Yesterday by C. K. Kelly Martin Page B

saying, be smart about this. Don’t rush up to him in some lonely place and don’t freak him out by saying anything weird. You have to be cool and matter-of-fact if you talk to him.”
    “I know that. I need to play it casual.” I don’t want to freak him out and I certainly don’t want to be chopped into little pieces. If I had my head on straight I’d forget about him entirely.
    I’ve been trying to forget for a whole week but he’s still in my head. If I could just talk to him maybe it would break whatever spell he has over me—prove he’s not the person I think he is, just another average teenage guy who happens to have the face of a Greek statue.…
    There’s nothing but this moment, but for a minute he could be in the moment with me. My brain threatens to overheat as I ponder that: standing in front of him, his green eyes taking me in as I ask him where I know him from.
    No
, I snap at myself.
Don’t think, Freya. Just do it
.
    I can’t tell whether my decision means I’m losing a battle or winning it. Either way, it feels inevitable.
    Once Christine and I have parted ways I duck into the nearest bathroom, slip a sheet of loose-leaf paper out of my binder and write a note excusing Freya from afternoon classes in my neatest impersonation of my mother’s handwriting. I take the note to the school secretary who smiles as though she doesn’t suspect a thing and points at the school attendance book where I have to sign out.
    The note says that I have a doctor’s appointment but Icatch a bus to the mall and then hustle over to the information stand where I question the lady behind the counter about the fastest way to get to Toronto. As it turns out there’s no rapid way to reach the city by public transportation. I take a commuter bus (which only leaves once an hour) to Yorkdale Shopping Center and then catch the subway from there. The entire time I’m trying not to think too hard, staring fixedly out the bus window and then at the subway map, repeating Depeche Mode and Smiths lyrics in my head (Christine would be so proud of herself for transforming my musical taste) to distract myself so that I don’t lose it entirely.
    By the time I reach the museum subway stop it’s a few minutes later than when I saw the green-eyed boy last Wednesday, but I buy a hotdog from the vendor in front of the museum and hover around the cart for a few minutes anyway. It would seem less ridiculous to speak to him in public, as if I just happened to be here like I was last week. Unfortunately, that’s clearly not going to happen.
    My feet carry me to Walmer Road. I’m jittery in my skin. Blinking in double time. There’s a moving truck parked down the road from the boy’s house and a series of men in scruffy blue jeans are lugging hefty boxes out to the truck. None of them notice me as I pass but closer to the boy’s house, where three children are making a snowman in their front yard, a little girl in an orange snowsuit stops to stare at me.
    It’s the scary eyes, I bet.
    I smile and wave—most people, unless they’re genuinelypsycho, look less scary when they smile. The two older kids wave back at me but the little girl only continues to stare.
    Soon I’ve passed them too. Soon I’m eyeing the boy’s house from the sidewalk, hoping he’ll saunter out his front door, walk directly towards me and explain the mystery. That doesn’t happen either. It’s up to me to continue heading for his door, up the steps of his front porch, my gloved finger pressing his doorbell. Because I haven’t let my mind focus on my actions, it’s a complete blank as I wait on the boy’s doorstep, listening for any sound of movement from within.
    My heart thumps erratically in my chest as I force myself to ring the bell a second time. Fifteen seconds or so later the door pulls open and I jump like it’s a surprise.
    The green-eyed boy is standing in the doorway, pulling his sweatshirt down over his waist as though I’ve interrupted