Chris, Age 15

"Amber is the color of your energy"
-311

I had a boyfriend at the middle/end of sophomore year that I more or less liked. He was a junior, and so he was going to take me to prom. I also competed for him with another girl and won, which was, at the time, very satisfying. Anyways, he made me listen to Led Zepplin III and watch sports, but since he was older, I didn't really mind. He had a good sense of humor, and I liked his friends, so we coexisted. It was cool for him to date a hot younger chick, and it was cool for me that his friends drove me around. But there lacked a certain amount of OOMPH in the relationship. It was like, oh, cool, this is dating. My friends were single, and I was kind of jealous. But I really wanted to go to prom.
My best friend and I went to this battle of the band thing at our school, ostensibly to see some guys we were friends with play. Instead of watching them, we were mesmerized by a band that sounded JUST LIKE 311 comprised of cute boys with flippy hair and hemp necklaces. We were hooked. We danced directly in front of the stage and I perfected what would become my signature move with boys in bands: the eyefuck. I can eyefuck the shit out of someone. We approached them after their set in what was my first official groupie moment. What shocks me now is the complete and utter confidence we had. I couldn't even tell you my weight at the time, and I am sure I had no thoughts of whether or not my thighs looked fat in my jeans. I know for a fact we hadn't been drinking. At no point in my life after that have I had such complete, utter, sober confidence. My friend quickly paired off with one of them in the back of the auditorium to make out (because she had, and still has, mad game), while I sat on their amp and flirted.
We went back to my house at the end of the show, on a complete high. We were obsessed. Nowadays, it would have been simple enough to find them online, but the time, I didn't even have a cell phone, let alone a Facebook or Myspace. Somehow though, through multiple Google searches, we found a random email address on a random web page linked to their band name. So we did the only thing we could do: sent them an email from my Hotmail account. We included Maddie's cell phone number (a boxy Nokia all four of my best friends used when we were calling boys) and, on a whim, I boldly added something about “the cute guitarist”. Yeah, I had a boyfriend, but come on. These guys were rockstars. (Uhh, kind of).
They responded, and it turned out they lived about 20 minutes away on the highway. They were older than us, juniors, and they smoked pot and partied. They invited us to their next show. So we went. The boy my friend had made out with turned out to be a huge player, but apparently, the “cute guitarist” (Chris, if you haven't figured it out) was both sensitive and emotional, and he pursued me. Whoops. Soon enough, I started dating Chris. While having a boyfriend.
I totally got away with it. Now, that seems completely ridiculous. Not only did my boyfriend not figure it out, but my hyper-attentive mother didn't either. Chris would pick Maddie, Steph, Debbie and I up at dusk in one of our driveways, and we'd tell our parents we were going to the movies. Then Chris would drive us to Needham, where we would drink in someone's basement until ten forty, when he would drive us home. For referance, we saw “Shrek Two” like three time that year.
But when I broke up with my Acton boyfriend after prom, Chris's novelty wore off. I was getting tired of talking to him on the phone while he was high, and him dragging me to Walden Pond to look at nature. Now that I was single in my own town again, I was free to hook up with boys there, and I didn't have sneak out to do so. Now, I don't remember how I broke up with him, I seem to have blocked that part out. It's possible I was drunk, and I think I was probably pretty rude. He got over it pretty quickly, dating this girl who had liked him before that he had ditched for me. According to his Facebook and Myspace, he dated her for quite some time after that. She smoked pot and wore hemp, too. I feel guilty, a little, particularly because my Acton boyfriend was nice to me, and liked me, and was basically everything a boyfriend should be. But, hey, I was fifteen. Would you have turned down a guitarist who gave you free alcohol and told you 311's cover of “Love Song” should be “your song”? Ok, maybe you would have. But that's the only time in my life I've cheated on a boyfriend like that. Like straight up, two relationships at once, kind of thing. Honestly, my friends played a part in this too, because they liked the other boys in the band, and wanted me to keep dating Chris so we could hang out with them. Peer pressure, and all that. What's interesting is that both relationships were sexually innocuous. Neither one went below the waist. I'm not sure why my Acton boyfriend didn't make a move (I think he was inexperienced), but I think that Chris was a gentleman. Or he was too high/drunk to get it up.
Oh, this is his band's web page:http://www.myspace.com/pandafied . Don't judge me too hard. It was cool back then! God, I'm old.

