A girl in my class knew everything. When the teacher asked a question, her hand would shoot up and wave frantically above her auburn hair.
But there was one fact I was sure she didn’t know; that I was in love with her.
From her polished black shoes, to the tips of her light-red lashes, which fluttered as frantically as her arm when she knew the answer to a question.
Then a friend said, “You need to ask her a question.”
Heart hammering and palms sweating, I asked her to the Leavers Ball.
Of course, she knew the answer, “Yes.”