He Loves Me Not Read Online Free

understand. Until then I’ll just have to endure high school.
    That sounded fine. It carried me about five steps down the hall toward Latin, when I saw, way ahead of me, a boy and a girl sneaking a quick kiss before breaking apart to go their separate ways for the next class.
    Two years? I thought miserably. Hang in here alone for two whole years?
    I had this overwhelming desire to have somebody love me for myself, not my fingers on the keyboard. To have somebody want to kiss me, not hear me play an old hit tune. I thought how much more warm and wonderful it would be to stroke a boy’s hand instead of ivory, and then I felt absolutely stupid for thinking like that.
    My footsteps were getting slower and slower.
    The hallways cleared and in another moment I would be late.
    Boys, I thought. I don’t even have time to daydream like a normal person, let alone make friends and start dating.
    It isn’t worth it, I thought. I’ll tell Ralph I’m quitting. I’m so lonely it hurts and music just isn’t that important.
    I scurried alone down the stairs to Latin.

3
    L ATIN USED TO BE a forgotten subject. Nobody took it. But when I was in ninth grade, there were seventeen of us in first-year Latin and we all loved it. Not one of us dropped out. The class has the same sort of comradeship that the combo does: a tight, yet easy friendship that comes from sharing something difficult and special.
    Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to do my translation, and with only seventeen people in the class you almost always get called upon daily.
    “I see panic in your eyes,” murmured Mike MacBride.
    “I didn’t have time to do the translation.”
    “Superwoman has fallen short. I don’t believe it.”
    I flushed, but Mike was smiling at me. “I’m no superwoman,” I said, embarrassed. And proved it. Miss Gardener called on me first and I couldn’t even fake my way through the first noun.
    “Zero,” said Miss Gardener gladly. “Too many activities, Alison. Too little attention to what counts, I’m afraid.”
    When other people had trouble, Miss Gardener helped them, rather gently. She’d ask for excuses and she’d accept them, no matter how thin they were. We were her favorite class. But when I failed she was glad. I spent the rest of Latin fighting tears.
    After class, Mike tugged my hair. It was a funny thing to do. It sounds mean, but it wasn’t. It was sort of affectionate. I looked up at him and thought that any time he wanted to show more affection, I’d be happy to cooperate! I tried to think of something clever to say but nothing came to me. I looked back down at my desk while I gathered up my books, wondering if he had seen my tears.
    “It’s just a dumb Cicero translation,” said Mike, “not the end of the world.”
    He smiled at me and the world tumbled back into perspective. What a super thing a nice smile is! I felt warmed up like sunshine, and I hugged my books to my chest and smiled back. Mike tugged my hair again and walked on.
    He was gone before I realized I had not said one word to him. A boy I really liked, who was nice to me, and I hadn’t even tried to let him know I was glad he’d taken the time to speak to me.
    I thought, I know about as much about boys right now as I did about gigs two years ago. Zero.
    I began a long involved fantasy about how I would be deluged with offers of dates, so Ralph would have to get substitutes for me five nights a week, and my phone would be ringing off the hook with the deep, romantic voices of strange boys. My father would be meeting a new one at the door every night and I’d leave my spangled sheath at the dry cleaner’s and stock up on all these frilly romantic little numbers. I’d dance instead of provide dance music and all the boys standing on the sidelines would turn and stare at me, the way they do in TV ads for women who have on a new brand of pantyhose.
    I figure if you’re going to have a fantasy, you should really lean into it and get it