He's the back left.

John 2.0, Age 15

"Three important rules for breaking up
Don't put off breaking up when you know you want to
Prolonging the situation only makes it worse
Tell him honestly, simply, kindly, but firmly
Don't make a big production
Don't make up an elaborate story
This will help you avoid a big tear jerking scene
If you wanna date other people say so
Be prepared for the boy to feel hurt and rejected
Even if you've gone together for only a short time,
And haven't been too serious,
There's still a feeling of rejection
When someone says she prefers the company of others
To your exclusive company,
But if you're honest, and direct,
And avoid making a flowery emotional speech when you break the news,
The boy will respect you for your frankness,
And honestly he'll appreciate the kind of straight forward manner
In which you told him your decision
Unless he's a real jerk or a cry baby you'll remain friends."
-Nada Surf


I told you'd I be back tracking. Before John 1.0 and I hooked up, but after he broke my heart (more or less) (I thought so at the time, for sure), I had my first real boyfriend, John 2.0. There's not really a whole lot to be said about this, because it was a three week long, kiss-less relationship. We hung out twice outside of school, and mainly talked online. What IS significant is that when a boy (a nice, football playing jock) finally liked me and wanted to date me, I pulled the same thing that I pulled with Zac in 8th grade. I freaked. I distinctly remember having him wait for me outside a class, hold my hand to my locker and then walk me BACK to class and thinking, “Jesus, having a boyfriend sucks.” Maybe it was because I was too immature to have legitimate feelings for someone so young, or possibly because I was only dating him because the other cheerleaders told me I should. I just knew that I still like John 1.0, and I was interested in other boys too. But that presented another problem. How was I supposed to break up with him? I managed to hold myself together for a few days, biding my time. I finally, after my friends told me I HAD to, called him on the phone. This is during the era of house phones, so I had to look up his number in the phone book and then talk to his little brother in order to get to him. I said the only thing I could think of: “I think we should just be friends.” It was the first and last time I ever remembering saying those exact words because after that, generally, every boy I dated I ended up hating or having them hate me, so the empty promise (or, perhaps, threat) of remaining friends was unnecessary. Because I was so desperate to dump him, I did so three hours before the football and cheerleading banquet. That was one of my worst ideas ever. Ok, not ever, but it was a pretty terrible one. Definitely Top Twenty Five Bad Ideas (other ideas include: piercing my own nose, black hair extensions, and of course, black asymmetrical slut dresses.) When they called my name to get an award, you could have heard a pin drop. For a second. Then the football players started teasing John and making a general ruckus. Thankfully, my parents weren't there because, after all, cheerleading isn't a real sport, so they weren't obligated to care. I was essentially getting a piece of paper with my name on it for yelling cheers that didn't ever correspond with the action on the field. Anyways.
So John 2.0 is most definitely not a Boy I've Loved. But I did make a major discovery during our brief affair: Even if all you've wanted since first grade is a boy who wants you as a girlfriend, it only really matters if YOU want THEM to be YOUR boyfriend. Also, I was totally not ready to date a guy with a full beard.

John, age 14+

“Cause baby I'm just a scared and lonely rider 
But I gotta know how it feels 
I want to know if love is wild 
Babe I want to know if love is real “
-Bruce Springsteen ( Clarifying point: I never liked Bruce. Actually, I hate cheesy Americana. But he is John's idol, and thus appropriate.)

