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Description
            There was something on her forehead, right smack dab in the middle, but from where I stood, I couldn't figure it out. She kept turning away to speak with her friends, punctuating her words with overzealous arm motions. All I saw was something small and shiny stuck to her forehead, and she–whoever 'she' was—seemed oblivious of it. It was a gold star, the points losing its adhesive from natural wear, and whatever dust or lint had started to collect. I discovered this as she waltzed right up to me, undeterred by the fact that she hadn't a clue who I was (to the best of my knowledge), or the fact that I'd been point-blank staring at her.

            "It's because I'm special. Want one?" Her voice sounded like the wind chimes I used to be so fascinated with at my grandmothers—I'd always get in trouble for tangling the strings when they didn't make a satisfactory orchestra and I took it upon myself to aid them. Each word was a different note being played by the wind, melding together to compose nature's masterpiece, like Beethoven's 9th, or some such. She held out a small sheet of stickers, stars of different colors, the kind I remember trying desperately to impress my teacher to receive, a badge of pride amongst my eager-to-please comrades of years past—also known as kindergarten. Most of the gold ones were missing. A simple glance over her shoulder revealed their whereabouts; the group of people she'd skipped away from sported wilting stars on shining cheeks and foreheads and noses with several more clinging to their shirts. So many of them were joined in this peculiar practice, yet it was only her shining star that caught my eye. Even in my head, it sounds corny.

            I returned to the matter at hand, this life-or-death question; did I, too, want to bask in the glory of a star-shaped sticker? This strange girl was seemingly content with waiting, small hands extended with the sheet clutched between her marker-stained fingers, and this dorky little grin on her face. She nudged it a little closer.

            With a polite smile, I peeled a green star from the sheet and made a move to place it on my chest. She snatched it from me before I could blink, and she gave me a look common of mothers reprimanding their children: brows knitted, eyes squinted while waging a finger in her child's face, but that tiny curve of the lips that indicated she didn't really mean it.

            "If you want the star, you have to put it on your forehead." My eyes traveled upwards in an attempt to see the green star now nestled between my brows.

            "...Thanks." Stupid, I know. But that half-hearted appreciation was all I could muster. She threw a nasty curve ball simply by being. Her lips broke into the biggest grin I'd ever seen. Her front tooth was chipped, but that minor imperfection made her that much more wonderful. Just as suddenly as she'd stopped me in my tracks, she flittered off back to her friends, jumping right back into conversation without missing a beat. Without really thinking, or realizing that I'd moved forward, I put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she blinked, slowly turning my way.

            "Yes?" she asked with her head tilted, and all the benevolence of a saint twinkling in her eyes. I'm sure I made a fool of myself, having gotten her attention to ask a question I hadn't thought of yet.

            "Um...what's your name?" Lame, but a legitimate question. That spark in her eye turned mischievous.

            "What do you think it is?"

            "I'm not sure, that's why I'm asking."

            "What name would you give me?"

            What sort of question was that? I scrambled to think of something, and failed miserably.

            "Star."

            "That's a lame name. Come back when you have something cooler."

            She turned back to those she was conversing with. I didn't budge, thoroughly flabbergasted by this unusual girl. What would it take to impress her?

            "Belle maladresse," I blurted out. It meant 'beautiful awkwardness' in French. Why French? I could hardly ask where the bathroom was in the language of love, let alone scrape together two adjectives that could describe this anomaly of humankind standing before me.

            "What's that mean?" I saw dandelions when she spoke, the little white tufts drifting on a breeze.  I bet she wished on them all the time. I wondered what it would be like to laze about under cloudless blue skies with her. She'd make a crown of flowers for me, and I'd cradle her against my chest as she talked of things I'd never heard of.

            "I'm not telling. Make a name for me, Madamoiselle Maladresse." She pursed her lips, taping her index finger on her chin, and rocking back and forth of the balls of her feet

            "Mezurashii ren'ai. Mezu-kun for short." She stated this with a little matter-of-fact nod and a subtle curve of the lips. I lofted a brow, trying to discern if that was a real language or not. Don't quote me, but I think it was Japanese.

            "What's that mean?" I knew she wouldn't tell me, but I had to ask. It would be years before I found out she'd claimed me as her 'unusual love.'

            "You'll know when we get there."

