"I'm sorry."
"I don't care."
"I wrote you a sonnet."
Now he has her interest. "A sonnet?"
"Yeah, like Shakespeare."
"Why a sonnet?"
"I don't know."
"Is it a good sonnet?"
He looks at her, his chocolate eyes meeting her icy blue. "I don't know."
"Then, why are you trying to read it to me?"
"Because, it's up to you, I guess. To see if it's good."
"I don't take unconfident boys. Come back when your sonnet's good."
"Okay."
"Okay."
He walked out of the room.

"Hey, Peter, come here for a sec?"
"Yeah, okay."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, I guess."
"Is my sonnet good?"
"Dude, is this some kind of creepy pick-up line?"
"Huh? No! I just need to know if it's good. Here, let me–"
"Uh, I've got class."
"It's recess."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"See you around."
The red shirt is the last thing he sees disappearing.

"Melissa?"
"What's up?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, go right ahead."
"I wrote a sonnet for Abby, but I don't know if it's good. Can I read it to you?"
"Uh, um, I don't know much about sonnets."
"It's okay. Just tell me if you think it's good."
"Uh, um, I, like, don't think I can."
"Wait, Melissa!"
She drops a pencil and doesn't bother to pick it up.
"....your pencil."
He doesn't know what to do.

"Ms. van-Schemer, can I um, like, read you something I wrote for class?"
"Of course! Go right ahead."
"It's kind of bad."
"No writing is bad writing."
"Okay, here goes..."
"Wait, what kind of stuff do you want me to evaluate for?"
He sees the dreaded red pen emerging.
"Uh, um, well, rhyme and iodine pendamiter or whatever."
"You mean iambic pentameter?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, go ahead."

"How my love does toll the bell for thee,
Of music made we start for one
The sound of drums to set us free
Until thou speaketh soft: 'Tis done.

And screams the note of fiery Fate;
Of something shamed and deep
The light'st whistle open thou gate
And put us both to sleep.

But true sound we know of naught;
And love we do know less;
Yet of music bells and true love sought
Over a game of iv’ry chess.

The night tis full of sparkling sound;
Let nothing keep thou from the round."

"It's beautiful," she murmurs, after he's done.
"Really?"
"Absolutely."
She puts the red pen down.
"Is this for a special someone?"
"Um, yeah. I guess."
He scratches his neck.
"I don't know, I mean."
"You don't know?"
"Yeah, they, well, I mean, they don't deserve it."
"So you're not giving it to her."
"I will. But just because I, just because I want to."
"Alright."
"Thanks."
"Sure, drop by any time."
"Okay."
"Okay."
He bumps his leg against a table.

"I'm back."
"Are you?"
"Yeah. I wrote you a sonnet. And it's damn good."
"You sure?"
"Positive."
"Let's hear it."
He recites it.
"What's it mean?"
"What do you mean?"
"Like, what's the point?"
"The point?"
"Are you parroting me?"
"No, but I'm confused."
"Okay, like, why'd you write it?"
"I guess," he says slowly, "I guess I wrote it to impress you."
She nods. "Alright, that's fair enough."
Her arrogance gets to him. "But I now wrote it to impress myself."
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah, I like you and all, but screw this."
"Excuse me?"
"Screw this damn society, why do I have to impress you, Abby?"
"Because, because, that's how I deem if you're a good guy."
"By my writing?"
"No, no, by the stuff you do!"
"Oh, and am I worthy?" he asks sarcastically.
"It was a bit over the top."
"Whatever, I'm out of here."
"Wait!"
His blond, wavy hair is the last thing she sees disappear into the crowd.
"...I liked it. A lot." she whispers.