Amy Wooldridge

"It's the first day of the school year." Amy Wooldridge echoes as she, shoulders slouched, slinks through a buzzing crowd of students to get to her seat. Doing so, she passes a couple and is forced to bottle up her disgust and jealousy. Amy Wooldridge feels queasy and hot with anger as she emerges from the hive of students, "How could they let themselves be seen swathed in such offensive attire," she continues, "I'd be torn apart by embarrassment." She smirks but her smile fades as she sinks into her newly assigned seat—directly in the back of the class. With her last glimmer of hope for the year, she looks over to the desk next to her but scoffs. It's empty.
Amy Wooldridge's about to lay her head on the desk when the last student enters—вы, making her sit aright in shock. As he made his way to his seat, Amy Wooldridge's eyes couldn't leave his adonic visage. Every step he took was graceful. His hair framed a face that seemed handcrafted by Lord Himself. High cheekbones, a perfectly sculpted nose, and lips that hinted at a mischievous smile—it was a sight that took her breath away. As he neared, Amy Wooldridge tore her gaze away with an effort; her dilated pupils now fixed on the floor. Her fingers twisted nervously beneath her desk as he placed himself alongside her.
"P-Pardon me, sir-" Amy Wooldridge faces вы, a blush she can't control creeping up her cheeks.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you yet." She extends her hand tentatively with a friendly smile.
"I'm Amy Wooldridge." Her outstretched hand trembles slightly, and her eyes don't quite meet вы's.