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I was halfway through ninth grade, at the beginning of a decade of obsessive crushes, and in the back row of my Spanish II class. I loathed high school and my classmates' obsessions with clothes and popularity and the silly spats that encompassed their daily lives. I started ninth grade much as I ended twelfth grade; I sat by myself usually, read voraciously, never talked in class, didn't volunteer my friendship, didn't dress well, ignored gossip, flaunted my atheism and socialism, and refused point blank to have anything to do with anything that looked like school spirit. This made me tremendously invisible to gossip and boys. The former I didn't mind; the latter was agony. Being gleefully eccentric has its drawbacks. So there I was, awkwardly stuck in the last seat of the first row in my Spanish class. I always wore blue jeans and some kind of soft cotton shirt with regrettable shaping, not that I had any shape. It wasn't until several years later that I developed the hourglass figure that has garnered me so much attention, much of it unwanted, ironically. At fourteen, I had a flat chest, crooked teeth, no makeup, and an ill-fitting wardrobe. Nowadays I don't know if these flaws are entirely gone, but at least I buy my own clothes and guys actually hit on me. I usually don't want them to, but it's nice to know that I have the option of rejecting them. In the spring semester of ninth grade, no boy bestowed more than a passing glance on me. I had multiple crushes, but most of them were easily forgotten about. I looked for them in class and blushed if they saw me or cringed if I did something klutzy in front of them, which regrettably happened often, but most of them didn't occupy my time beyond thinking they were cute. Up until this point, only the Nemesis had been different. I couldn't decide if I hated or loved him, if he hated or loved me, but I knew it was doomed. I wondered what a more normal relationship would be like, or at least what it would be like to know where I stood with a guy. And then I got my opportunity . . . promptly, of course, blowing it. Well. Not promptly. No, indeed, thanks to my extreme reclusion, I dragged it out over the course of several months; several months' worth of awkward stares, unintentionally caught glances, furious blushes, one miniscule non-attempt at conversation that failed abysmally, and many many self-kickings that left my backside bruised for years afterward. I learned nothing. You'd think that with all that didn't happen, I'd have picked up a few tips, but nope. I repeated the process several times in the years to come, eventually abandoning flirting altogether after the inevitable one that got away, or possibly, one too many that got away. So. I sat quietly in my corner of the Spanish classroom, stoically ignoring the gossipy, snooty girls who surrounded me; only a wall-mounted pencil sharpener for company. It was mid-April, the school year nearing its end, though of course it dragged on relentlessly at a snail's pace. In retrospect, this story always seemed to commence much earlier in the year; I had to consult an old journal to verify that most of these events really did occur in just six weeks. Now. To tell the story . . . For the sake of hilarity, I shall sweep my dignity under the rug and post the tragically unedited journal entries I wrote at the time. It's horribly embarrassing, of course, but I figured if I laughed out loud rereading this crap, y'all would too. Bear in mind I'm omitting a fair amount of irrelevant material; believe it or not, even as a hormonal teenager, I did have interests beyond boys. Just not many. I began noticing Spanish Class Guy (SCG) in mid-April, when I started catching him twisting around to look at me. I couldn't figure out why, but I was certain he was looking at me because of the eye contact, that plus there was nothing else besides aforementioned pencil sharpener for him to see. Eventually, I concluded that he probably had a crush on me. My suspicions were confirmed on May 4th, when the class had to sign up for activities for the Spanish department's Cinco de Mayo celebration the following day. I was the second to last person to sign up for an activity; I was extremely reluctant to participate and only signed up because the teacher forced me to. I reluctantly went to the front of the classroom where the sign up sheets were and skimmed them. I had no clue what any of them involved. I chose the only activity for which no one else had signed up, something called "Ojos de Dios," meaning "Eyes of God." It didn't sit well with my atheism, but unlike the other events, it at least didn't sound like it involved going outdoors and embarrassing myself in a sporting activity. I sat down, and moments afterward, he, the very last person to sign up for an activity, did so. A minute later I got up to double check the room number of the Ojos de Dios event and saw that SCG's name was under mine, looking as though it were written rather shakily, I thought. I may have jumped. With a supreme effort, I did not look at him but sat down again. The following day, I went to the classroom in another building on campus for the mysterious Ojos de Dios, which turned out to involve wrapping variegated yarn around crossed popsicle sticks so that the result resembled an eye. I think it was supposed to ward off evil. I finished one without talking to anybody and spent the rest of the period studying for my Physical Science final. Later, I recounted seeing SCG in my journal.
