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though my eyes darted to the pen that was discarded on his desk.
    “Will you write it down for me?” I asked, extending my arm with the sleeve already rolled-up. “Here, just write it on my wrist. I'm fantastic at losing notes.”
    “But your uniform -” he was hesitant, pressing his lips together. Catching his breath, he took my hand, his fingers lingering over the bones of my wrist, and gently scrawled out: Zeffirelli and below that, 6:30/Friday .
    “What's this?” I asked, yanking my sleeves down so that none of the ink was exposed. Will laughed.
    “Audition times,” he said plainly. “In case you change your mind.”
    “That's awfully presumptuous of you, Mr. Tennant.”
    His cheeks, I swear, turned scarlet; fumbling for a moment, he pointed to the door. When my fingers skimmed over the handle, I relished the two words that softly sang like a mourning dove's cry:
    “Goodbye, Kaitlyn.”
    We had only just met. But right then, as I opened the door and was met with the glaring realities of my place, his place, the life I was destined to lead – it was like he already knew something that I didn't.
    As I roamed the halls, word of the gorgeous new teacher had already caught fire. In the bathroom, girls were already murmuring about how they were longing to transfer to his class, or better yet, find a spot – any spot – in the play, just to be close to him. In the courtyard, the collective sound of sighs seemed to echo along with the breeze. I was in a pleasant enough mood, sitting and watching a group of girls compare the lengths of their skirts; it was a common thing, trying to get away with being as risqué as possible.
    When Tyler appeared, clutching his bagged lunch, I even let him sit down next to me.
    “Do you mind?” he asked, plunking himself down anyway. “I know you're kind of solitary.”
    “Yeah. I guess I do enjoy my solitude,” I mumbled. Tyler blinked, brushing back his hair and smiling that same, goony smile. It was adorable in a sweet-seventeen kind of way. Totally infectious.
    “Do you ever eat?” he asked, opening his bag. “I can share. I've got like half a peanut butter sandwich I can spare.”
    “No thanks,” I told him. “I don't eat much.”
    “Well, that's not healthy.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, you're probably right.”
    I glanced at him. He was still smiling.
    “I'm not trying to be weird or anything,” he added, his smile finally dropping into a milder expression that still hinted at a potential seize of elation. “It's just, I thought that you might want some company. Or maybe I just want some company. I don't know. But we sit in the same courtyard, practically steps away, and we've never acknowledged each other.”
    “You don't think there's a reason for that?” I asked.
    The corners of his lips fell slack, then into a twisted shape, like he was trying to figure out what disappointment looked like.
    “I'm sorry,” I said quickly. “I'm not trying to be a bitch. I'm just the kind of type that would rather spend whatever time away from the daily grind of this place with some peace and quiet.”
    “Oh,” he said, picking at the plastic wrap that covered a rather dry looking excuse for a sandwich. The crusts, too, were cut off. I wondered if that was his mother's doing. “I guess you've just always looked lonely, is all.”
    “I'm not lonely,” I swore, repeating the same words that I had a thousand times, both to everyone and to myself. “I'm just okay with being alone.”
    I let him stick around anyway, and for the first time in my three and a half years at Trinity Preparatory Academy, I carried a conversation during the exactly forty-five minute and fifteen second time period that encompassed Lunch. Small-talk, mostly. The worst kind of gap filler. But Tyler was content with talking about anything, and seemed to be in a state of sporadic awe when he realized exactly who he was sitting next to. Like I was a saintly figure of the highest regard.
    “Your