Description
            There was something on her forehead, right smack dab in the middle, but from where I stood, I couldn't figure it out. She kept turning away to speak with her friends, punctuating her words with overzealous arm motions. All I saw was something small and shiny stuck to her forehead, and she–whoever 'she' was—seemed oblivious of it. It was a gold star, the points losing its adhesive from natural wear, and whatever dust or lint had started to collect. I discovered this as she waltzed right up to me, undeterred by the fact that she hadn't a clue who I was (to the best of my knowledge), or the fact that I'd been point-blank staring at her.

            "It's because I'm special. Want one?" Her voice sounded like the wind chimes I used to be so fascinated with at my grandmothers—I'd always get in trouble for tangling the strings when they didn't make a satisfactory orchestra and I took it upon myself to aid them. Each word was a different note being played by the wind, melding together to compose nature's masterpiece, like Beethoven's 9th, or some such. She held out a small sheet of stickers, stars of different colors, the kind I remember trying desperately to impress my teacher to receive, a badge of pride amongst my eager-to-please comrades of years past—also known as kindergarten. Most of the gold ones were missing. A simple glance over her shoulder revealed their whereabouts; the group of people she'd skipped away from sported wilting stars on shining cheeks and foreheads and noses with several more clinging to their shirts. So many of them were joined in this peculiar practice, yet it was only her shining star that caught my eye. Even in my head, it sounds corny.

            I returned to the matter at hand, this life-or-death question; did I, too, want to bask in the glory of a star-shaped sticker? This strange girl was seemingly content with waiting, small hands extended with the sheet clutched between her marker-stained fingers, and this dorky little grin on her face. She nudged it a little closer.

            With a polite smile, I peeled a green star from the sheet and made a move to place it on my chest. She snatched it from me before I could blink, and she gave me a look common of mothers reprimanding their children: brows knitted, eyes squinted while waging a finger in her child's face, but that tiny curve of the lips that indicated she didn't really mean it.

            "If you want the star, you have to put it on your forehead." My eyes traveled upwards in an attempt to see the green star now nestled between my brows.

            "...Thanks." Stupid, I know. But that half-hearted appreciation was all I could muster. She threw a nasty curve ball simply by being. Her lips broke into the biggest grin I'd ever seen. Her front tooth was chipped, but that minor imperfection made her that much more wonderful. Just as suddenly as she'd stopped me in my tracks, she flittered off back to her friends, jumping right back into conversation without missing a beat. Without really thinking, or realizing that I'd moved forward, I put a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she blinked, slowly turning my way.

            "Yes?" she asked with her head tilted, and all the benevolence of a saint twinkling in her eyes. I'm sure I made a fool of myself, having gotten her attention to ask a question I hadn't thought of yet.

            "Um...what's your name?" Lame, but a legitimate question. That spark in her eye turned mischievous.

            "What do you think it is?"

            "I'm not sure, that's why I'm asking."

            "What name would you give me?"

            What sort of question was that? I scrambled to think of something, and failed miserably.

            "Star."

            "That's a lame name. Come back when you have something cooler."

            She turned back to those she was conversing with. I didn't budge, thoroughly flabbergasted by this unusual girl. What would it take to impress her?

            "Belle maladresse," I blurted out. It meant 'beautiful awkwardness' in French. Why French? I could hardly ask where the bathroom was in the language of love, let alone scrape together two adjectives that could describe this anomaly of humankind standing before me.

            "What's that mean?" I saw dandelions when she spoke, the little white tufts drifting on a breeze.  I bet she wished on them all the time. I wondered what it would be like to laze about under cloudless blue skies with her. She'd make a crown of flowers for me, and I'd cradle her against my chest as she talked of things I'd never heard of.

            "I'm not telling. Make a name for me, Madamoiselle Maladresse." She pursed her lips, taping her index finger on her chin, and rocking back and forth of the balls of her feet

            "Mezurashii ren'ai. Mezu-kun for short." She stated this with a little matter-of-fact nod and a subtle curve of the lips. I lofted a brow, trying to discern if that was a real language or not. Don't quote me, but I think it was Japanese.

            "What's that mean?" I knew she wouldn't tell me, but I had to ask. It would be years before I found out she'd claimed me as her 'unusual love.'

            "You'll know when we get there."