text: It starts as most things between handsome boys and shy girls do - with a crush. I'm walking to AP Latin. The crowds in the corridors are booming with excited pubescents hurrying along in bright lavender bomber jackets. It's basketball season, and everyone's beaming for the match this afternoon. I'm not. Obviously. I rarely ever beam. It's not a word to be associated with me. I snark at most. And I'm snarking up a storm currently. People keep bumping into me. Smelling too much like teenagers and cheap cosmetics for my liking. I have to wait for the crowds to disperse in order to make it to the classroom or risk squirming between the clicks. The nerds don't mind with the crowds. They sort of form a line and just march out in sync. I'm almost jealous. By the time I make it to class, I'm five minutes late, and Mrs Peters is looking at me with clear disapproval. "Basil," she greets. "Do you have a late slip?" The class barely looks my way. They have a blackboard of pre-written nouns to jot down, and I'm just a few extra writing minutes for them. I'm about to make an excuse. My tongue is already curling with the words when Adrian walks in behind me. I know him. Everybody knows him. He's in the top social circle at school. Best friends with the board of director's son, the student council president, the basketball team's captain. He has a lot of well-known, rich best friends. Though he, himself, is neither rich nor overbearing. He's vice captain of the debate team. His parents own a bakery, I like their donuts. He's handsome but in an elegant, aquiline way. Not really the buff blonde Adonis type the girls here prefer. He knows me too. I see his eyes blink in recognition as he stops just short of tumbling into me. His bag is hung over his shoulder, as he sways, it swats into my side a little. "Sorry Basil," he says to me casually, moving forward to greet Mrs Peters and plead for forgiveness. I blink at his back. "Sorry I'm late. The basketball team's got banners blocking our way from the entry all the way to the pools." He smiles disarmingly, and though she's still frowning, she waves us both to our seats. I'm a bit peeved. I'm sure I would've gotten scolded, even with an elegant excuse, but mostly, I'm just curious. Adrian Winters knows my name. Why. I ignore the soft heat on my cheeks and take a seat at the back of the class. Adrian's had a seat saved for him by Melissa Drake, head cheerleader. I watch him. I can't help but. Even as I scribble out my notes, my eyes keep drifting over the width of his shoulders and the soft edges of his spine under his cashmere top. I know I'm a bit strange. It's rude to stare, as my nan would say, but it's a nasty habit I've never grown out of. I can't quite stop myself anymore. I'm a watcher. I watch people. I have little else to do. I don't really have friends. Everyone at Blackthorn High has a colorful inner life. It's a cesspool for drama and scandal. I've avoided all that carnage and as a consequence I'm left alone. I don't mind it very much. It's fun being an observer. A fly on the wall picking apart the stories that drift along the gossip spread. I'm sure most people have seen me. Could summon up a vague picture of me if given a description, or perhaps recall the first syllable of my name. I've worked with some on group projects. Others, I've had run of the mill incidents with. Bumping into them. Borrowing a pencil. Offering some gum. There's being aware of my prescence, and there's knowing me. No one knows me. Not with any form of familiarity. So it's odd that Adrian Winters, who runs with the golden league of peers, looks at me as though he knows my face and calls my name as though he's said it before. As though we've interacted. It rubs me in an odd way. Not in a bad way. I doubt anyone could be upset getting attention from Adrian. He's sweeter than most. Kinder. He tugs at the loose hair at the back of his neck when taking notes in Latin class. It's cut shorter at the back, with all his curls on top. It's not terrible to be noticed, now and again - but it's strange that it's happened in the first place. A bit like an itch that I don't know how to scratch. Latin class passes dully. The two girls ahead of me are talking about who they're going to take to the game tonight. My eyes still drift over to Adrian, his dark brown curls that lay tidy and coiffed on him. His jeans are cuffed neatly at the ankles. I glance up at the clock. Twenty minutes left. I glance back at him. His head has turned. He's sat right at the front of the class but his eyes are on me. Chocolate brown and curious. He smiles, a barely there thing. Just the tilt of his lips. He looks away. I don't. I couldn't. He's caught me. It seems Adrian Winters is a watcher too...it sets my teeth on edge. Not the fact that he looked at me. But that he looked away so quickly. It makes me feel antsy, stupid. Like another teenage dirtbag caught in my hormones. Which, fair. I am one. But still. It's just an overall upsetting feeling to be at this point in my existence. To want a beautiful boy for no other reason but that he looked at you a bit too much and his lips quirked and your eyes couldn't look away from him. Like most calamities...it starts with a crush. And how many terrible things could be avoided if humanity was void of things such as illogical yearning. Romeo and Juliet wouldn't of died. Anne Boleyn would still have her head. I wouldn't be sat at this stupid basketball game. In this stupid bomber jacket looking out at shiny wooden floors and trying to catch a glance at a lean boy with brown curls on the other side of the stands. He's sitting next to Melissa Drake again. She'd finished her cheer performance before the game had started and then headed up to sit with him, still in her purple skirt with her white pompoms at her feet. Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders. He smiles at her and turns back to the game. I sip at my grape slushie, pulling my hood up over my head. He's an odd one. No normal seventeen year old looks at Melissa Drake in her cheerleading outfit and then looks away less than second after. Inanimate objects sway in her direction. He does give her attention. He leans into her space. Smiles. Laughs. But it's all a bit too cold. I want to be upset about it. I find him cute and the greedy part of my brain that's laid claim on him is telling me to be jealous, to want to fight for him. Which is madness honestly. Practically hilarious considering I wouldn't stand an inch of a chance, but I can't even focus on the greedy feeling churning in my tummy because he's just so...confusing. I can't help but feel that there's something off about how he acts around her. Maybe they have bad blood behind the scenes. Or maybe they're exes and the news just never made its way into the public. I doubt it though. Melissa's known for wearing broken hearts like trophies. She's the queen bee of queen bees. The feature of every man's wet dream and nightmare combined. Like a sexy, cheerleading Freddy Krueger. It would be admirable, honestly, if she didn't absolutely terrify me. There's a loud beeping as the Blackthorn boys score. One of them is hanging off the opposition's hoop hollering. The stands break into screams and yells. It's like there's a fire and they're all about to die. I stay seated. My gaze trails away from the sweaty jocks hugging it out and back up to the stands. Melissa has made her way down and is joining her friends in a very synchronized, acrobatic dance while singing some commerative jingle. My eyes flick away from her. Adrian is sat in his seat, one leg crossed over the other. He's clapping, a bright smile on his face as he looks down at the team. I wonder why he's not standing. Why hasn't he run down like some of the other teammates' friends? The cheers continue around us, getting louder and louder. But Adrian simply sits. He stops clapping. Hands falling onto his lap. His smile slips off like silk on skin, like it was never there. No one's looking at him, besides me. Everyone else is focused on the winning team down below. He frowns. A bored, cold expression falling over his polite features. His gaze travels around, it's not open curiosity. He looks annoyed. At the stands. At the people. Our eyes meet. His expression doesn't change but he squints at me and tilts his head as if he doesn't understand why we're staring at each other when everyone else is focused on celebrating. I don't look away. Neither does he. He raises two fingers to his temple and mimics a gunshot. He smiles, almost meanly at me. I slurp at my slushie, enjoying the show. *** Distance makes the heart grow fonder. That's how the saying goes. I argue, that distance makes obsession burn brighter. The heart is an innocent thing, I'm sure it takes pleasure in pining away at a far-off lover. Obsession, on the other hand, is a beast. And beasts grow feral. Hungry. They grow desperate. These are all thoughts that parade around in me during the weekend. Now that I've gotten a taste of Adrian, of his soft fake smiles and unadultered attention, I want more. I want everything. It's very problematic, considering we don't run in the same social circles. Well, I don't run in any social circles, but never mind that. It's maddening. I truly can't stop thinking about him. He comes up in the randomest of moments. During a family lunch. While I'm napping under an orange tree, trying to enjoy the sun. While I'm washing my hair. While I'm trying to fall asleep, at night, in bed...It's all very stressful and crazy. I wrote his name down as an answer in one of my English comprehension tests. He's even an impediment on my grades. He's driving me to the brink of insanity. But I feel as though mild insanity is a normal part of the teenage girl experience. This ugly abyss in my mind that grieves for beautiful things I can't stake a claim on. I might consider therapy. I am considering it, as my legs take me into my driver's seat and through the roads leading onto Maple Lane. I'm seriously considering it. Because Adrian Winters lives on Maple Lane. Number 12. The front of his house is pastel pink, with a cupcake drawn on the sign above. His parents bakery - the Sugar Fairy. It's cute, kitchy. A bit ominous looking at 2 AM with no other cars in the road. Thank God, my car's fairly inconspicious. A little silver Atos, I'd inherited from my older sister when she'd upgraded. I park in front of number 11, the lattice fencing gives me sight into Adrian's backyard where there's a rusty old swing. White paint is peeling from the bricks and I can clearly make out the large windows that line the top