Linda Sammaritan
I try to slide my eyes away from Nick Canzoneri when he passes my table in the dining hall. That barrel chest and those bulging biceps stuffed into a white T-shirt with a capital P in forest green emblazoned on said chest. He makes it hard not to stare. Wavy, jet-black hair helmets a tanned face, making his blue eyes even more striking. Those eyes meet mine for less than a second, and once again, I’m a goner.
He’s my Prince Charming. But he doesn’t know it. Probably never will.
Emma’s snort across the table jolts me from my daydreams. Her gaze follows Nick’s path while he heads for some table behind me. “You could’ve tripped him or something. At least he’d notice you then.”
“In absolutely the wrong way. No, thank you.”
My roommate/best friend shakes her head in mock despair. With her cropped, spiky cut tipped in pink, Emma would be more likely to get noticed. But she has no interest in the barbaric game of football. She’s a kind friend, though, and she knows I yearn for this particular barbarian.
“He is so out of my league.”
She shakes her head again, this time accompanied by a fierce scowl. “Other way around, girlfriend. You’re gorgeous, you’re sweet, you love little kids—why, I have no idea. Either they’re whining, crying, or sticky—and if we had a little old lady on this campus, you’d help her across the street.”
“So, I’m a boy scout?” No wonder Nick never notices me.
Emma barks a laugh. “Good one, Kaylee.”
“What’s he doing right now?” I’m hopeless.
She peers into the distance. “He’s sitting with a bunch of football jocks and . . . oh, the cheerleaders are already in their little green plaid uniforms. Aren’t they darling? With the game only six hours away.” She starts singing the Pinecrest College cheer song. People at nearby tables stare at us.
I slump in my seat, not because of Emma’s off-key shenanigans, but more from the thought that one of those perfect cuties is probably Nick’s girlfriend.
“O Pinecrest Lumberjacks, we—” Emma breaks off mid-lyric, leans across the table and pats my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure out a way to get his attention.”
“But nothing has worked. He passes me every day on the way to nine o’clock classes. He smiles. I smile. Nothing.”
“So, skip your class and follow him.”
I stare at her, my disdain for the suggestion apparent. She ducks her head and murmurs, “Right. Stalker.”
“He didn’t even notice when I saw him at the Fall Festival Dance, and I—”
“I know. I know.” Emma heaves a sigh. “If this is the guy for you, he’ll notice you. Maybe when you’re not even expecting it.”
“Yeah.” I sound so convinced. I slide from my seat and lift my tray from the table. “I’ve got to do some research at the library.”
“On Nick?” Her smile is wicked.
“Nope. I need details on Piaget, and I’d rather have a book in my hand than stare at a computer screen.”
Inside half an hour, I’ve found several volumes on Piaget’s views of early childhood education. With my notebook on top of a pile of three books, I choose a cozy table snug against the far wall with rows and rows of stacks between me and the front desk. Pen. Paper. Kinesthetic activity. It’s therapeutic.
The rumble of hushed male voices on the other side of the bookshelves nearest to me pulls my attention from the world of little kids and their giant leap of development when they learn to classify objects by size, shape, or color.
“So, we’re in the Psychology section.” Hefty sigh. “Now what?”
A mellow voice responds. “Yeah. Who knew that your basic psychology class included studying kids’ brains?”
“What kind of professor doesn’t allow online searches?”
A professor after my own heart. I focus on eavesdropping.
Mellow Voice asks, “Where do we even start?”
A short intake of breath from Sigh Guy. “How about you ask that education major you like? Then we could come back here tomorrow and know what we’re doing.”
“Out of my league, man. Whenever she smiles at me, I can’t even spit out a hi. ”
I nod in sympathy. Me, too, brother.
“Nick, are you nuts? You’re a captain on the football team. Girls follow you everywhere.”
“No, Aidan. They follow you. The quarterback. I’m the no-name lineman.”
Nick is on the other side of this wall of books? He likes an education major? There must be fifty of us.
Emma’s voice whispers in my mind. “The education major might be you.”
Don’t I wish.
Another thought, my own this time, signals me. What if you walk around these bookshelves and offer to help him? Maybe he’ll forget about the other girl.
Emma-in-my-head cheers me on, which means it probably isn’t a good idea.
Nevertheless. Deep breath. It’s now or never. I nab the thought and run with it. Maybe I’ll gain a yard or two in Nick’s awareness. I stand. Three steps and turn to the right. Twice.
Be still my heart.
Nick stares at me, like I’m some ghost that appeared in the middle of the library.
Aidan elbows him in the ribs. “That’s her?” he whispers at thespian level.
Her? As in the education major he likes?
Nick nods.
I’m the her? The one out of his league?
Touchdown! And going for the extra point.
“Hi. I’m Kaylee.” I smile.
He smiles. “I know.”
He even knows my name!
“And I’m Nick.”
“I know.”
Aidan nudges him aside. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”
Nick’s smile broadens. So does mine.
“I heard you guys talking about kids and psychology.” I reach for a book that had been my fourth option to study today. Nick intercepts and pulls it from the shelf. His hand collides with mine.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be.”
More idiotic smiles. We might be in the same league after all.
Linda always figured she’d teach teens and tweens for sixty years or more, at which point, school authorities would present her with a retirement wheelchair and roll her out the door. However, God changed those plans when He gave her a growing passion for writing fiction. In May of 2016, she blew goodbye kisses to her students and dedicated her work hours to becoming an author.
A wife, mother of three, and grandmother to eight, Linda regales the youngest grandchildren with “Nona Stories,” tales of her childhood.
Connect with her on Facebook, Twitter (X), or on her website.
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