KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

Just stay in bed, Sarah commanded herself. She rubbed her eyes tiredly, and let out a yawn. Glancing at the clock, she discovered it was a quarter past eight. The seventeen year-old let out an angry groan and jerked the covers over her head.

The knocking persisted, this time louder. Just ignore it, Sarah told herself, trying her best to drift back off to sleep. KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! "Somebody get the door," Michael, her little brother, called out groggily from his room down the hall.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Sarah, please get that!"

"Fuck you, Michael! Get it yourself. I'm sick."

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

"Just get it, Sarah."

"Alright, fine!"

The teen slumped to her feet. She then quickly ran a brush through her messy black hair before struggling into the fuzzy pink bathrobe her mother had purchased for her almost a year ago. Sarah made her way out into the hallway, and promptly slipped on her brother's baseball glove. "Oh!" She lost her footing and tumbled to the carpet. Her elbow exploded in fresh pain. "You need to pick your shit up!" With a frustrated grunt she heaved the leather glove at Michael's door. It connected solidly with a low 'thunk'.

"Little asshole," she muttered under her breath. Downstairs, the knocking grew louder. "I'm coming!" she cried.

Standing at the door, much to her surprise, was a handsome and well-bred young man. Wow. He's cute. "Sorry to bother you so early," he began. He was soft-spoken. "Um, my name is Peter, and I live across the lake. Mrs. Culver sent me. She ran out of eggs. Would you happen to have some that she could borrow?"

He wore black Vans, with matching black golf shorts, and white short-sleeved Polo shirt with white golf gloves. His dirty blond hair was long and untidy. His face was round, boyish, and cute. But his most striking feature was his eyes: dark and intense.

"Um, yeah. I think. How many does she need?"

"Three."

"Okay, hold on a sec."

"Thank you very much," Peter murmured shyly.

Sarah disappeared into her family's cramped kitchen, and opened the fridge. Mom really needs to go shopping, she thought, her eyes scanning the near-empty shelves. A tub of butter. A gallon of milk. Some cans of Coke. But that was it. No eggs.

"Are you out of eggs?" Peter asked loudly. He now lingered in the kitchen doorway.

"Yeah. My mom hasn't gone shopping yet. Tell Mrs. Culver I'm sorry, okay?"

Peter looked puzzled. "Are you sure?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked if you -"

"Yeah. I'm sure. Now can you please go?"

"Oh," Peter said, blushing furiously. "That . . . that was very rude of me. I should have taken your word. I'm sorry I had to bother you so early."

"It's okay. It was nice meeting you We should hang out sometime, if you want."

Peter grinned. "Okay. I would enjoy that."

"Um, shouldn't you be getting back to Mrs. Culver now?"

Peter blushed furiously. Why are you being so hard on him? He's gonna think you're a bitch. Cool it.

"Yeah, I suppose. Sorry."

"It's okay. I'm just a little tired."

Peter nodded. "I understand."

"Tubby, did you get the eggs?"

Sarah froze. Another one? But . . . . . wasn't Peter alone when I answered the door?

Peter cocked his head in the direction of the second voice. "No. She said she was out."

The voice belonged to a handsome, tall young man, who looked about a year older than Peter.

"I'm Paul," the cute boy said, introducing himself.