Robbie Marshall

FOR THE PAST COUPLE OF YEARS I’ve made a habit of ignoring Robbie Marshall. He’s gorgeous, but that’s exactly why I ignore him.

Like he needs one more girl fawning over him?

We used to be friendly but that was back in middle school. Back when he wasn’t afraid to be smart. Back before he grew into Robbie Marshall, gorgeous jock.

So in first period all the other girls in class paid attention to Robbie Marshall’s biceps, and I paid attention to Mrs. Fieldman’s math lesson. Mrs. Fieldman is a real pro. She’s clear and concise, and there’s no falling asleep in her class—she covers more material in a day than some teachers do in a week, and if you don’t pay attention, you can kiss a good grade goodbye.

After math I continued through my morning classes, slipping into the typical rhythm of a school day. But somewhere in the middle of third period I realized that I was doing what I’d been doing all year: focusing, taking notes, getting a jump on the homework. Fun was no part of the equation. I was certainly not living my fantasy!

So as third period wound down, I did something I never do—I packed up early, and when the bell rang, I bolted out of the classroom.

Apparently I’m a complete klutz at bolting from classrooms, because not only did I hurt my wrist, I managed to slam the door into someone walking by.

Someone who turned out to be… Robbie Marshall.

“Sorry!” I said, turning beet red.

“No problem,” he replied.

And then he smiled at me.

Diamonds seemed to dance between his lips as he gazed at me. His eyes twinkled smoky gray. His hair looked like it had been combed through with sunshine.

Then he was gone.

But just like that, my fantasy found a direction.

A destination.

I staggered to my fourth-period class, out of breath and (granted) out of my mind. Suddenly all I could see was Robbie Marshall’s face.

All through Miss Ryder’s American-lit lecture I fantasized about Robbie Marshall.

His eyes.

His smile.

His lips.

I didn’t concentrate on my classwork, didn’t scrutinize the red comments on the essay Miss Ryder passed back. By the end of class my chance collision with the school’s most gorgeous jock was completely entwined with my newfound desire to live my fantasy

It had all become perfectly clear.

I needed to kiss Robbie Marshall.

About the Author

WENDELIN VAN DRAANEN spent many years as a classroom teacher and is now a full-time writer. She is the author of many award-winning books, including the Sammy Keyes mysteries, Swear to Howdy, Runaway, and Confessions of a Serial Kisser.

Ms. Van Draanen lives with her husband, two sons, and two dogs in California. Her hobbies include the “three R’s”: reading, running, and rock ’n’ roll.

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