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I was six years old. Post-ballet lessons, pre-divorce. My house in Friendswood was one story with grey carpet and slightly-too-bright blue walls. We had too many pets; they didn't mix with my sandbox so we had to get rid of it. My dad drove me to and from C. D. Landolt Elementary School every day in his 1982 silvery blue Nissan pickup. At some point that year I got sour milk in the cafeteria and brought my lunch forever afterwards—in an ALF lunchbox at first; later in saved plastic grocery bags. It was a typical first grade. Most of my classmates were still learning to read; we had show and tell; we learned addition and subtraction; we sang patriotic songs in school assemblies. At recess, the boys played sports and the girls played hopscotch. I thought hopscotch was stupid and mostly played on the swings or with a jump rope or a hula hoop. It was 1989, between the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the Soviet Union, and when I first learned about boys. There was a cherubic blond boy in my class. He had platinum blond hair and an easy blush. Baby fat but not chubby, but he would probably never be thin. We never spoke. Boys didn't talk to girls. But I saw him across the classroom; he wasn't obnoxious or abrasive or gross like many of the boys. Sometimes I saw him after school when we waited for our parents to pick us up. He'd walk past me in his Bugle Boy shirts, not seeing me in the crowd. One day I was partnered with him in P.E. I hated P.E., but that day it was the greatest subject to which I was ever subjected. I got to be near the Cherub, after all. We stood opposite each other. It was a game, the kind that involved physical contact but very little actual exercise. The coach gave us instructions: Touch your elbow to the other person's. Now touch thumbs. The awkwardness made him blush. We giggled. The game continued. Now touch backs. Now touch feet. I remember thinking if we were older, or not in P.E. class, we'd get in trouble for inappropriate touching. Sadly, the game ended before it got that far. A few weeks later, the other girls in the class grouped together and asked who each other's crushes were. I should have known better than to tell. Mortified, I watched as a tall loudmouthed girl immediately told the Cherub that I thought he was cute. He looked at me and looked down, grinning but blushing furiously and shaking his head, platinum blond locks flying. We carefully ignored each other after that. I was well out of high school before I shared a crush again. |