May 9th
I catch Birdie as she walks into English class. All last night and all this morning, I’ve been deciding how I should approach her, what I should say – if I should try to be charming, or if I should be bashful. Instead, when I see her all my earlier thoughts vanish and I’m left with nothing, except:
“Looks like I have some competition.”
“What?” Her eyebrows rise and her lips pucker in confusion. I scold myself inwardly for coming up with the dumbest opening sentence.
“The poetry contest.” I press on.
“Oh yeah.” Understanding floods her green eyes and she half-smiles.
Green eyes are sexy.
“Want to make a bet?”
Where the hell did that come from?
“A bet?” And I have confused her again.
“Maybe you should be called parrot,” I say, my brain still clicking in and out as I practically insult her. “Yes a bet. If I come first you have to go out to coffee with me.”
She genuinely smiles, maybe to put me at ease or maybe she thought the parrot thing wasn’t insulting. “And if I come in first?”
I decide I’m already in it too deep so I might as well go for it.
“I have to go out to coffee with you.”
YOU ARE READING
little, little birdie
Teen FictionA story about a lonely girl and a boy that can't write poetry.
