I didn't expect this feeling to hit me like a dodgeball to the gut during Mr. Johnson's epic history lecture on, like, the bubonic plague or something. Jessica, who usually doodles unicorns with butterfly wings in her notebook, was taking actual notes. And for some reason, the way the light hit the highlighter in her hair – it was like a sunset exploding in a highlighter factory.

My stomach did a weird flip, and I swear my notebook started sweating. This wasn't normal. Jessica had been my best friend since kindergarten, the kind of friend who shared her Dunkaroos and helped you cheat on pop quizzes (shhh, don't tell Mom). But suddenly, Dunkaroos seemed, well, childish. Now, all I craved was the courage to ask her if highlighter sunsets happened to everyone or just me.

The bell shrieked, jolting me back to reality. Jessica, ever the blur of sunshine and freckles, grabbed her bag. "Hey, you coming to get frozen yogurt?"

My voice cracked like a deflating balloon. "Uh, yeah, sure." Except, yogurt suddenly felt lame. Like, first-date lame. My palms were slick, and I swear I could hear a mariachi band playing in my head. This was bad. Jessica was my best friend, and now my stomach did flips whenever highlighter light danced in her hair. Was this, like, cooties? Or worse, actual liking? The kind that involved sweaty palms and mariachi music?

We walked side-by-side, the silence stretching between us like an awkward slow dance. Maybe liking Jessica as more than a friend was a terrible mistake. Maybe dodgeballs to the gut were preferable. But then, she stopped, a hesitant smile playing on her lips.

"Hey, Mark," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "The highlighter sunset thing? It happens to me too, sometimes."

The mariachi band went into overdrive. Maybe this liking thing wasn't so bad after all.