––––––––
If Bobby DeLuca was the Sun, Newton would describe Lola as a planet caught in his orbit.
In Trigonometry, instead of calculating the hypotenuse of a triangle using the Pythagorean theorem, she daydreamed about kissing Bobby’s pink lips.
She spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about her hair. Was it shiny enough? Would Bobby prefer her hair to smell like coconuts or lilac? Time better spent on her robotics experiments.
Lola wanted to be an astronaut more than anything else. Her report card was flawless—NASA would accept nothing less—until she bombed her physics quiz.
Bobby sat behind her in class that fateful day. Freshly showered after practice and sporting his varsity jacket, he reeked of leather and Irish Spring. Drunk on his roguish smell, Lola simply forgot that
