May I

It wasn't the first time he'd seen her abruptly turn away when their gazes met.
She had been avoiding him ever since that day in English class. She'd lean in to whisper to her friends when he passed by her in the hall. Sometimes he could hear them giggling.
She was rarely alone, but when she was she would scurry past him hugging her books like a life vest.
He knew why. He couldn't blame her either.
He hadn't meant to stare at her that day. It had just happened. He couldn't go back and fix it.
He had tried to rationalize it; after all, it was that bird's fault that he was looking in that direction in the first place. Anyone who appreciated beauty at all would have been just as mesmerized by that cardinal as he was.
It wasn't his fault that her desk was between his and the window that offered such an unobstructed view of the tree that beautiful bird had chosen as its perch.
It wasn't his fault that the natural auburn highlights of her hair shined like polished copper in the sunlight; that her eyes glowed like precious emeralds; that her smile was more contagious than the black plague.
But he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that had he stopped admiring her one second earlier the seed of disgust would not have been planted in her mind.
Sure, she smiled at him that day, but it was a momentary fluke, an accident, a product of her discomfort.
She turned away that day, and had done it every time their eyes met since.
He had been watching her ever since she walked in the door. She had picked up her food and turned toward the seating area to find a table. He couldn't help but notice her, but yet again, just like every time before, he had looked at her that one second too long.
She had caught him again.
His table of choice, the one in the back of the room closest to the exit that hardly anyone ever used, suddenly felt as though it were under a spotlight. He tried to hide behind the pages of his book but he knew that the damage was already done.
The heat welled up from his stomach to his chest. His hands and forearms began to tingle, and his scalp began to itch profusely. His ears began to burn as if he had a hair dryer pointed at them for too long. He knew without a doubt that they were as red as a lobster's carapace.
He cursed himself for leaving his knitted hat in his locker but knew that it would only draw more attention to him if he were to wear it indoors.
Remembering that he had at least had the presence of mind to wear an undershirt that day, he breathed a momentary sigh of relief, but his elation evaporated as he felt a bead of sweat roll down his side.
He knew that if he didn't get to the restroom quickly he would not be able to dry himself off in time to keep his sweat from seeping through to his buttoned shirt; but he also knew that lunchtime was the time that all of the so-called cool guys hung out in there so they could harass anyone they deemed inferior.
"Antiperspirant, my ass," he murmured under his breath.
He shifted in his seat in a vain attempt to wipe away the sweat with his undershirt. As he did he felt a puff of hot air escape from his collar. He knew he couldn't sit there much longer if he wanted to retain enough composure to get up from his seat and make it to the door unnoticed.
It was already too late. He knew that all eyes were already on him, picking apart his myriad flaws and hating him for each and every one. Every laugh in the room was at his expense. Every whisper, every gesture, every expression of loathing and contempt, they were all directed at him.
He could barely breathe.
He couldn't even make out the words on the pages of his book. He didn't even know if he was holding it right any more.
He tried to focus, but kept reading the same line over and over, unable to move on. As disjointed as the words were his mind treated them as though they were coherent and had context, until they finally lost all meaning and he had no idea what language was written on the pages.
He balled up his toes as if making a fist with his foot. He knew it was the only way he could force himself back into reality without encouraging any of his onlookers to hate him any more than they already did.
"Breathe," he thought to himself.
Attempting to regain some semblance of composure, he quickly looked up from his book to scan the faces of his fellow students. To his surprise none of the ones in his immediate purview was looking his way. He strained to listen in on a conversation, reading the lips of one of the guys facing toward him.
They were talking about some new multi-player shooter game for the xbox.
A group of girls was talking about some of the guys on the football team.
A few of the guys on the football team were talking about girls.
He was just about to let out a sigh of relief when he saw her again, walking toward him with without her tray.
It was as if someone had set a fire in his chest. His throat tightened; his stomach tensed almost to the point of nausea. He was overwhelmed with the urge to weep. It took every ounce of strength he had left to keep the tears form flowing freely.
Nothing his parents ever told him prepared him for feelings like this. On those rare occasions when he was able to glean anything about his father's childhood he had just been left wondering if he had being given the whole story.
His mom couldn't possibly understand. Besides, he knew that if he talked to her about anything intimate she would get a little bit too affectionate which always left him feeling quite creeped out.
But this wasn't discomfort. This was agony.
She was still headed his way.
He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. It was choking him. He tried to swallow but couldn't.
"You'll know it when you're in love..."
He had heard that cliche so many times, but had dismissed it like most of the other old wives' tales that had no meaning in our modern culture.
He'd heard it called the "warm fuzzies", but this felt more like steaming pricklies, or worse, whatever that meant.
His sanity was now on the line. He questioned himself, "How can one girl I barely know have so much power over me? How can she render me so completely useless? Why does it hurt so bad? Is this what love feels like?"
Only one or two more tables and she'd be right there.
He knew there was no way she would be coming to sit by him. He couldn't see any of her friends at those tables, just a few of the more popular guys.
Boyfriend. He was sure of it.
One of the guys greeted her and she stopped to talk to him confirming his suspicions.
He was both elated and devastated.
Choking on his shame he quickly gathered up his tray and nearly ran to the exit. It wasn't until he was out in the hallway that he realized he had forgotten his book at the table.
It was too late to go back.
He headed toward the nearest restroom and locked himself in one of the stalls.
He couldn't take the pain any more and let out a silent scream. It didn't help. He began beating his forearms to try and relieve some of the physical restlessness in them. It didn't help either. He pulled at his hair. Nothing. He hit himself in the face. Still nothing.
He pulled up his sleeve and began scratching his arm as hard as he could. His fingernails were too short from being bitten off.
He pulled out his pocket knife and opened it. He held the tip of the blade to his skin. He pressed harder and savored the pain. Turning the tip sideways so that he wouldn't cut himself wide open he began scraping his arm; lightly at first, allowing himself to grow accustomed to the feeling, then harder, as he realized that the pain in his skin was taking away the one in his chest.
Droplets of blood began to form over his deepest scrape. It was reassuring. It was something he could control.
He scraped harder, this time drawing blood almost instantly.
Before he knew it he had seven or eight open scrape marks on his arm, all bright red with blood.
The class bell rang.
He quickly dabbed up the excess blood with toilet paper, drew his sleeve down over the scratches, and pulled himself together.
At least he knew he could hide in the crowd on the way back to class.
His arm began to sting, exacerbated by his elevated temperature, but as it increased it began to dial down the intensity of his emotional turmoil.
By the time he got to class he was almost feeling good enough to function.
It was biology lab, and his desk was in the back. He knew he could hide there unnoticed for the better part of the afternoon.
He avoided eye contact with everyone as he made his way to the back of the class. It wasn't until he sat down that he noticed his book, the one he had left in in the cafeteria during his panic flight, sitting on his desk.
Incredulous, he picked it up to make sure he wasn't imagining it. There was a piece of paper sticking out from inside the cover; there was a note on it.
"This is a really good book. I didn't want you to miss the ending!"
He looked across the classroom and his heart nearly stopped. She was looking right back at him, smiling acknowledgingly.
He smiled sheepishly back at her and mouthed a silent thank you.
She mouthed back, "You're welcome!"
The bell rang.
The teacher walked in a few moments later and told the class to break up in to pairs for the lab projects.
He usually partnered up with Ralph, the nerdy smart kid, but this time, once he had gathered up all of his stuff, his feet carried him in a different direction.
Somehow he found himself standing by the empty chair next to hers, and before he had the chance to analyze how many different ways he could screw it up he said, "May I?"