He wrote stories. Brilliant ones with no names that always involved some sort of catastrophe leading up to another catastrophe that ended with a romance. She didn't know how he did it, but he did. He'd walk her from English to French, and then the library for study hall, though he was in none of her classes. He had black hair, blue eyes, and an appealing way-of-himself. Her parents did not approve, yet she could care less. His voice was loud, but his meaning, soft. Tall and slim, muscular and vigorous. Handsome, kind, smart, witty, and good. No other boy did she long than Peter Simon for every time she caught a glimpse of his mysterious persona, the song Scarborough Fair by Simon and Garfunkel played inside her head.