The girl loved him; that much was clear. On their field-trip out to one of those huge beer factories (that caused quite a stir; they were only in high school, after all), she had sat across from him on the bus, stealing glances every now and then. He stole some, too. He supposed he liked her, but not the way she liked him. Not that much. After the presentation, she scooted over to him and opened her lunch bag. "Want a half?" she said. "It's turkey. Can't eat the whole thing myself." "Sure, thanks," he said, "I'm not supposed to, though--we don't eat meat on Fridays." She just looked at him, a little puzzled, but soon her characteristic grin returned.

Catholicism. That was another thing. No meat on Fridays? And why was that? It wasn't anything he could explain, and that fact bothered him. Did other Catholic boys and girls his age ask questions like that? Well, I'm not an android--I'm going to ask. If I don't get it, I'm going to ask. But he never did.

If I were an astronaut, I could be up there, away from it all, he thought. But then I'd be away from her--not that "her": he had eyes for a different girl. This one sat toward the back of class, fourth period, French.

Rosa was her name, and she was like a rose. Didn't dress like all the other Mexican girls at their high school. In fact, he'd known her--known of her--since seventh grade. They'd had a science class together, Mr. Ito, second period. She sat directly in front of him, and he still could never work up the nerve to talk to her.

She wasn't one of the popular girls. He didn't care to speak with them; he kept his distance from that crowd. She was just there, like he was, just getting through it all--and yet she did it with such grace and beauty. To him, she moved about the place in slow motion. Those were magical days, and he felt there was something between them, even though they never spoke to one another. He loved her from afar.

And now, fourth period, French. He sat off to the right, and she was there all the way in the back, dead center. Once in a while he'd stretch or drop a pencil or do whatever to get a look at her. He loved to watch as she spoke French, loved the way her mouth moved, the way it formed those exotic words. He had to maneuver himself in his seat, he was so distracted.