My friend from Elementary School, Anna, had gotten boobs and become a lot of boy's favorite in those early days of high school. She threw an end of the year party after our freshman year, and it was a pretty mixed group. It was one of those parties that can only happen before people start drinking, with parents present and monitoring the cd player for objectionable lyrics. I was wearing a white tank top and my favorite low rise jeans with my hair blowdried with some eyeliner poorly applied. There were some boys there, mainly football players, sitting on couches and goofing around, shoving chips in their mouths and drinking Coke after Coke. I knew them from cheerleading and math classes, but I was still a little uncomfortable. And then the unthinkable happened. John started flirting with me. Hardcore. John was a gangly, awkward boy who, without his confidence and sense of humor, would have fit in better at a LAN party than football game. But despite the physical shortcomings, he was a sought after boy because of his charm. We started talking, and soon I was sitting on his lap. I just about died. Our parents collected us around ten, and we hugged good-bye. But sure enough, soon after that, John was IM-ing me daily. We met up at the 4th of July fireworks abut a month later, and I was pretty psyched about it. Heavy handed flirtation abounded, but nothing happened because I was leaving for a church community service trip the next day. I left dreaming about John, and I couldn't wait to get back and see where it went.
Of course, I hadn't bargained on T. T was a girl from my elementary school who never had an awkward phase. She was born adorable, and stayed that way forever. Imagine my surprise when she started telling us all about her relationship with John. I was shocked, disappointed and filled with hatred towards that girl. I obviously know she was unaware of my crush and John and my flirtation, but you always hate the girl who steals your man (boy in this case). Instead of being beaten, I decided I was going to steal him back. Also noteworthy of this trip is that I met a boy there from Baltimore and we snuck out on the roof to make out. While making out, he took my bra completely off and threw it on the floor, but left my shirt on. I thought that was normal at the time, but now it seems a funny reminder of exactly how neither of us knew what we were doing at all.
Anyways, I came back from the trip a very determined girl. I saw him again at the football-cheerleading carwash, and we spent the day throwing water and soap at each other in what could have been a hormone driven montage in a teen movie. That night was a girl in my grade's sweet sixteen, and everyone who remotely knew her was going. I had bought a new dress for the occasion which was, shockingly, black, strapless, and with an asymmetrical hem. Apparently that was my favorite silhouette at the time (I think the slutty black dress is going to me a motif in this whole saga). I left the carwash with anticipation that tonight was going to be the night that I...well, I wasn't exactly sure what would happen, given my relative inexperience, but I knew something vaguely sexual MIGHT go on. Keep in mind that I felt like I needed to play catch-up compared to the other girls. Just emerging out of a terrible middle-part and t-shirt phase, I realized that other girls had accrued double or triple the number of my number make-outs in the past three years. If I was serious about this “normal girl” thing, I was going to have to work at it.
I got to the party and, not surprisingly, John was there. With T. With her as his girlfriend. I was crushed, but I knew I should have suspected it. Deep down I know John was just a flirt, that I wasn't actually, seriously considered as a date-able option. But I at least wanted him to feel me up.
We ended up hooking up a few months later, where I did my first REAL sex act, in the spare bedroom of a kid's basement. Yes, his basement had a bedroom. It was actually large enough to house a small family of illegal immigrants. I was sober, I was nervous, and the act wasn't even remotely reciprocated (not that most fifteen-year-old boys would know what to do with a vagina) (at least, I hope not). The whole thing left me very confused. I had thought I wanted to do it, to have a “hook up”, and I didn't exactly feel dirty, but the question that stuck in my mind was something like this: “I'm not good enough to date, but I'm good enough to touch your penis?” I think that was the first time I really considered what kind of girl I was. I was apparently sexually viable, but everything else wasn't enough to sway someone's emotions. I never really thought about it until now, but after writing this, I think that night was probably the night that I started to get comfortable with the idea that sometimes, flirting just means boys want you to touch their penis.
I hooked up with John a few more times in high school,but not because I liked him anymore. After the initial thrill of having a popular boy like me wore off, he wasn't even my type. At all. I guess I don't really know why I did. It wasn't like his Polo shirts, madras shorts and skinny calves turned me on. I guess maybe it was because he I liked the idea that he still wanted me. He probably just thought I was easy, but maybe he did have some feelings for me left over. Of maybe he just liked my ass. Whatever, I just liked his status. I suppose, maybe, I'm being a little hard on him because I know he is, inherently, a really good guy. But we were never a match, and I knew that going in, and I guess I just kind of resent being disillusioned about boys so quickly. It does make me feel better to know that he and T dated for like ever after that, and still have some sort of relationship (so I'm told. Naturally, that girl hates my guts. I DID hook up with her boyfriend.)So it wasn't me! The Ralph Lauren gods had bigger plans for him!

