Yours Truly [h.s.]

1

To think the high school greenhouse is where I'd first find you, arm buried in a bag of loose soil, spending your September study hall days tending to the plants as if they were your children. Your curls just barely grazed your shoulder, a few loose pieces hanging in front of your eyes as you scooped out a handful of the dirt. I remember, so clearly, the soil under your nailbeds, and how you'd mindlessly pick it away while we talked.

You stole the damn cactus you planted that day after your graduation, and kept it in your windowsill. Until, one time last month, we were facetiming, you turned and the camera swooped across your room, and it wasn't there anymore. I didn't ask you about it, but I hope the reason it disappeared is because it died.

None of your plants have ever died before.

The click of my camera made him jump, and maybe I should have said something before I took the picture, but I didn't want to break the candid nature. His head whipped to meet my eyes, the curls dancing near his shoulders following the motion like a wave of chestnut. He was pretty. So pretty, in fact, that I felt no remorse at all for taking his picture.

I opened my mouth before he had a chance to, "Hi, sorry, I'm in photography."

"You took a picture of me?" he didn't sound mad, and the way he cocked his head to the side like a puppy dog made me smile.

I nodded. He let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, turning back to finish planting a prickly little cactus. My eyes trailed his arms, watching as he methodically patted down the soil into the pot, before they traveled up to watch the side of his face. The birthmark near his lips wiggling as he chewed on the inside of his cheek in concentration.

I watched his curly hair flop as he worked and wondered, for a fleeting moment, what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. I was wholly and completely zoned out staring at the side of his face, imagining how his lips would feel pressed against mine and how my arms would wrap around his body if I hugged him.

"Now what are you taking pictures of?" he asked knowingly, the side of his mouth pulled up into a smirk.

An awkward cough broke from my throat and, flustered, I fiddled with the neck strap around my neck, "Oh, I, uh, came down to look for birds."

If I had even a fraction less of a grip on myself I would have slapped my palm against my head. It's bad enough I make a fool of myself in front of everyone else at school, but now this sculpture in front of me is going to join the front lines of the bullies.

Dove Finch, birdbrain, cuckoo, featherhead, goose. Synonyms.

He swiveled in his stool to face me, a quizzical look painted onto his face, "Birds?"

I felt my cheeks light up like a Christmas tree, ready for the judgement, "Yeah, birds." my voice trailed off at the end of my response.

A smile. "I'm Harry."

I reciprocated, tentatively. "Hi Harry, I'm Dove."

I know we talked later about that first day; how I secretly saved that picture onto my personal computer and how it would be perfect for the inevitable embarrassing wedding reception video. But, I want to tell you now, that you were the very first person, besides Grandma, of course, that didn't make fun of me for the birds. The first that acted as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be so goddamn obsessed with those feathered creatures.

"It's nice to meet you, Dove. What grade are you in, I don't think I've ever seen you around?"

I told Harry I was a junior and he told me he was a senior, and we laughed about the fact that we'd never met before when, clearly, we both had the same idea for a hangout spot.