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he wasn’t even trying to be polite. Least he could do was speak to me, concede that I existed. So my question was in the same pretend-he’s-not-here category as his silent disregard.
    “Kirk Crenshaw,” Moose offered glancing curiously at his buddy.
    “He’s in my homeroom.” I’d just recognized him. “ Hey! You’re in my homeroom.” Let him ignore that. A thing that truly nettled me was disdain. It pounced against this thing inside me that simply must placate everyone. Fact was, I felt compelled to befriend every danged person I met and would, in fact, have taken them home with me had Daddy been more social-oriented.
    For the first time, the wheat blond head turned to acknowledge me and his hard mouth curved slightly, as if in amusement, or annoyance, I couldn’t tell which. “Yeah?” he muttered, as in “so what?” Little did I realize that he waved a red flag before me, with his Elk majesty and male mystique. I knew so little of myself in those young days that it was much later before I recognized what that flag represented. Challenge.
    Monday morning in homeroom, I watched Kirk Crenshaw’s brisk entrance just before the bell. His carriage
bordered on cocky. But wasn’t. His energetic presence affected me, as did his crisp, freshly pressed shirt and slacks – slacks that showcased firm buttocks and long slender legs. It wasn’t that he was all that good-looking, though with wavy sun-bleached hair, his rugged features weren’t bad. Kinda nice, I decided, in a tousled, inexplicable way. It was something in the way he moved, like harnessed steam, smooth yet forceful. Even the way he shoved his hands in his pockets, infinitely male, held me rapt.
    Later, a prickly ‘being watched’ sensation moved me to suddenly swivel in my desk to face the back of the room, catching Kirk’s study of me. Spring-green eyes, set amid olivecomplected features, startled me with their intensity, making my stomach turn over as a warm feeling trickled through me like summer branch water.
    I smiled. He smiled back, his gaze never wavering. Then a strange phenomenon occurred. The tough guy blushed. Yeah. He really did, though his eyes never left mine. And that blush changed my whole perspective of Kirk Crenshaw.
    Today, across the church, I smiled at him. He smiled back. De ja vu. Only this time, his blush was because a whole danged church full of villagers eyeballed him flirting with me.

    I moved down the aisle to a slightly out-of-tune piano’s rendering of the Wedding March, thankful for Daddy’s strong arm to hang on to. Else, I’d surely have tripped over the long gown or turned my ankle in Cal’s danged heels. All those eyes on me terrified me senseless. S crutiny – my worst scenario. The veil helped me feel a tad hidden, but each step was like those in a nightmare where one is partially paralyzed or mired up in quicksand. Even the lush greenery and white mum arrangements, vivid against the crimson velvet-dressed seats and floors of our little village church, blurred before me.
    Then, Callie’s wink caught my attention – her “ va va vooom , babyyy” one. And Trish gazed at me so dewy eyed you’d have thought I really was Cinderella in my borrowed Victorian cut finery. Moose – whose tux tugged in all the wrong places – looked ready to burst with joy, furiously swallowing back another yuk-yukk.

    Kirk – well, Kirk’s hot look instantly converted my cold fear into anticipation.
    Soon, I stood at the altar and Daddy placed my hand in Kirk’s, rushing tears to my eyes as I realized the significance of the gesture. Despite my father’s “under the thumb” controlling disposition, he’d always been a good, caring daddy. At least I knew Daddy, could predict him almost to the T. He was actually giving me away. What – I wondered in a heartbeat of panic – was I trading him for ?
    Kirk’s strong fingers squeezed mine, almost painfully, revealing his own state of nerves. And a certain danger. Adrenaline