Intro #2

So Sally can wait
She knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away
"But don't look back in anger", I heard you say
-Oasis
Now bear with me for a moment because this is another intro. Ninth grade was basically the same as Junior High for me, minus the teasing and minus the severe middle part that made me look home-schooled. I was a girl in a nameless, faceless sea of freshman who basically went under the radar. The real struggle for me lied in creating an identity. My burgeoning interest in alternative and punk clashed with my desire to fit in on the varsity cheerleading squad. I made band patches that I sewed onto shirts and then never wore. In the cultural wasteland that is Acton, Massachusetts, fitting in with mediocrity was necessary for survival. So I threw my Converse in the black hole of my closet and started listening to Oasis and Guster regularly. I bought mini-skirts and shopped at American Eagle and slowly went from anonymous to noticeable. I also developed a group of girlfriends who were like me, on the cusp of the in-crowd. It's odd how a lot of female relationships are started in high school based solely on having similar traits. We got ourselves our own group of boys to hang out with, which is essential for moving up the social ladder. I finally felt like I belonged, generally, and knew I had to keep quiet the fact that I went to the library weekly and still busted out my Nirvana cds when I was alone in my room. (Yes, I was about ten years too late to hop on the Nirvana train, but teen angst is ageless.) I was mainly focused on myself and my girlfriends at the time, so there were no noticeable crushes for most of that year. I'm pretty sure I had a thing for John McSweeny, but that idea is so vague in my mind that I think it's only worth mentioning is passing. But by the end of my freshman year, I could feel it: things were changing for the better for me and I knew if I kept up my act a little longer, I'd be in. Keep in mind that the boys from here on out will overlap, backtrack, and linger in my heart for varying amounts of time, so the timeline is going to be a little off. For the next five years or so, I was rarely without a romantic interest of some sort because I began to connect my self-worth with the interest of boys. It was an easy trap for me to fall into at that age, because my identity and self confidence grew directly alongside boys' attention. So here we go: My Later Years Of High School.

Scott, age 13

"All of me, why not take all of me
Can't you see I'm no good without you?
Take these arms, I want to lose them
Take these lips, I'll never use them
Your goodbye, left me with eyes to cry
How can I go on dear without
You took the part that once was my heart.
Why not take all of me?"
-NOFX via tons of Jazz singers (the Billie Holiday one is lovely)

