“We all know who it is,” the cry was yet again echoed as the accused refused to speak. The accomplice sat right next to him looking at us with a face showing confusion.

“Who? Who?” we glared at the accomplice until she backed off and quietly stood to the side as we threw more questions at the accused.

“First letter of her name.”

“What grade?”

“What color hair?”

We pestered the truth out of the poor kid. We let him go with smug looks on our faces. But the accomplice had to ruin it: “Who?”

“Bryan,” my partner began, “is she wearing a purple and green coat?”

“I think we all know,” the accused was blushing at least thirty-two shades of red.

“Who?” The accomplice threw her arms up in despair before looking at the sleeves of her jacket. “Oh.”

The accomplice ran from the room with a face allmost as red as his. Little did we know the joy under the blush. Little did we know the future plans for her and his pain.