Blake
Rebecca Finley did not look okay. I knew this because I’d spent the better part of a year watching her with fascinated preoccupation, and I’d come to know her moods. They were almost always upbeat and welcoming to anyone who entered her orbit.
Her bright personality had made me bold enough to think she might actually like me as a person. She seemed to like everyone, and I was part of everyone. I decided to extrapolate that to mean she liked me too.
Finally, a use for a math concept—extrapolation—that may not have been meant to help a nervous guy approach a girl. But it worked.
“Hey, you okay?” I asked.
She stood with her back against the stucco wall outside a classroom, her head tipped back, eyes closed. I noticed her eyelashes first. They were dark and fanned out across the top
