2 years ago.

"Mi amor." It was almost a whisper. "It's time, Claire. Let's go."

I always had a lot of trouble getting up from bed to go to school in the morning. A classic dilemma. Most of the time I'd stay up all night doing God-knows-what, ignoring the inevitability of not wanting to leave bed the next day.

Luckily my mom served as a good alarm clock. I never really understood how she had the patience to call on me some twenty times in the least without losing her mind or how I never truly appreciated it while she still did it.

"It's late," she reminded. "Go take a bath."

I did. I remember that day almost perfectly. 30 minutes later, after quickly straightening my hair, putting on mascara, and choosing an outfit, we left for school. It was February, a few days away from Valentine's Day. I believe it was that day that I began to fall in love with Sean Foster.

I didn't know it then, but I'd be willing to give him my whole heart and more in the future. Now that I think about it, it was seriously so incredibly stupid. An insignificant middle-school girl drama. I was 14, and he was 16, a sophomore. My mom warned me about it.

That day, my friends and I were sitting on the bleachers in the afternoon, watching the football practice take place in the large sunlit field. I was next to Hannah, my best friend. She was fourteen as well, wearing blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and those worn-out sneakers she wore every single day to school, no matter how dirty they were. Her hair was messy as it's always been, so badly straightened and heat-damaged, it almost looked like a puff ball from the distance. But she didn't care. Boys still went after her, frizzy hair or not.

Anyway, Hannah used to have this "game" where we would picture ourselves with a hot boy of our choice and say what we would do if we were all alone with them in a dark room.

"So... Conrad Chase. Go!" She smirked, her eyes opened wide with mischief, intrigued with what my answer could be. She started the game and, well, 8 grade me did not feel remotely comfortable playing it. I never even thought about boys that way back then. Imagining myself being all alone with an older, hot guy doing the "things" Hannah talked about made me cringe so hard.

"Um... I don't know. What would you do?" That would be my answer all the time. I didn't like that game. I felt too innocent. But Hannah wanted to do it, which meant I had no choice but to play along.

They say that, in criminal partners, there's always the dominant one, who gives out orders and pretty much leads the other one around, and the submissive one, who's there only to follow the dominant. In my relationship with Hannah, she was the dominant one and there was no doubt about it. I always followed her around like her little dog, played along with her jokes, did basically everything she told me to do, even if I didn't feel good about it or didn't want to. And I looked up to her. Always. She was my god when it came to teenage girls. My personality was based entirely on how much I tried to be like her.

When I asked her what she would do, the classic, sneaky Hannah smile would creep across her face. I kind of had an idea of what she would say beforehand.

"I mean, look at him. He's so hot but he looks so shy and innocent. I love it when they're like that. There's so much more to corrupt." And then she'd laugh.

Did I mention we were fourteen years old?

I forced out a laugh. "Uh, yeah. Totally."

I guess I should've known that's what Hannah ever really liked. Corrupting people.

The juniors and sophomores were always hanging out in the field back then, a pleasant sight for us middle schoolers of Madison Greene (Middle School and High School). They knew we liked watching them, so every once in a while a few of them would agree to take off their shirts (because of the heat. Why else, right?) right in front of us and watch us gawking at them. Maybe it was because they were older, but the effect those boys had on us younger girls was just insane.

Sean Foster was one of those boys. And casually, that day, he was shirtless.

"Well, well, would you look at that view," Hannah commented at the sight. I said nothing, just stared and tried my best not to squirm in my seat. Then, she would look at me with her playful smirk.

"Oh, I know you're going crazy at this."

I was. Among all the other boys in that field, Sean was like an angel, with tanned skin glowing under the sun, a gorgeous smile, and disheveled sweaty hair that jumped around as he ran. That was the first time I saw him, and I could've sworn for my life that I felt something click in the air the second we made eye contact. Kind of like in movies. The atmosphere changed and the world started spinning a little slower, as if the universe had conspired to give us both more time to consume each other in that moment.

