He was one of those boys you can never admire from anything but a distance. It was not anything specific about him, though there was more than one exceptionally remarkable thing about him. It was more this unspoken agreement there is between boys like him and someone like me; it was words floating restlessly in the air. His appearance was fire and if I came too close my skin would sizzle away. That’s why I kept my distance.
Sometimes you meet people and get this strange idea that they are superhuman. Their faces are so beautiful that you get convinced God crafted them out of a diamond’s core. God took a bit of stardust and rainbows and put this mixture inside this someone’s head, too. Because they are intelligent, witty and honest and worth a smile and adventurous and everything good you can’t see in yourself. And every time they look at you your world seems to freeze for just a hundred of a second before it comes right back at you and knocks the breath out of you.
Nolan Sinclair was one of these superhumans.
But this was high school and he was on the football team and I was in drama. Even before we met our destinies were predetermined. (Not that I believe in any of that romance or love-at-first-sight crap, I’ve thought it was pretty stupid since I got turned down by Hunter Peterson before our winter dance in the second grade and I spent my whole night watching him awkwardly chicken-dance with Emily Vanderbilt. That should have been me awkwardly chicken-dancing with Hunter Peterson.) So because of this it was the little things that agonized me. How this Sinclair-guy would say he liked the sound of my name when he passed out my paper in English. How he on colder days would wear sweatshirts and a beanie tucked down over his auburn hair.
I hated Nolan Sinclair. God, I hated him for making me like him this much.
I also hated him for having a girlfriend.