floor of the house. There's only one light on. The middle window. I can just make out the faint silhouette of navy sheets on a double bed and a large dark cupboard, there's a glowing lamp near the window, probably atop the desk. This is stalking, I realise very quickly. It's not so much reaching insanity as it is very insane and probably mildly illegal, but I'm already here. It'd be a waste of petrol to just drive back. And the prices went up recently. I promise myself to look into the therapy as I settle into my seat, turning on the heat. In the dash to my car, I'd brought along my algebra homework and a bag of chips. Apparently my subconscious had known I was in it for the long run. I get started on the homework, making it a fair way until my eyes dart up to the window again. The light's still on but I haven't seen anyone, even while I was tracing the corners of the room. Which got my mind to wondering what teenage boys did, up at 2AM, with their bedroom lights still on. Which led to a whole other branch of unhealthy thoughts. Of which I send my serious apologies to Adrian for. But then the mystery was solved, when he stumbled to his desk. Shirtless. Tits out. Well, not tits exactly. But an exquisite chest. Supple. His hair was dripping. Little drip, drops onto his collarbones. My mouth went dry, must be the chips. Salt and vinegar. I chucked the empty bag alongside my homework to the back seat and leaned forward over the steering wheel. He truly was very handsome. Lovely. His cheeks were flush, probably from the heat of shower. His hair was a shade darker than usual, like melted chocolate. I sat there very long, just staring. My eyes wandered to my dashboard clock. Why was he showering at 2 AM? I threw my head harshly against my steering wheel, my forehead aching. Oh. Teenage boys. Right. I slumped down in my seat, eyes catching the metal shine of my phone. The morality vs immorality of taking a picture shot through my mind like flash paper. Like a forest fire. It would be very very wrong. Harassment. Perversion. I took a picture. I took several. The disgust with myself being smothered by the greedy little monster who was happy with these stored memories and moments of him. He drifted off eventually, my eyes sad to see him go but consoled by the arches of his bare shoulders and the unmarked, creamy skin of his waist. While he was gone, I looked up numbers for therapists in the area. He was gone long enough for me to jot down a few in my notes. Then a half an hour passed, my homework was finished, my chips only crumbs. And I was growing ansty. The greedy little monster growing curious. The light was still on. Another half an hour passed, and the small sane part of me argued that it really was time to be getting home - that he'd probably fallen asleep with the lights on. But the sane part of me was a liar. I could see the edges of his bed and I caught no glimpses of pale feet or ruffled sheets. Tommorow was Sunday, I was free to sleep in. I chewed on the tip of my pencil, eyes trained on the window. The garage door swung open with a cloud creak and I jumped in shock. The top of my head hitting my visor. I hissed rubbing at the skin as light flooded into the road. The door stood open for a few moments but there was no rumble of an engine. My Atos was parked in the shadows of Number 11 but I still flinched lower in my seat as a figure left the house. It was Adrian. His face was obscurred but I could tell by his height, by the width of his shoulders and the size of his steps. He'd changed into a dark gray hoodie with black sweats and sneakers. He stood at the entryway, staring off into the woodland clearing on the other side of the road. A part of me was worried he'd spot me. A part of me wanted him too. Both parts were quickly silenced by the ominous pool of dread that washed over me as I witnessed him go back into the garage and return, dragging an object rolled up in several black bags and tied with rings of duct tape. The object was clearly very heavy as he could barely lift it. He struggled to lift it and instead started dragging it by one of its tapered ends over the road and into the clearing. I let go of the breath I'd been holding and immediately, a large swell of nausea filled me. I could spot feet poking out the end of the wrapping and one cold, blue hand. He hoisted it up over his shoulder and a white cheerleading pompom dotted with red fell to the ground. I grabbed at the chips packet and breathed in the vinegar scent, letting it sooth the urge to boke all over the seats. He dragged the body deep into the forest line on the other side of the road. His figure, dissappearing into the trees and shadows. He came back fifteen minutes later, legs muddy and a thin layer of sweat covering his brow. His face was visible from this side. Pale. Nervous. His eyes were wide, hands shaking by his sides. He picked up the pompom. His breaths were heavy. He ran into the garage and came back out with a shovel. My eyes went wide. Just as he reached the treeline, he turned back, his eyes tracing frantically across the road and falling onto mine. He saw me, tilting his head curiously to the one side. His mouth pulled downwards, eyes glazing with coldness. His lips mouthed around one word, "Basil?" My heart fell flat against my ribcage. He saw me.