(…continued)

I can’t believe it! Day #4 and I almost forgot! It’s after midnight. I’m rarely up this late. But I have to do this, so here goes…

(Continued from Day #1) 

Jake was drop-dead gorgeous, at least to Flora. He was more Peeta Malark than Hunger Games-Gale, strong but gentle, capable and kind. From her window, Flora observed him talking with the old Mrs. Jackson from next door. He made the old lady smile, and she unconsciously attempted to straighten her curved back while talking to Jake, as if trying to become a younger version of herself. It was something to behold. No one made Mrs. Jackson smile! He even helped her bring in groceries. He mowed not only his own lawn but her lawn on Saturday mornings, along with several others in the neighborhood. Good spending money, thought Flora. And good relations.

Jake’s house was across the street and down one, a pretty blue thing with white shutters and a front porch with a rocking swing that was in direct sight from her bedroom window. The funny thing was that she rarely saw anyone else besides Jake enter or leave the house. Occasionally, a man pulled a car into the driveway and took out from the trunk a suitcase and briefcase before going into the house. She presumed this was Jake’s father. He must travel for work, but she didn’t know what he did. The car was gone more often than it was parked there. 

She never saw Jake’s mother. Well, one time, looking up from reading on her window seat, she saw Jake and the man escorting a frail-looking woman to the car. She shuffled like an old person, but she had long blond hair. The woman jumped back a little when squirrels chittered loudly in the tree in front of their house. She looked up, eyes wide. It was scary, the look in her eyes, as if she had never seen a squirrel before, as if they were chittering just to frighten her. Her face, Flora realized, was fairly young. She looked like she was younger than Flora’s mother. 

Flora replayed that moment over and over in her head. Could that be Jake’s mother? And if so, what was wrong with her?

Other girls at school noticed Jake too. Even though Flora was only on campus two days out of the five—with the rest home studies—she saw. She observed lots of things that others didn’t, the result, undoubtedly, of living life by looking out windows most of the time. Girls giggled as they passed Jake in the hallway. They glanced at him sideways in classrooms. He was that handsome. If he had been a Greek sculpture, Jake Di Meola would’ve been a kouros, which Flora learned about in World History, a statue that embodied the ideal of youthful male beauty. He was Michelangelo’s David. He could’ve dated any girl he wanted to. But Jake stuck to himself. He had a smile for everyone as he passed them in the hallways, but he walked home alone every day. Jake was a mystery. Like Flora. Except his brand of mystery made him desirable, while hers seemed to make everyone else uncomfortable.

Like a statue in a museum, Jake Di Meola could only be admired from afar. Flora accepted that she might never be near him, might never utter a word to him. But that was okay, really. What if he emitted some odor that ruined his perfection forever? Though in her imagination, he smelled subtly sweet, like a single cherry blossom and slightly robust like mild sandalwood.