First Taste of Love

The worst three words I have ever read at least 27 times during my 7th grade year: Be right back, abbreviated to BRB. This was the way my conversations with Will Martin ended each of the 27 times I IM'ed him in 7^th grade. I was never the one to type the harsh words to him. Rather, five minutes into our chats he would always tell me he would be right back…he was never right back, he was never back. It took me until time 22 to realize this. The stud was most likely still at his computer, probably talking to his girl friend.

But this story isn’t about the time when I was embarrassed, or heartbroken, or confused or pathetic. This story is about the nicest thing Will (or for that matter any of my crushes) ever did for me.

Remember my sixth grade dance? Flash back to the same place. It was a year later at the 7^th grade Valentine’s dance. Two of my girl friends accompanied me; the rest decided they would rather not humiliate themselves more by showing up to the dance. My dress this time was light pink, form-fitting, with a shiny pink underneath slip that appeared at the bottom. My shoes, well, I wasn’t into shoe fashion back then, so that was still a pretty hideous portion of my otherwise beautiful apparel.

The dance started just as my first dance had started. I asked Will to dance with me during the second slow dance of the night. This time I was not given a straight forward, “No.” Instead he said, “Sure, but later.” This response resembled what I had termed as the BRB, saying one thing but not actually following through with it. Still I waited and persisted. I danced with the one weird Jewish boy in my grade who spit on me as he talked. I danced with his best friend, who was just as weird, if not weirder. (Not surprising, the Jewish boy still spits on me when he talks to me. Also not surprising, the weird friend is amazingly handsome with a 4.0 GPA in college and no longer weird…)

I waited and waited. The last slow dance was announced. Part of me felt rejected AGAIN, but most of me felt like I should give it one more shot. I approached, took three steps and I saw Mrs. Martin appear to my left picking up Will. My chance was gone. As I turned away downtrodden with another failed attempt at love, my shoulder was tapped.

It could have been a scene from a movie. It was Will asking to have the last dance with me. As the words “Strawberry wine…first taste of love, bitter sweet,” played in the background, I could only think of one thing. If I died right then, my world would have been complete. I, captain of the mathletes, was dancing with the most popular boy in the grade.

Although our AIM conversations still ended in BRB and he still gave me no attention in honors English, I will always remember that in those three minutes and 53 seconds, I felt like the most beautiful girl at the dance and that anything was possible.

I would like to say this was a happy ending for Will and me, but since I had not done anything to completely humiliate myself, the hunt for him did not end there.

Start of a One-Way Relationship

Brown hair, blue eyes, quarterback of the Saint James’s Trojans middle school football team, and president of National Junior Honor Society…Perfect wrapped up inside the body of Will Martin.

Some would describe my relationship with Will as obsessed and unhealthy. I warmly remember it as the best one-way relationship I have ever had. Because this was a three year love affair, I will just enlighten you on how much I loved him. (Yes, I said loved, and yes, I mean loved. I had a lot of feelings to share and give when I was 11-14.)

This perfect boy was the proud owner of locker number 234, which was not so coincidentally my second favorite number in the alphabet of numbers. I circled it in all of my notebooks with a heart around it. My first favorite number was eight, his football jersey number. I accordingly chose that as my volleyball jersey number and locker room locker number.

Having this number in common with him made me feel closer to him since we were far from being in the same social circles. This crush was the typical loser girl likes awesome, popular, cool boy of the school. (He owned this title due to the captain of football team status.)

My idolization for Will was best described by what I still believe to be the most poetic words to have ever been released from my blue ink pen onto the pages of my 6^th grade history book: Will Martin is the sun in my heart.

These eight colorfully majestic words would haunt me a year later when Danny Heart, the boy I sold my books to each year, pranced around the quad showing all the little twits my deepest most cherished emotions for the love of my middle school life.

You would have thought after that incident I would have learned to not write such intelligent and articulate thoughts in my book, but no. During these memorable three pathetic years I quit my search for an NJB and worked on my hunt for Will Martin.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Everybody Was Not Dancing In The Moonlight

In 3^rd grade while I was exploring my romance with Greg, Ross Young, the class clown, was having bladder problems. The following two years, Ross was on sabbatical from Saint James School because of the shame he underwent with his bladder problems. (This devilish young chap went to the bathroom every 20 minutes.)

As he walked to his seat in Miss. Sellers’ 6^th grade homeroom class, I could hear the thump of his cowboy boots, brown leather with a hint of cow smell. Ross was back, sans bladder issues. He made a joke at my expense, and just like that, I was crazy for him.

