Disclaimer: I own naught.

A/N: Well, I am, in fact, back after a short disappearance from the Degrassi fanfiction world. Apologies if my writing totally sucks. Anyhow, I have officially gone insane – this is a Toby/Emma story. I do love those obscure, unimportant characters.

Composure

The letters on my computer screen appear in a flurry of clicking noises as my fingers pound against the keyboard. I take a moment to look around me. I'm the only person in the room paying attention to Mr. Simpson, which is kind of sad, but humidity of early September has sent everyone but me into a muggy haze. JT is sleeping next to me, his chin pressed against his chest. Manny and Darcy are giggling behind their hands. Heather Sinclair is poking and pinching at the bridge of her nose, which had miraculously straightened over the summer.

It's the beginning of the eleventh grade, and I'm dying. The air conditioner in the Media Immersion room is broken, and window's letting in more hot air than cold.

I drum my fingers lightly against the keyboard to make it seem as though I'm still typing away. I've given up being the only person in the class actually following Mr. Simpson's instructions. Even Liberty is slacking off. Granted, she's reading Wuthering Heights as if it's the most interesting piece of literature in the world, but still.

That's when I log onto the school website and into my D-Mail.

Homeroom: blue-105

Handle: wizkid

Password:

Enough waiting and hiding behind friendly smiles and thickly rimmed glasses.

My heart suddenly quickens as I dare myself to sneak a glance at her, even though I promised myself that I wouldn't. I have never felt this way about anyone before – not Kendra, not Liberty, with whom I thought I was in love in the third grade after she gave me a potted plant for my birthday...not anyone. Not even when I loved her in the seventh grade – her and her precious environment and big eyes and bad teeth and pedophiliac stalker.

Now, she has bangs and has straight, white teeth and an empty smile. All life had drained out of her after the shooting, after the Jay Incident, as she and Manny referred to it. I need to put the life back into it.

She was there for me when JT was being a total asshole and Rick was gone – when everyone was scared of me, temporarily, when they thought I was as crazy as Rick, just because we were friends. She was there, even though she was the one who had almost died. I love her for that.

Love her so much that I'm doing this.

Quickly, I click on "Compose" in my D-Mail account and type in sparklespaz as the recipient.

The word compose is defined as either to create or produce or to make (oneself) calm or tranquil. So, really, I need to make this good in order to have self-peace.

Now...I have to think. I don't want to sound corny. Just sincere.

Sincerity is the key to this.

Emma,
I just wanted to say that I love you. Not in a lustful, creepy way or anything. Just that I think you're wonderful. I hope you love me too. I mean, we've been friends for four years and I feel that this is the time for us to

No. No, no, no. Start over.

I delete everything. I've never written anything as important as the love letter I'm trying to compose by email. I'm supposed to be the geeky kid, right? I'm supposed to excel at written work. But this is possibly the hardest thing my fingers ever had to do.

Each email is increasingly desperate and LAME.

"Ugh!"

Out of the corner of my eyes, twenty three heads spin in my direction. Mr. Simpson stops mid-sentence.

"Problem, Mr. Isaacs?"

"No," I say. I give him a half-smile. "I keep spelling 'dementia' wrong. That's all."

Everyone turns around. My outburst isn't important enough for them to keep staring, wasting their eyeballs away on me. I turn towards my computer again. Emma, who was in the midst of chewing on her nails before I yelled, is looking at me a bit strangely. She notices me staring at her and gives me a small smile and a shrug.

My stomach is burning. I try again.

One more try.

I quickly type in a short message, sign my name, and, pinching my eyes shut for a second with the mouse hovering over the send button, click.

It's done.

Emma's eyebrows have disappeared into her hair. She gives me a quick glance and the same smile as earlier...but different somehow. It makes my heart clench in and out and I can't breathe.

Get a grip, Isaacs. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe.

Ding. The barely audible "you have mail" signal emits. Mr. Simpson's looking away. He doesn't notice anything.

I feel Emma's eyes on me. JT shifts beside me and makes little muffled noises to himself. The stifling heat in the room is almost unbearable – Emma still burning stares at me.

Emma,
I love you.
-Toby

Why did I write that? It was so...so vague, so brief. I feel so stupid now, because that's the way she makes me feel, sometimes. Stupid and clumsy – not like that hopeful feeling from the seventh grade. This is so, so different.

Look at her. Just do it!

My hands are sweaty and I wipe them on my pants. My breath shudders in and out and I'm scared – this is it. Either I win or lose. My heart might be crushed and ripped into shrapnels of organic tissue. Or something. If I were the type to be so graphically gory about feelings. Which I'm not. I don't think so, anyway. I look at her, because I can't take it anymore. I know I'm being such a fucking drama queen...king, but my life is pretty much on the line at this moment. My social well-being, anyway. And so, so much more.

She's smiling. Again, that lovely smile – the one that makes my heart somehow leap into my throat, burning and choking me. I secretly love the feeling. This is because she's smiling. So it must be good. And I can see it in her eyes – or maybe I'm more vision-impaired than my optometrist thinks.

I click on a link that says, "You have 1 new message."

There it is – the message, entitled "Re: Emma." It's sitting there,looking all innocent andsuch,but actually verycallous and not letting me know what's inside unless I open.

My hand is shaking as the cursor moves slowly towards the link. My eyes shift over to her again. She's still smiling, as though she doesn't care that I'm taking so long to open the damn message. So long as I open it and read it.

All it is, is a simple movement in the index finger.

Do you dare, Isaacs?

I dare.

I click. I open.

The End

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