In between second and third period, Carlos shuffled down the hallway.
Turning the corner, he stopped cold. Roxy was marching straight in his
direction, her strut seamless and carefree. Her beautiful boobs bounced
beneath her tight red top, in sync with the clip of her shiny black boots, as
she talked and giggled with her friends.
“Who has time for a boyfriend?” one girl was saying.
“I know,” Roxy replied. “Between cheerleading, choreography class, and
chorus, I barely have time to breathe.”
In his freshly laundered clothes, Carlos felt braver than he’d ever felt near
her. Quickly, he pulled the folded notepaper with his screen name from his
sweatshirt pocket, his breath quickening as the girls approached.
Summoning all his nerve, he stretched out his hand toward her, holding the
notepaper. “’S’up, Roxy? Here’s my screen …”
But Roxy didn’t even turn her head. Her eyes remained focused on her girl
friends, as they sauntered past.
Carlos’s heart crumpled like the paper he shoved back into his pocket. I
may as well not even exist, he thought, pulling his sweatshirt hood low over
his forehead.
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