"Come to church with us this weekend, Nati!" Sasha insists during Monday's lunch period.

Spring is in full force, and the sunlight washing over me as I sit cross-legged on the silky grass coats me in an unexpected layer of confidence. I've always been fascinated by the random ebb and flow of my confidence and insecurities. The border of daffodils around our lunch area and the dappled shade from the maple trees envelop me in a nature hug, and I am at ease here with my friends, who are feeling more and more like actual friends with each passing day.

"Okay, I think I can," I respond.

"Yay! Nati's going to come, you guys!" Sasha spreads the word to our group. My friends act excited. The challenge with my personality is that people usually either ignore me or protect me. Thus, I partially interpret this positive reaction as condescension rather than true excitement to hang out with me. It's not that I don't view myself as an interesting person, but the truth is that I haven't shown my personality to them. I'm merely a façade of myself.

Yet, I think the walls are slowly breaking down.

* * *

Ever since Alex rested his leg against mine at the volleyball tournament for seven seconds, I have started obsessively analyzing his every interaction with the girls on our team. I have several memories of our bodies coming into subtle contact over the past two weeks, and I'm curious to observe if this is simply his way of interacting with people.

Throughout the week, I don't notice anything odd. Alex runs drills, belts out instructions, scolds us when we slack off and encourages us when appropriate. He doles out high fives and fist bumps, employing his catchphrase "genius" liberally. I note the manner in which his sense of humor manifests. He cracks jokes, but they are directed generally to the group; there's no banter with any specific girls on the team. In other words, his demeanor is dry and professional, and I pretend to myself that his interactions with me have been somehow different—special.

Steve affords me another chance to play right-side hitter, and I perform decently at this week's games. I'm slowly gaining more playing time.

The weather is warming, and I venture a new outfit on Friday. My mom recently took me shopping for spring and summer clothing. I'm wearing dark jean shorts, in which I actually like the look of my legs and butt, and a lacy white top. Despite my other insecurities about my appearance, I don't suffer from the body-image problems that seem to plague about ninety-five percent of teenage girls.

I'm rushing to the locker rooms to change before our 3:00 practice when I spy Alex across the way. Oh my God, my brain chants repeatedly. My only goal is to not embarrass myself. I hate spotting people from a distance, because I never know at what point you're supposed to make eye contact to acknowledge you've seen each other. If you're too eager, you end up with a long, awkward wait while attempting not to stare at one another.

Alex makes it easy for me by waving a spirited arm back and forth, then jogging towards me. When we near each other, his eyes scan me up and down with a look I would interpret as surprise, if I had any trust in my ability to read people in the moment. He approaches me until he's standing closer than expected, and his cheeks are pinkish.

"You look pretty," he tells me casually.

I think I just open my mouth and leave it that way for a full five seconds.

"Do you need a ride again today?" he asks, and the question totally throws me off.

"Uh, yeah. I can ask Kelsey or Beck. They live near me."

"I can give you a ride," he counters, self-assured.

I say nothing, and there's a thick energy between us—at least for me. I'm suffocating in the uncertainty of what is happening in this moment.

"It's fun to get to know you more," he remarks.

"Okay," I croak out with scratchy vocal chords. "Thank you."

He smiles, then takes off towards the gym, calling back to me, "Be on time; Steve's in rare form today!"

I practically sprint to the locker rooms to change.

My shoe soles are made of springs that afternoon, and my legs are fueled by fire rockets. The adrenaline has got me laser-focused on every play, quick feet skipping, stepping and maneuvering around the court with extreme precision as if the gym floor were scattered with hot coals.

"Solid practice," Steve praises us as we wrap up at 5:00. "We have two matches next week. I'll see everybody on Monday. Be on time."

"Have a good weekend, everyone!" Alex calls, already gathering up his clipboard, iPad and a few other supplies with energetic movements.

"Bye, Coach!" my teammates call out in succession as they exit the gym. I've never been able to pull off saying "coach." It sounds so cool and cute.

Once again, I'm not certain if Steve is aware that Alex is planning to give me a ride, so I busy myself organizing random items in my gym bag, drinking water and fixing my hair into a fresh pony tail. Alex grabs the giant mesh bag of balls and jogs to the locker room, curving towards me on the way.

"Be right back," he says lightly as he passes by.

Steve has most of the other equipment put away, and the rest of my team has departed, so I hoist up all my belongings and head towards the door, stalling awkwardly each step of the way.

Alex jaunts back from the locker room, throws me a small smile and points to the gym then the parking lot in a swift, crisp motion to indicate he will grab his stuff and head out with me. I'm inwardly overheating at the possibility that Steve will beat Alex outside; if he asks me who's picking me up, do I tell the truth or lie? My entire body has a heartbeat, and it's pulsing double-time.

Rescuing me from passing out, Alex rushes out, and we make our way to his Jetta. It's unclear to me whether he's as anxious to disappear from the parking lot as I am, since his quickness is fairly typical of how he always moves.

