I heard the snap an instant before the sharp pain of a rubber-band hit the back of my head.
On instinct, I reached up and grasped at the projectile, pulling the offending object out of my hair. I blinked in confusion at the neon pink band laying oh-so innocently in my palm. Then, with a moment’s more hesitation, I turned my head slowly and peered behind me, searching subtlety for the shooter.
My heart skipped a beat when I found him, sitting in the back of the class room, a catty grin on his lips.  He was staring at me, his sharp-green eyes narrowed mischievously, and he waggled his fingers in mock-greeting when he saw me looking. A couple of snickers came from those of his friends surrounding him, and my face flushed red.
I faced the front of the classroom stiffly, bitting my lip and desperately trying to hide the spreading blush behind a curtain of my honey-brown hair. Another muffled snort came from behind me, and it was all I could do not to hunch my shoulders and to sink down in my seat.
A few moments later, and I felt the sting of another rubber-band. I did not turn around, forcing myself to nash my teeth and endure it, and to try and pay attention to the words the teacher was speaking at the front of the classroom.
There was a sound of desks moving and a couple of scuffling footsteps, and I heard a low chuckle sound from behind me as I stiffened to the tapping of a finger on my shoulder. My eyes darted to the teacher, who still droned endlessly on, oblivious to the switching of the seating order of her class. I sighed inwardly, and turned my head just slightly enough to see the person out of the corner of my eye, hoping to keep my expression bland and dispassionate. If only the flame in my cheeks would fade away, then maybe I might have a chance of achieving this.
It was the same boy from before, the shooter, still wearing that cocky smile and staring at me with those jealousy-green colored eyes. His head was tilted and with the hand that was poised as if ready to tap me again, he held a fistful of neon-colored rubber-bands.
“Hey, new-girl,” he whispered. “You’re cute.”
I stared at him. I stared at the piercing on his lip, the stud in his eyebrow, the dark, spiking black locks that were tipped in electric blue and stuck out in all directions. I stared at his pale hands, fingers tipped with shiny-black nail polish, and decorated with pewter colored rings. I stared at his black, ripped and torn t-shirt, his mesh sleeves, and his black bracelets and writs-bands. I stared at his nose. I stared at his forehead. I stared at his ears.
I looked anywhere but his eyes.
“I...I...” My voice stuttered, and a new flush was spreading across my pale skin.
“Aw.” The green-eyed shooter’s lips quirked up even more into a grin. “I think the cute new-girl has a crush on me.” Sarcastic snorts from around us told me that the statement was not directed towards me, and he glanced around the room with what looked like contempt. But then he was looking back at me, the devilry all too clear in his black-lashed, green eyes.
“Do you have a crush on me, new-girl?”
He leaned closer, close enough so that I could feel his lips against my ear as he whispered:
“’Cause I think I have a crush on you, cute new-girl.”