Summer camp is a weird place. And considering I went to academic summer camp, it was even weirder. After the year that I detailed below, I was all set to go to faux college for three weeks and reinvent myself. And oddly, it worked. I was one of the cool kids. Ok, being a cool kid at nerd camp is about as impressive as being the least mentally challenged cast member of Jersey Shore, but I was still super psyched. I sat at the table in the dining hall, and people, shockingly, vied for a seat next to me. I felt like I was playing an elaborate trick on everyone, because I knew these kids were actually popular at home, and I was always kind of worried they'd figure me out. One thing I was particularly scared about was my lack of experience with boys. I was still a kissing virgin, whereas all the other cool girls talked about boyfriends and hook ups all the time. But with a few white lies, I managed to cover up my secret.
And then I met Scott. He was totally the alpha male on campus, with his polo shirts and that ubiquitous gelled spike hair that was so popular in the early 2000s. And for some unknown reason, he liked me. We flirted, albeit poorly on my end, for a week or two, and I got exponentially more obsessed every day. We sat next to each other for lunch, on the bus for “educational field trips” (one of those was to a cranberry bog.) (All I learned is that I don't like cranberry juice), and I KNEW, I just KNEW that he was going to kiss me eventually. It's a heady feeling, the first time you feel that from a boy. I started to think, you know, maybe this is it. Maybe I changed. Maybe, when I start High School, I'll finally be the girl the boys like. If Scott liked me, maybe the other popular boys would too. If Scott saw something in me, maybe I did, in fact, have something to offer.
The wrench in my plans can in the form of a tall, thin girl named Paige from Michigan, of all places. She had a goddamn streak of purple in her hair, and she was just effortlessly pretty. I have never been, and will never be, an effortless girl. I couldn't compete.
Keep in mind I had already started angst-ing out at this point. I had a pair of navy Converse that I had marked with lyrics from NOFX and Anti-Flag, which was (in my mind) the ultimate rebellion. Now, I'm not sure exactly why I had lyrics like “Gotta die, gotta die, gotta die for your government? Die for your country? That's shit!” visible on my shoe when I probably couldn't have even explained the electoral college to you, but I no longer understand most of my teenage reasoning, so let's just go with it. Anyway, with my safety pinned wristbands and studded belt, I was pretty positive I was hot shit. Or so I thought. When Scott started openly courting Paige in the same ways he had courted me days earlier, I was crushed. All the other girls gave me the platitudes that would be echoed for years to come whenever a relationship went bad: he's not worth it, you're too good for him, she isn't even that pretty.
Ok, quick sidenote, where did we all learn those same sentences? I've said them a thousand times to girls and boys alike, and sometimes even meant them, but have they ever actually helped?
And we're back.
So like I said, I was pretty upset. This was my fresh start, my first cool boy, and now fucking Paige had ruined it. (I still hate the name Paige. What a bitch.) Everything came to a head on the last night before camp ended.
We were having a “Take Back The Night” event, and believe me, I know being preoccupied with my own proto-romantic drama was pretty inappropriate for an educational night about rape, and now I kind of feel like an asshole remembering it. But to be fair, rape was so abstract to me at that point because I had only snuck glaces at soft-core porn on Skinemax, so I didn't even really get what penetration was all about, let alone forced penetration. All I knew at that point was that I felt uncomfortable when it was just me and the janitor in an elevator. I had no idea why, or even what would happen if things went bad, but there you go. So we walked around campus, our college age counselors trying to open our little minds to the horrors of sex violence, and I was busy watching Paige and Scott walking together, brushing arms every once and again. So I started crying, and one of the counselors thought I was just being emotional because of the content ( I wasn't even paying attention). She tried to calm me down, but I just cried more, so they took me to the infirmary, where the nurse kindly asked me if I had been sexually abused. While I was trying to explain that no, I hadn't been inappropriately touched by a male relative, Paige and Scott were having THEIR first kiss in the courtyard. We left the next day, and I couldn't even face them. Again, fuck you Paige.
Anyways. This is before the days of Facebook and MySpace, so finding a summer camp love interest wasn't as easy as a simple search. But Scott, myself and our other friend (I totally forget her name, but she looked JUST LIKE the girl from Zenon, so I'll call her Zenon) all lived in Massachusetts and Zenon lived directly between me and Scott. Zenon (Ok, this is ridiculous) called me on my house phone and said Scott wanted to see me, and that we should all hang out at her house. So I convinced my mom to drive me to Z's house for an afternoon and a sleepover. I got there early, and waited with Z for about an hour for him to show up. His big brother dropped him off, which I thought was the coolest thing I had ever seen, and we proceeded to do what all thirteen year olds do when they hang out: go to the mall. I was shy at first, seeing Scott in a whole new light. We were outside the familiar ground of summer camp, and IN REAL LIFE. Eventually, after we got tired of loitering, we hung out in Z's basement (the other adolescent habitat). It was decorated in vomit green wicker furniture which, she explained, used to be her grandparents. Z's mom called down around seven when Scott's brother came to pick him up. Z, being as smooth as she could, ran upstairs first. Scott turned to me, and there it was: my first kiss. As his tongue shoved around my willing mouth, I was elated and, well, confused. We broke it off after a few seconds, and he went upstairs, waving at me as he left.
I never saw or talked to Scott again. I told my friends about my kiss, leaving out the whole “I got dumped for a mid-westerner and then was sloppy seconds” part of the saga, painting it out to be the most romantic event ever. But having a first kiss at summer camp is like saying your grandpa invented Pop-Tarts: no one can prove you wrong, but they sure as hell don't believe you. But I knew better. Maybe it was a little late, but the king of nerd camp HAD picked me. I felt like my options had opened a little, and maybe I wasn't the loser those locker-boys had made me out to be.
Two summers later, I was still going to the same nerd camp. A girl in my dorm suite mentioned she was from Sharon, the same town Scott was from.
“Hey! Do you know Scott _____?” I was all ready for her to drool over him, all ready to tell my anecdote from way back when with a flip of my newly highlighted hair.
“Oh yeah, that kid Scott. Oh man, he got teased so bad he had to transfer schools. Yeah, everyone called him a fag all the time. He got beat up a lot.”
I was shocked. My Scott? There had to be a case of mistaken identity. MY Scott was a pre-teen god!
And that's when I realized why he picked Paige in the first place. It wasn't me, or what I had or didn't have. It was his first and only chance at a girl like her. He, too, was reinventing himself at summer camp. He was just a little better at it than I was.
Writing this, I almost found him on Facebook, but I decided against it. I don't want him to know that I know what it was like for him back in high school. I'd like him to think fondly back at a time where he landed two chicks in one month, before he had to go back to harassment at home. So tonight, as I am drinking a gin and tonic out of my freezeable margarita glass, I will toast to you, Scott. I hope, like me, you put your past behind you, and I hope you found a lot of girls from Michigan to kiss.