"I think I already know who you'd take to the bedroom," Hannah wiggled her eyebrows and nudged me in the ribs, smiling like an idiot.

I pushed her away softly, breaking eye contact with Sean. "Stop it." I looked everywhere else but at him, my heart was beating fast, fast, fast.

"Even your hands are all sweaty, now." She played around with them. "You sure are feeling hot right now, aren't ya?"

My dad calls me Sweaty Hands. Not because I get them whenever I felt anxious, but because I have them all the damn time. Seriously. My hands are wet all the time. I'm not joking. Even when I'm completely calm and not nervous at all, my hands are still sweaty. It amuses him. He used to say I got it from my Mom, since she shared that same problem with me. I guess that's why I never really liked holding hands. It made me feel incredibly self-conscious.

Hannah finally backed off. "You would sooo do it with him, wouldn't you?" I didn't answer, just looked at my shoes, avoiding Sean's gaze from across the field. Why was he staring at me so much?

"Come on! What would you do, Claire?" She insisted.

I finally looked up. He was talking to his friends, but he would still occasionally fix his gaze on me. Not Hannah, who was the prettiest and most popular girl in the eighth grade. Me.

"I would kiss him." The words tumbled out of my mouth without realization. I mean, that's all I could think about when I saw him. I would kiss him and play around with his hair, hold him in my arms.

"Oh my God, yes," Hannah agreed loudly. "I would kiss him so hard, our lips would be all swollen in the end. He's the hottest guy in the entire high school." She started to scan him deeply from head to toe, and now he was looking at her. My stomach churned. He whispered something at his friends, and now they were all looking at us from across the field.

I didn't like the idea of Hannah kissing Sean. It made me jealous. It was the first time I had seen him and I instantly knew that I liked him. Was that possible?

"Do you think he has a girlfriend or something?" Hannah asked. I noticed how she was playing with her hair and acting flirtier than usual.

I shrugged. How could a guy like him not have a girlfriend? He must have thousands of girls swooning after him, so many girls to choose from.

And then, I lifted my head up and I saw him smile in my direction. Our direction. God. That smile was stunning. Like the smile of a prince. Like the moment the sun starts to rise in the morning. I felt frozen in place as Hannah discretely nudged my arm and smiled back at him.

What's funny is that that same morning, my mom gave me one of her usual boy talks on our way to school. Those days it felt like that was all she ever spoke to me about. Something about being prepared for when I grow up. I never really paid attention to any of it.

She told me to never fall vulnerable to any boy at this age. They weren't going to treat me well. I told her that she couldn't be sure about that. Not all boys are the same.

"At your age, they are, Claire," she told me softly. She always spoke like that, softly.

My mom was the biggest mystery I never got to crack in my life. From what I could observe, other girls' moms were fun, outgoing, and smiling all the time. Most girls I knew thought of their mom as their best friend, someone they could confide in, go shopping with, laugh with. Someone they could really just get along with.

My mom rarely ever smiled. The only times I would hear her laugh was when she watched stupid movies with my dad and me, like Bridesmaids or that Norbit movie. Or when she would tell us funny anecdotes about her family back in Mexico. The only times I would see her smile was when my dad showed her the paintings he made of her and me. Or when she was listening to her favorite Spanish songs while driving in the car. She tried to hide it, but I never failed to notice how she did that every single time.

She would force a smile when I excitedly showed her my good grades in Elementary School. Sometimes, we'd both lay at the hammock in our back yard at night, with the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the warm breeze blowing gently at our faces. She'd tell me stories and close her eyes, but she would never grin or smile or anything. I never understood why she didn't. Her smile was beautiful. Not like mine.

She warned me so much about boys at my age. That's all she ever did. And yet, all that advice and all those anecdotes were completely banished away from my memory the second I met Sean Foster.

Now I'm left to wonder why.