"Did you get another one?" Theo leans against the locker next to mine, her braid dangling over her shoulder. She has a sketchbook in her hands, a box of chalk and several brushes piled on top. As always, she's got her little beret.

"Not yet. I don't know if I will again, though. It's kind of unpredictable." I pull my math book out of the locker and close it, grinning at myself in the little funhouse mirror glued to the inside of the door. My smile warps itself back at me.

Harriet strolls over, holding a giant stack of sheet music. "Hey, ladies. Did Kathryn get another one?" She smiles, and there's a smear of red lipstick on her teeth.

"Nope. That makes three weeks straight that she's found them, though." Theo hands Harriet a little mirror. "Fix your lipstick, honey."

"I was in a rush this morning. I overslept." Harriet takes the mirror.

"School is almost over, you can't have not noticed."

I walk off to math class, thinking hard. For the past couple of weeks, I've been receiving notes in my locker. Always on neon pink sticky notes, always in Sharpie. They're not rude or insulting, either, and that's the thing that's confusing me. The notes are beautiful, usually little bits of poems or quotes.

The first one was a quote from A Midsummer Night's Dream- 'Though she be but little, she is fierce'. Then there were poems, some that I recognized and some that Alex had to look up. I'm a bit flattered, to be honest, that someone likes me enough to leave me these. Theo and Harriet haven't seen anyone else with them, either.

I'm so busy thinking that I left the door to math class behind a hallway ago. I turn around and head back to Basic Geometry, the bane of my existence.

"Late again, Miss Laurens-Hamilton?" My math teacher sighs. "Let me guess, daydreaming again. Do you at least have your homework this time?"

I sheepishly produce a crumpled math packet, marked up in pencil. I think I got most of the answers wrong, and then spilled broccoli on the corner at dinner last night. "Sorry, Mr. Johnson."

He shakes his head. "You've got to put more focus into your schoolwork. I understand if you're busy, but three times in a row is below our school expectations. You need to bring your grade up."

"What's my average?" I shuffle my feet. Geometry has always been my worst subject.

"You currently have a C average. Progress reports go out next month, and if I was you, I would shape up before then." Mr. Johnson taps a stack of papers on his desk. "Take an extra-credit or two."

I sit down miserably, trying to figure out how to make an 'engaging visual model' for Geometry. I haven't had time for math what with Cinderella rehearsals. I was cast as the Autumn Fairy, and rehearsals are grueling.

Class drags on, and I try my best to keep up. I've never had much of a head for numbers, so it's a relief when the class ends and I can escape into the halls once more. Just have to gather my books and go home, and then pack my things and go to Harriet's house. I'm stopped in my tracks by the presence of another sticky note. All it says is, 'Turn around', so I do.

In front of me is a boy about my age, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. He's sitting in a wheelchair and smiling warmly up at me.

"Hello." His voice is soft, like that of someone who doesn't talk much.

"Hi," I respond, smiling back. I can't help it, his enthusiasm is infectious.

"My name is Philip. I'm a poet- I'm the one who's been leaving you these notes." He gestures at the pink Post-It in my hand. "I'm also in your math class."

"Oh! Thank you so much, they're lovely." I open my locker and add it to the stack of notes.

"I was wondering- and you can say no- if you would want to maybe-" Philip sighs. "I can't speak the way I write."

"It's okay," I say, grabbing my backpack.

"If you would maybe want to go out with me?" He's blushing, and I'm sure I am, too.

I'm caught off guard. "I would love to!" The response sounds panicked even to my ears.

"If you don't want you, don't force yourself." Philip seems sad.

"What's wrong?" I level my gaze with his.

His voice is a little bitter when he responds. "It's because I'm in this chair, and you felt sorry for me. Well, isn't that right?"

"No! No, it's because-" I take a breath, trying to collect my thoughts. "I don't think you understand how happy those notes made me. No matter what kind of a day I was having, they'd be there. I loved reading the little quotes, especially those poems that even my dads couldn't name."

"Really? You liked those?" He brightens, looking a little happier. "I wrote them."

I'm suddenly speechless. The poems he left all seemed professional, fitting right in with the Emily Dickenson and Shakespeare. "They're fantastic." My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I check it quickly. "I've got to go home, but I'll see you on Monday. Thank you so much." Before I lose my nerve, I kiss him on the cheek and then run out the door.

See, today is Valentine's Day. John and Alex never have time to do anything special today, and they're working until seven each. It's six now, so I should have just enough time to get home. I'm planning to make them a romantic dinner, light the candles and everything, and then leave for Harriet's house just as they get home.

I woke up extra early to get everything ready- including garlic bread. All I have to do is pop it in the toaster oven (which I'm technically not supposed to do unattended, but I think it'll be forgiven this once) with the leftover chicken from last night, cook the pasta, and then leave before I'm spotted.

I get home at six fifteen, unlock the door with the key under the doormat, disarm the alarm code, and then run into the kitchen. Bread and chicken in the toaster oven, pasta on the stove. There's a nice tablecloth in the cupboard under the stairs, and candles under the sink. I'm going to use the nice plates that I'm not supposed to use.

I set the table, then pour cranberry juice into two fancy glasses. The oven timer dings, so I drain the pasta and then transfer everything to two plates. At six fifty-nine, Alex's car pulls into the driveway, followed by John's. I light the candles, dim the lights, dash out the back door with my bag to Harriet's house.