"Alrighty, let's see if I remember how to get to your house," Alex muses when we've both settled into our seats. "Any music preferences?" he asks me.

"I liked the playlist from last week," I respond tentatively, and I see his dimple materialize as his lips press together.

"You got it."

I have no idea how he finds so much to do while he drives; after his phone is plugged in, he's twisting multiple dials, switching between Spotify, Amazon Music and Pandora, adjusting his lights and cleaning the windshield. When I drive, I take care of all of those details before I ever leave the parking spot. Multi-tasking is not my strength.

"Do you have your license yet?" Alex inquires, his eyebrows scrunched in curiosity.

"Yeah, I do," I reply. "I don't have a car yet."

"I got my first car the summer after I graduated high school."

When was that? I wonder but don't ask aloud.

We are now stopped at a red light, and out of the blue, Alex breaks into a grin. "You were on fire today! Where did those spikes come from?" He turns to me to offer a high five, and when I meet his palm, he closes his fingers around mine for a brief instant before pulling his arm back. I take it simply as a gesture of high praise—excitement over how much I'm improving—even though my whole body dissolves into pins and needles at his sweet touch.

I forget to respond, my tongue ballooning like dry cotton inside my mouth. Instead of speaking, I sip from my water bottle.

We ride in silence for a couple minutes, and I sneak a glance in Alex's direction; he's wearing shorts for the first time since our summer training camp, and his legs are more muscular than I was expecting given his slender frame. Soon, we're pulling into my driveway. Even though the drive from Wilderness High to my home is literally a straight shot down Olive Street with a single left turn, I'm impressed Alex remembers the route after only one repetition. When I drive, I'm perpetually lost.

"Cherry Avenue." The words roll around in his mouth as if he's tasting a sugary-tart cherry lollipop. An image flashes through my mind of Alex kissing me, my lips coated in shimmering cherry-pink gloss.

I glance at him in curiosity.

"I like that street name for some reason," he offers.

"Me too."

Alex parks, and I'm unbuckling my seatbelt in order to depart from his vehicle when he strikes up another conversation.

"Plans for the weekend, Nati?" he asks me. I can barely hear his question over my pounding heart, which is reverberating all the way into my brain.

"Oh, uh, mi Tia Leti is coming to visit us this weekend from Los Angeles. My auntie," I clarify, registering the Spanglish that just tumbled out of my mouth.

"Do you speak Spanish?" Alex asks, his eyes going wide.

"Not exactly, sadly," I respond. "My mom is Mexican; she and her whole side of the family speak Spanish, and I can understand it, but my speaking is limited. I've taken four years of Spanish in high school, but, yeah..." I trail off. "Do you speak Spanish?" I return the question, my stomach ballooning with magnetized air.

He grins, and it's so cute I could die. "I'm the exact same. My mom is Costa Rican, but I can only speak a bit."

I bite my lip. "I thought so, from how you pronounce my name."

"Nati," he says. The name drops off his tongue, and the sound is like gently biting into a crimson cherry, a light pop, sweet and satisfying. The sparkle of his eyes dusts into mine.

"Thank you for the ride," I croak, breaking my own trance, self-conscious because we have been in my driveway for several minutes now, and I'm worried about inconveniencing him.

"It's my pleasure," he replies back, smirking at my abrupt leave-taking. "We can make it a weekly thing," he suggests, half-question and half-statement.

"What?" I ask dumbly.

"I can give you a ride on Fridays," he clarifies.

"Um, sure. Thank you."

He snatches up his phone, swipes and brusquely taps on it, then extends it my way.

"Let me take down your number, just in case," Alex says, his voice vibrating low in the small space of his car. I somehow raise my half-paralyzed arm, and our fingers meet as he hands off the device. I attempt to hold my trembling hands still as I tap my number into his cell, then click "save."

"Great," he comments, and I brace myself for another tidal wave as his fingers brush, fleshy and delicate, against mine during the pass-off.

Safely inside my house, I collapse onto the living room couch in disbelief.

"Oh my God!" I yell to no one, my whole body buzzing with glee. Memories of the ride home cascade through my brain like a sparkling waterfall.

An hour later, as I polish up the final edits on my English essay, my phone buzzes from the living room. I retrieve it from the piano bench, and it flashes with an unfamiliar number. My heart lurches forward as I swipe the screen with my thumb.

It's an unsophisticated meme of Will Ferrell: Volleyball is just a really intense version of "Don't let the balloon touch the floor."

This is Alex, by the way.

I grin ear-to-ear and send Alex a laughing with tears emoji accompanied by a face-palm emoji.

There are literally no good volleyball memes on the internet, he follows up.

I reply with a shrugging shoulders emoji and type, It was a solid effort.

Three dots appear, then disappear. I put my phone to the side and pound out a song on the piano to clear my nerves. When I finish, I find he has sent me a response.

You're very sweet.