Picture a high school classroom. There is a blonde, 17 year old girl, sitting in a desk in the front row, as this seemed to be the only seat available. She has shoulder length hair, carefully curled under. She is sitting with one leg crossed as she always does, slightly slouched, in an "I'm untouchable," sort of way. Not because she is, but because that is what she has to be to make it through this day. The other students filing into the Spanish III classroom, just as the bell is ringing are now whispering to each other about who the heck "that-girl" is. She can hear it all, pretends not to, and for about the 63rd time since she woke up, she is forcing back tears into her burning eyes. She takes herself back in time about a month when she could walk into her highschool with a smile on her face, say good morning to friends and teachers, walk with confidence, and love being a teenager. But ever since her parents decided to move to Ohio from Ames, Iowa at the end of her Junior year, all she has done is cry. Her dreams of her senior year with her best friends, planning for the senior traditions, homecoming, prom, college visits, walking side by side during graduation with teenagers that she weathered and celebrated the years of highschool with .... gone.
Now, she is just a stranger. A stranger who doesn't want to be in this Spanish classroom.
As the girl sits, completely oblivious, there is a tall, dark boy who takes his seat in the back row. He has black hair, moussed. He is wearing a sweater vest over a white tee-shirt and baggy jeans. He comes in laughing and joking with his buddy and also wonders and whispers about "that girl." He is thinking that the back of That Girl's head is awfully nice. There haven't been a lot of heads that have turned his, or made him stop in his tracks, but this one does. He sits down with one leg in the aisle (as he is too tall to fit his knees under the chair-desk), casually puts his chin in his hand with one index finger pointing up (the rest in a fist), resting on his cheek as he always does.
The Spanish teacher calls the class to order, indicates that there is a new girl in class, as if they didn't notice already and comes over to That Girl. She rattles off a string of sentences in Spanish, testing her and That Girl doesn't even flinch. She responds back to the teacher in Spanish, wherein the teacher smiles and says "You will do great here." That girl knows the statement was made about the class, but can't help wondering if she really will do great here.
When the bell rings, That Girl stands slowly, gathers her bag, and behind her "Alejandro" does the same, but slower than he usually does. He's waiting to see if the front of That Girl's head is as good as the back. She turns around, their eyes meet. He smiles. And That Girl's face remains stoney, as she walk briskly out into the hall to find her way to the next class. As she makes her way through the hall, teenage girls stare, glare and slip their hands into their boyfriends' hands. Other girls shyly smile at her, but say nothing. And That Girl slips into the bathroom, into a stall, and lets the tears she has been holding back fall.