After leaving guidance, I head on over to the Quad to meet Libby. I scour all the bright blue and white (Blanesville Panther pride! ugh) round picnic tables spread out over the huge space at the center of our school.

Libby and I and our other friends usually sit at a table on the perimeter of this circular area before school, between classes, during lunch or after school, to met up and chat and chill.

Sure, I see familiar faces everywhere, but I can't see her anywhere. Where is she? Should I go back to our old lockers and see if she's there? I did shout out to her to meet me in the Quad, right?

I roll my eyes at no one and slump down to take a seat at one of the empty white picnic tables.

"Well, hello."

I know right away who it is whispering loudly in my ear. It's Chris Pratt.

He's a senior and he's going to Georgia Tech in the fall to play football for them. He's Blanesville High's star athlete of the year.

He had to bend over quite a bit to reach my ear. He's really tall.

But, honestly, I just know him as this goofy boy that is really good with words and a football and can pretty much make you spew your milk through your nose with laughter. Yep. He's that kind of funny.

He's a total flirt, too, by the way. He's super popular. A football player. Cute. So cute! Curly dark blonde hair, with the ends lightened by the sun. A chiseled jaw line. The sweetest eyes. A playful smirk on his face at every turn. He is intimidating. I could never date a guy like that. Ever.

"Hey, Chris. What's up?"

"I haven't gotten you to sign my yearbook yet." He hands me his yearbook and pen and I place them in my lap, moving my book bag and purse onto the table.

"Oh! Okay," I am weirdly honored that he even wants me to sign his yearbook. I did tutor him after school in algebra last year for a couple months or so. Though we spent far more time not discussing algebra most days.

Yeah, that's why. This is his way of returning the favor. I am certain he's had many many girls sign his yearbook today. Especially all the popular ones.

"Awesome!" He takes a seat next to me.

He's wearing his bright blue letterman jacket over a plain white buttoned up polo shirt--the buttons are open just past his chest area--and light wash jeans. He turns his face away from mine, but I can tell he is sure to leave just enough of his handsome features in my vision so that I may look up at his profile now and then while I figure out

what the heck to write in Chris Pratt's yearbook!

"Anything you're looking for in particular?" I try to joke, but I fail.

And then I just don't care anymore because I know I will never see this guy again, in my entire life. He's going places. I'm not.

"Whatever you want. You have a cool way with words. I've always liked that about you."

He smiles after he speaks and tilts his head to one side. Then he turns his face away from me again and stares off into the distance as students walk past him and shout out things like, "Way to go, Pratt!" , "You're awesome, man! Congratulations!", and "You're the bomb, Chris!" He smiles at them all and waves their compliments off as if they are all just too kind.

I should take what he said as a compliment, but it just makes me super nervous. Like, really? How am I supposed to write something cool now? With this athletic god sitting right next to me?

What does Chris Pratt expect from me?

I'm just a nerd that happens to like wearing some makeup (so you know, I get a few more stares than my other non-makeup-wearing counterparts, naturally), so even though I may look like a normal, pretty (well, that's what Libby tells me, and my mom--my dad says I'm cute), healthy teenage girl, I'm really just a major bookworm obsessed with wanting to live anywhere and anytime other than the one I am in right now. Yeah. That pretty much sums me up!

Cowabunga, dudes!

Maybe that's what I should write in his yearbook. Everyone loves the ninja turtles. I bet Chris does.

No. I can't write that. That's lame.

He shifts in his spot next to me and scoots other a couple inches closer. So close that I can smell the faint scent of Tide. I had forgotten how he always smells like fresh laundry.

Boy, he's sure gonna miss his mom washing his clothes for him when he's in Atlanta.

"You haven't written anything yet?" He doesn't sound annoyed, just surprised.

I don't feel awkward being honest with him at all for some reason.

This is the last day I will see him, speak with him, be close to the same air that he is breathing in. What do I have to lose, really?

"I don't know what to write!" I squeak. "You're sitting here, next to me, close, expecting something cool to come outta my brain and through my pen and onto this paper beneath me, and I'm just finding it incredibly hard to deliver. Sorry."

I didn't mean to sound as exasperated as I did, but I really just wanted to find Libby so she could take us to my house already.

"Whoa-ho, cowgirl," he furrows his brows playfully and then squints his eyes at me. "I've been watching you in the halls all these years, Elle."

Whoa. I gulp and ask, "Really? You have? Why?"

"Well, obviously, you're adorable and you don't even know it, but that's beside the point. You're smart, but you don't act like you know it all. I was witness to that last year as you helped me lift my D average in algebra to a B average."

"Yeah." I still don't know where the freak he's going with all of this. I just keep smelling him and looking in his dreamy green eyes.

This is my last chance to see eyes remotely that gorgeous, after all.

"And you're a really good friend. Libby ran for junior class vice president this past year and you ran her campaign like a pro and you're the reason she won, obviously."

