Alix Evanston was presenting in history class today, and I was absolutely fascinated.

It's not fair, really. Nobody should be allowed to look that good while blathering on so eloquently about medieval history, not even her. But she is. And it never fails to rope me in and superglue my focus on her. Not to the points she may be making, or the way she makes them. Just her. Alix Evanston. Those eyes probably have something to do with it, though, like full blue moons straight from an ad for contact lenses. But I'm sure her eyes are naturally so, because they've been that way for as long as I remember imprisonment in school with her And surely no responsible parents would let their eight-year-old child wear contact lenses.

Full blue moons. I like that—I should write it down, to be recycled for English class. The double meanings would score extra points with Mr. Garrison. Full blue moons—large and glowing and… gorgeous. Duh. I mean, Alix Evanston is the hottest girl in our class.

Whoops. I shouldn't have called her that. Hot is what guys call girls out of sheer raging testosterone. What a shallow word. Hot means perfect curves—the bigger the better—and flirty, sexy everything drenched with estrogen. The rest of my gender succumbed to hormones around seventh grade. But thankfully, I somehow managed to avoid blinding myself to the fact that there is more to a girl than what she looks like in her bikini. This intelligent, caring beauty named Alix Evanston did not deserve to be degraded by those three little letters, h-o-t. Goheno anim, meleth, I thought. Forgive me, love.

Crap. Too late, I realized the Sindarin had actually come out my mouth. I glanced around to see if either of the guys sitting beside me had heard. Any high schooler, comatose, high, sober or otherwise, could instantly figure out that what I had just murmured to myself was not French, not German and certainly not Spanish. They would know that I was being me. Which is not a good thing. A confession of uttering Sindarin Elvish in a high school classroom is complete suicide. I've been down that room before. Let's refer to Exhibit A, shall we? The day I first saw Mr. Garrison in the hallway, innocent little frosh that I was, the first thing to jump out of my mouth was Gandalf's name.

Yeah. I mistook a barmy old English teacher for Gandalf.

Oh, no, please don't apologize for your hysterical laughter as the tears pour down your cheeks. Your reaction is perfectly normal; many of my peers did the exact same thing when they heard of my tragic mishap with my own bumbling mouth. You, dear reader, have naught to apologize for.

Crap. There I go again with the Tolkien-esque dialogue.

I really need to get a grip on myself. The entire freaking school, from last year's alumni to the eighth graders soon to join our ranks in federal prison, knows that J.R.R. Tolkien is my homeboy. I don't need to advertise it.

You can stop laughing at the 'homeboy' thing now.

See? That is what happens when I try to be cool. Looks and style can only do so much for me.

It certainly doesn't help that, coincidentally, I happen to share my last name with Aragorn's movie actor. Yep, that's me. Edrian Mortensen. Spelled the exact same way, too. But I can guarantee that I am of no relation to Viggo. Come to think of it, though, I wouldn't mind having Legolas for my best friend. We would make a great team, he and I together. Legolas would have his bow and long white knives, and I could take down Orcs with a hockey stick. Alix Evanston would be my beloved Arwen… which brings me back to those eyes of hers.

Let's see—what was the other meaning behind 'full blue moons'? Oh, right. Rarity, that's what I was thinking. Nobody sees eyes like Alix Evanston's in the average generation. You see them but once in a blue moon. Hence, full blue moons. Wow. Does she put that stuff on her eyelashes like the other girls do? They're just so dark and lush, so Alix Evanston—

"Edrian, would you like to offer your thoughts on Alix's presentation?"

Crap. I could not remember a single syllable of what she said in those glorious three minutes. Crap. Crap. Crap. How do I bull-crap my way out of this one?

I cleared my throat to drive away any late, lingering voice cracks. Though I (mercifully) was mostly finished with the whole growing thing, my greatest fear for the last four and a half years of my life was to have my voice crack at such a crucial time as this. Mr. Edwards was looking at me. Even more unnerving, Alix Evanston was looking at me. And my entire class was watching the scene about to unfold.

"Uh, it was really well-thought-out," I offered, searching for one thing, just one thing I may have remembered from Alix's presentation. I'd been staring at her most of the time. "I don't know if anyone else really noticed this, and I'm sure it doesn't count for much in History class." I laughed, a small and pathetic attempt under the heat from those sweet eyes of hers. Um, ah, er. Is that all you have to say, Edrian? Oh, you shut up. I'm commenting on a presentation over here! By a girl! A very pretty, smart, caring girl who has kept me bound to her humor and siren spell since eighth grade! "But, um, you were very poised while you spoke. I liked that."

Man, that was close. But I think I pulled it off! The danger was not in Mr. Edwards potentially smelling a load of bull crap in my comment, but the whole poise thing. I was talking about Alix Evanston's body in front of our entire history class. I was commenting on what that body had been doing. Which meant I had been staring at her body. In class. I may be bad at math, but I do know one equation: teenaged boy eyes plus teenaged girl body equals extreme tightening of the pants for him. This is NOT something you want to have happen in the middle of school.

To my utter relief, Edwards nodded. "History class or not, this was an oral presentation, and it was graded as such. Very nice, Alix. That will serve you well."

Applause, albeit without enthusiasm, began to trickle through the classroom. Alix thanked Edwards, almost dipping a small curtsy before turning to me. For the briefest instant, her eyes met mine. "Thanks, Edrian," she said. Alix Evanston had a queer way of almost sparkling when she spoke, let alone smiled. And of course, she smiled at me quickly before taking her seat.

I watched the front of her sweatshirt helplessly as she moved. It wasn't the embroidered Aéropostale label that had caught my attention, either. And I swore I could smell fresh green and white perfume as she passed my seat, the sort of Elven perfume I just knew Arwen would have had floating about her.

Ah, Undómiel, the twilight star. Maybe it was the collection of sparkly studs in her ears, glittering so demurely under the cruel fluorescents. But aside from the whole mortal-immortal, dying-of-grief thing, I could just see Alix Evanston playing Arwen to my Aragorn at prom…and beyond.

Oh, well. A guy can dream, can't he?