Sweet Dandelion

Again, I don’t give a response.

“What’s your name?”

I sigh. I hate telling people my name, people usually laugh thinking I’m kidding.

“D—”

“Dandelion Meadows?”

I close my eyes, raising my hand. “It’s Dani,” I tell the teacher.

She marks me off on her roster.

“Dandelion Meadows,” the guy, Ansel, muses leaning back in the chair. “Interesting name.”

The chair squeaks against the tile floor when I move. “It’s a name like any other.”

“Definitely not like any other.”

Our conversation is hushed, but I’m sure Mrs. Kline will notice at some point.

“Your name is Ansel,” I accuse. “That’s hardly normal.”

“My dad is French, so my parents wanted me to have a French name.”

“Can you speak French?” I level my eyes on him, trying to listen to what the teacher is saying, because God knows I’m not advanced when it comes to any type of art.

“Quels sont tes parents?”

“Hippies, they were hippies.”

“Tu parles François?”

“Juste un peu.”

“Je suis i

mpressionné.”

“Merci.”

Switching to English, he holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Dandelion Meadows.”

“Dani. Just Dani.”

He smiles, his sharp cheekbones softening with the gesture. Sliding my hand into his, he gives mine a shake.

“Welcome to Aspen Lake High, home of the Jaguars.”

“Ansel. Dandelion.” Mrs. Kline narrows her deadly gaze on us. “Quiet or I’ll move you.”

“It’s Dani,” I reply automatically. She doesn’t even hear me. Admittedly, I don’t speak too loudly.

Ansel blows a kiss at her and tilts the chair back, lifting his legs onto the table and crossing them at the ankles.

She shakes her head, turning back to the chalkboard where she’s writing down different styles of drawing and painting.

“You seem to get away with a lot.”