He takes a moment there to let out a giggle. His wide shoulders quake and then he clears his throat. "My favorite image of you, this year, has to be when you were walking around the Quad," he chuckles, trying not to interrupt himself again, "in the rain, right over there, where there's that empty spot between the trees, yeah, with one of those cheap plastic ponchos on that, like, people wear when they visit Niagara Falls..."

Yeah. So what? I did do that...you're point is?

Oh. You really smell good.

Where. Is. Libby? I swear when I see her I am going to kill her. La Femme Nikita style.

Aw, man. I need a new pair of sunglasses. I left my favorites ones at Waffle House that one morning with my dad. Shoot!

"You were so passionate about getting the news out that your best friend was running. What I mean to say is, you do all that you do with every part of you. You're amazing. You are an amazing girl."

He smiles at me. One of his big ones. I am mush now. I am silly putty now.

Okay. That was definitely a compliment. No doubt about that. I smile up at him and I know my cheeks are giving myself away. Crap! No, cheeks. Don't!

"Ha! And how could I forget that right there," he adds. "Your cheeks blush whenever you get a compliment. It's as if your body reacts instantly to being told it's something great or pretty or wonderful, as if it weren't true, as if your body rejects all notions of you being truly spectacular. Well, I want to tell you today, Eleanor Jordan, you are anything but ordinary. You are extraordinary."

Kill me now. Someone, please. Anyone. Anyone out there?

Libby?

I changed my mind. I don't want to kill you anymore. I want you to kill me.

La Femme Nikita style, pretty please, with a cherry on top!

I gulp again and my mouth opens but no words come out.

"Eh," he waves his hand in the air, "Just write something already." He takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

As I see the muscles in his forearms move and his arm hairs catch the light of the late afternoon sun above us, I bite my bottom lip and finally begin to write something.

I swear I lose feeling in my face when I see that his yearbook is mostly signed by his teammates and maybe a handful of senior girls, and like two junior girls. I make sure he doesn't notice that I have noticed and my brain kicks into gear (which it does, miraculously, when I really need it to) as I write:

Dear Chris,

You're this young man that has it all.
You stand tall and are great with a ball.

You are smarter than you know,
(more than you would like to show)

But you're secret is safe with me.
One day, lemme buy you that cup of tea.

We can go to the coffee shop
and sit out in the cold...

And see our fingers go pink and stiff
over the pages of a well-worn book
discussing Catherine and her Heathcliff.

xoxo
The Great Girl Nerd Junior that Brought You From a D to a B in Algebra,
Elle Jordan

He actually smiles shyly at me after reading it. He closes his yearbook, slides the pen I handed back to him into his pocket, and brings the yearbook close to his chest.

"See?" Chris grins. "That's what I was talkin' about. Thank you so much."

"You're welcome," I nod appreciatively with feigned confidence because I don't want his last image of me to be something along the lines of drooling-mouth-eyes-open-wide-can't-speak-right craziness. Nobody wants that.

I can see Libby out of the corner of my eye right now. It's time for me to go.

"Hey, hold on," he cracks his yearbook back open, "You didn't leave me your num--"

"What?" I ask him. Libby distracts me in the distance with her arms flailing about dramatically, beckoning me to her so we can leave and get away from this place.

I hate to admit this, but, I kinda wanna stay at the picnic table with Chris for just a little while longer. But...ladies. Let's be real.

Girls Rule and Boys Drool, so, see ya never again, Chris Pratt.

"I gotta go," I tell him as I stand up to gather my things from the picnic table. "Um, weren't you trying to tell me something?" I look off at Libby in the distance again. She is actually doing the macarena now.

Horribly, by the way. She has no rhythm!

"Oh," he says, following my eyes' direction to Libby, "It's nothing. Looks like you're friend is gonna start doing the electric slide if y'all don't leave now, huh?"

"Yeah. Pretty much." I bring up the long strap of my messenger bag over my head and smile and say, "Good luck out there on the field. You're gonna do great!"

"Yeah, I hope so. Good luck to you, too. Senior year is the best."

He bends down to give me a hug, only I didn't know that is what he was about to do, so I am just standing there, frozen, my arms by my sides, with the large Tide-scented arms of Chris Pratt surrounding me.

He lets go of me, awkwardly, and we smile at each other again. I wave to him as I take another step backwards and then I turn to leave.

"Uh, have a great summer, Elle!" he yells out to me, almost a little too loud for how close together we still are.

"You too, Chris! I hope you have a great one!"

And I really mean it with all my heart when I say it.

☮💜☮

A/N:

Hey reader!

Yep. Chris Pratt was born in 1979. The same year as all the members of Silverchair, so I had to let him make a cameo, hehe.

Again, I am having a lot of fun with this!

If you like my writing at all, go check out my on-going first work of teen fiction, After Daniel's Life.

Thanks for reading. You're totally awesome!!

vote and comment if you like Pratt's smile :)

<3
Leanne

P.S. I'll be attaching a music video to each chapter of a hit song from this era.
Enjoy!!!

Gin Blossoms "Til I Hear it From You"