At lunch that day we separated into our groups. Ross went with the popular jocks and cheerleader and loose girls. (Yeah we had loose girls at 11 in my school. Beat that Teen Mom!) And I went to the far end of the lunch room with my three friends. (We weren’t a big enough group to be known as the losers. We weren’t a big enough group to even be known.) I informed my friends of my crush, and they rolled their eyes as we continued to discuss strategies for our upcoming math tournament.

A month or so passed and it was time for the back to school dance. Picture it: It was the year 2000. My parents were cheap, so I was wearing a reversible dress that looked like a sack. Its pattern resembled something along the lines of a Hawaiian shirt’s ugly cousin. My curly hair was brushed out to look matted, and it complimented my round, plump…everything. To put the cherry on top, my lips glistened with cherry red lip gloss.

I walked into the dance and immediately spotted Ross. I stood around him wishing and hoping and thinking and praying (kind of like the oldie’s song) that he would ask me to dance. After an hour of Back Street Boys and rap music I had never heard before, I realized, like always, I had to take my love life matters into my own hands.

I approached. I tapped his shoulder. I asked to dance. He said no. I went to the bathroom and cried. Surprisingly, no one noticed me tearing up because as mentioned earlier at this point, no one really bothered to know me.

When I finally dried my face which matched the color of my lip gloss after sobbing, I emerged from the bathroom. I turned around and spotted another much dreamier boy who would help me continue the search for my NJB.

Teacher Creature

Derek Thomson.

Age: 23.

Height: Much taller than I at 10.

Hair: Dark. Smile: Perfect.

IQ: BRILLIANCE!

Degree of my crush: I tried to be popular so he would notice me. (I gave up trying to be popular a year before after Donitus Obi released the loudest flatulent to ever be heard. He blamed it on me. There was no hope of being Queen Bee after that.)

My fifth grade teacher was Heavenly. His pale face and barely pink lips made dividing fractions and the scientific method go from slightly boring to the most interesting subjects I would slack off in to receive help after school. (I didn’t slack in math. I actually excelled in it so that he didn’t think I was as dumb as I was pretending.)

I did everything from receiving over 27 conduct checks to wearing platform heals to try to seem taller therefore older. (These were my poor attempts at popularity).Normally this type of crush would cease to exist at the end of the school year when I went to a new school for junior high. However, this one continued until ninth grade when it should have hit WSFA local news.

As AIM blossomed into a sensational craze, so did my relationship with Mr. Thomson. I am not quite sure how I came about his screen name, DerekThomson88, but at the tender ages of 11-15 he and I struck up quite the conversations in cyber space from how our days were to advice on other boys whose stories will soon grace this blog.

Appalled, weird, intriguing, creepy is what I assume are the thoughts running through your head right now. But it wasn’t until age 20 that I realized this NB was wrong for me for more than just the usual reasons. Maybe he wasn’t even an NB, just B.

One good thing did come out of this. I have never had a problem with factorials and fractions, which could be helpful in my search for an NJB.

Liar Liar

Most girls learn the art of little, white lies when they become adults, but I have never been like most girls. At the young and clever age of nine, I discovered how to weave a lie into a fantastic story that ultimately ended up in embarrassing rejection.

His name was Greg Watkins, and if ever there were a perfectly handsome third-grader, Greg embodied him. (This was my first taste of simple NBs without the J, and I have to say, maybe I was born into the wrong tribe…) I can still remember his chiseled cheekbones as he whistled “Swing Low” in our Alabama history class play. Clearly, I was hair bow over Keds for him.

With such strong feelings for him, I did what no other nine-year-old girl would have done: I told my best friend, Bethany Thompson, that Greg and I were boyfriend-girlfriend. I made sure she knew my intense and loving relationship with him was on the down low and warned her not to tell anyone. I should have known she would run and blab to Theodore Hawkins, Greg’s best friend, who would no doubt spill the lie to Greg.

When Bethany reported back to me that Greg knew of no such relationship with me, I did what any other sinking adult female would have done. I covered my first lie up with two more lies. After explaining to Bethany that Greg was trying to keep mine and his love secret by denying it, I did damage control with my handsome beau by defying parental rules of no calling boys and dialed him up.

As I told him that Bethany and Theodore were spreading rumors about us, he sighed and said that the ordeal would pass. Hearing his voice on the phone only increased my adoration for him. Never, in my nine years of life, had I felt that way about a boy.

At school the next day, as I sat in timeout for some other mischievous activities I had chosen to lead, I could see Bethany and Theodore speaking to each other and pointing at me. Apparently my call to Greg was the talk of Mrs. Fowler’s class, and my lie was something everyone found humorous.

Once more I tried to recover by calling Greg after school. This time his kindness was minimal, and I can still hear the words ringing in my ears. “Laurie, my mom doesn’t want me to talk to girls on the phone. Please, stop calling.”

I guess I take the prize for youngest girl to deal with rejection, and my search for my NJB continued.