It sucks being fifteen, Tommy thought as he sat in his boring tenth grade history class, drawing little faces in circles on a piece of paper in front of him, paying no attention to the teacher droning on about something, listing the names of the kings of some country. Margaret Garfield was two rows in front and one row to the left. Her long, thick black hair was most of what he was able to see of her, also a little bit of the side of her face, some of her long straight nose, and a bit of eyelash. He had her pretty much memorized, though.
He wanted to say he was sorry, for the things he had said about her in the story that went through his mind. He didn't really mean any of it. He even liked George Capelli, her boyfriend, the captain of the school baseball team. Capelli was really good. He could hit a line drive like nobody's business, and then he was fast, really fast. Tommy wished that he was George Capelli. He wished he was anyone else. It was why he told stories. It was why he spent most of his time living in daydreams. Anywhere but here.
Anywhere but here.
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