“I mean, what good is a women's lib if we can't use it to ask guys to dances?”

“What do you see in a guy like Christian Prescott?" he asked me that night when he dropped me off from prom. And what he was really saying then, what would have come through loud and clear if I hadn't been so blind was, why don't you see me?”

“Okay,” I say again. It seems that I’ve been reduced to single syllables by a single touch. Maybe Angela’s right. Maybe the swoony hand-holding in my vision means that part of my purpose means getting this really hot guy as my boyfriend. That wouldn’t suck.”

“What should I do?" I ask."You should have a really good excuse. And maybe you should cry -- girls do that, right? And possibly be gravely injured. If she has to fix you, she might go easier on you.”

“I'm tired of this 'we better lay low, or someone will figure out we're different' crap. I mean, it's not like if I win a match people are going to say, who's that kid, he's a really good wrestler, he must be an angel.”

“What we have is divine. It's beautiful and good and right. I feel it..." He presses his his hand to his chest, over his heart. "I feel it all the time. You're in here, part of me. You're what I go to bed thinking about and what I wake up to in the morning.”

“How's happiness class going, by the way?""Okay, so far.""Are you feeling happy?" he asks with the hint of a smirk.I shrug. "The professor says that happiness is wanting what you have."Christian makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "I see. Happiness is wanting what you have. Well, there you go. So what's the problem, then?""What do you mean?""Why is the class only okay?""Oh." I bit my lip, then confess. "Every time I meditate, I start glowing.”