I was somewhat aware of the ludicrousness of this, but I didn't care. When his eyes met mine as I walked in the door, I knew—knew—that it was love. That certainty, naturally, failed to lead anywhere but more awkward glances.
It only got worse. I wore a little perfume one day, which may have caught his attention, but not enough for him to talk to me, which quickly produced paranoia.
Reading the above, I wonder how anyone ever had the gall to compare my way with words to Bob Dylan's. Then again, those comparisons came much later on. Back in 1998, though, I was growing increasingly confused, and not over my questionable word choices.
At this point, I began to realize I was being paranoid, but that didn't do anything to ebb the flow of italicized drivel from my pen. And to think I thought nobody would ever read it. I can't believe I posted this on the Internet. Anyway, it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to talk to him, but I didn't have the slightest clue where to begin. I thought that if I couldn't talk, maybe I could stalk, but I didn't have a clue where to begin there, either.
My flair for the melodramatic was mercifully short-lived in favor of my innate practicality. There was only one day in the class left, and I decided that it was time for action. That bold decision, however, quailed almost instantly, cowering in the glare of . . . yet more practicality. I knew I would botch it horribly. I could barely even look at him, let alone actually speak. I gave way to foolish daydreams again and failed to resist the temptation to scribble a terrible love letter in my journal. Needless to say, I did not copy it and hand it to him. I think I sensed that such a course of action would have proved detrimental to success.
. . . *snrk* There's not really anything I can add to that. Beyond, of course, a claim that I do not imagine such utter rubbish these days. As I hinted above, my practicality has rather quashed any tendency toward overblown melodramatic fantasies. Perhaps more to the point, I'm much less concerned with others' wellbeing than I used to be. I'm also more concerned with staying single than I used to be. That's a good thing, because the one rather leads to the other. But, of course, there's more. Oh yes. Because I have nothing better to do with my time than broadcast the most idiotic, apocalyptically awkward moments of my youth into cyberspace, I shall now conclude the ninth grade chapter of this little saga, complete with lamentable lack of correct use of the subjunctive tense.
Needless to say, the day of the final arrived without event, as I had predicted.
But it wasn't quite over yet. There was, of course, one last little kicker.
I was right. I didn't see him. The summer passed, and I pined quietly at home, wondering where he lived and if I might have a class with him the following year. On the first day of tenth grade, I excitedly looked for him but, of course, failed to see him. I moped a bit but figured there would be other crushes (such as the Nemesis). Then I saw him. It seemed that the previous year, SCG had had Biology with the same teacher I had the current year. He also had a study hall that period, so he would get a pass from his study hall teacher and come to my biology class and talk for a minute to his former teacher before leaving, presumably to the library or back to the study hall. This happened almost every day. Also, he had a friend in that class to whom he occasionally spoke. Said friend later developed a crush on me, but well after the events of this story. I began seeing the SCG at lunch almost daily in addition to my fifth period biology class; he and a few friends sat only a few feet away from where I sat with my friends. We always sat in the same place on the floor in the large room known as The Commons, but their circle moved around a bit; they circled us gradually for reasons unknown. He sat with his back to me, but I could see him clearly and thusly was afforded an unwasted opportunity to blatantly stare. Curiously, no one noticed. Perhaps the others were all too busy staring at their own respective crushes. Actually, I think he noticed, judging from the stiffening of his back after I'd been watching for a bit, but I don't think he minded. He never gave me a dirty look to suggest such a thing, anyway. We continued our silent exchange of glances for some weeks without ever drawing nearer to actual contact. But then! No story of love lost would be complete without an utterly anticlimactic shooting flame of false hope.
Naturally, this thrill was followed by much hoping that actual conversation might spring up. Naturally, it didn't happen. The flame fizzled. I saw him a few times over the next few weeks in the same uneventful manner in which I had thus far, and then he abruptly vanished. It took me at least a month to figure out that he'd moved. EPILOGUE: His friend in my biology class later developed a most unseemly crush on me, teasing me at the start of every class period, grabbing my book and rubbing himself lewdly with it, etc. He ceased when I kicked him violently in the shin with a steel-toed boot. He never mentioned his friend to me. I never found out whether he knew of his friend's crush or was totally oblivious, but I suspected the latter. I occasionally Googled SCG, but as he had a fairly common name, I was never able to track him down. All things considered, that might have been for the best since I doubt we had any common interests. We associated with very different people, plus he was an Aggie. It would never have worked. Still, it was a nice change from the Nemesis. |