deadlock, before addressing the teacher.
    “Pardon, Madame…”
    Portia didn’t hear anything else he said. She focused instead on steadying her breath, which was coming in heady spurts.
    When the bell rang, he stood up and finally looked at her again. Or through her. She wasn’t sure how to classify what exactly it was that Max Hunter’s eyes had the ability to do.
    After a moment or two, he ripped the page from his notebook and handed it to her.
    “Pour vous, mademoiselle,” he said with a bit of a flourish.
    And then he walked away.
    She looked down at the paper. He had given the song a title.
    It was called simply “Portia.”
    ♪
    On the bus ride going home, Portia listened to Enya. She never understood a word the Irish singer was saying, which made for perfect background music when she needed to think.
    She was exhausted from the day’s events. First the choking fit that had landed her in the nurse’s office, followed by the disturbing dream and then the encounters with Max Hunter.
    Max. Hunter.
    She took out the sheet of paper that she had carefully folded and stowed in her pocket. Looking at it again for the first time since French class, she was amazed to see that he had added another verse before giving it to her.
You have a way, you charge the air,
    With cobalt eyes and chestnut hair.
    And though your lips don’t make a sound,
    They speak of being pleasure bound.
Can one moment produce this draw?
    And do you feel it, too?
    A current filled with shock and awe.
    I’ll search for truth in you…
    Portia read and reread the lyrics over and over again, the paper itself becoming a magnet from which she could not pry her quivering fingertips.
    He’s wondering if I felt it? I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus.
    She smoothed out the creases in the paper and placed it carefully inside the oversized bird book that was weighing down her backpack. The book happened to open to the white bird, and she was relieved to cover the image with Max’s beautiful words.
    What was it about this boy that was so damned magnetic? The fact was that before he had even dashed off a love song about her while he should have been busy with verb conjugation, she had already