When I woke up, my grandmother was still asleep in her bed across the room. My dad was awake. I could hear him in the shower, whistling. I was caught between two feelings: I wanted to curl over and fall back asleep, and I wanted to climb out of bed and see what the world looked like now that I was a teenager. I turned onto my side, covered my ear with the blanket, and thought about Dimitri. I tried to picture his face in my mind. This is the weird thing—I can clearly imagine anyone’s face, except if it’s a boy who has a crush on me. Once somebody has saved me a seat in English class, or teased me in a way that means he likes me, I can’t keep his image in my head for a second. I can remember pieces of him—the color of his eyes, or a shirt he wore—but I can’t create a whole picture from those parts. Dimitri is cute. He has straight hair the color of Licorice (my cat), and green eyes that look their best when he smiles. He’s one of three boys who have definitely shown interest in me this term—the others are Anatoly and Vlad—but I like him best because he’s mysterious but not too mysterious.