Zac, Age 12

“Won't you let me walk you home from school?
Won't you let me meet you at the pool?
Maybe Friday I can
Get tickets for the dance
And I'll take you”
Big Star via Elliott Smith

Eighth grade was a shitty year for me. Actually, I think Eighth grade is a shitty year for everyone. Unless you're one of those genetic freaks who peaks at age thirteen, and then, well, fuck you. Because my mom is really into pop culture and chick flicks, I watched a lot late nineties teen films during my impressionable pre-adolescent years. All of my ideas about popularity and coolness were thus defined by “She's All That”,. “The Breakfast Club” and “10 Things I Hate About You”. Before my first days in junior high, I remember being convinced that I was going to sky-rocket into popularity for the following reasons: I had gotten contacts, I didn't have acne and I wasn't fat. I also wasn't in the school band. I was set! Unfortunately, I didn't factor in my social awkwardness into the equation. So despite the fact that I wore Victoria's Secret underwear, I was still a loser. And believe me, everyone let me know. I was prissy, self-righteous and a know-it-all, three personality traits that ensure you will be harassed on a daily basis in the pre-teen world. I got made fun of on the bus, in class, and in the cafeteria. Also keep in mind that my mother taught “Growing Up Sexually” at my church, where she uttered these words (in front of fifty of my peers), words no seventh grader should ever hear their mother say: “Sex is great. I hope you all have a lot of great sex. Just wait til you're married.” Other than that, Seventh grade wasn't too bad, because everyone was still getting used to the new social classes, which had become uncomfortably exaggerated and emphasized since elementary school. But Eighth grade was different.
I had a locker in the worst possible location. Due to the unlucky happenstance of alphabetical order, it was in a row of all boys. And junior high boys are mean. Especially if you're a dork who has no idea how to talk to them. They shit on me daily by knocking my books off the shelves, and sometimes stood directly in front of the locker, forcing me to fight my way past them. I dreaded going to my locker whenever the bell rang. I considered telling my mom, or the school counselor, or anything to get it to stop, but in the grand tradition of bullies, the second I complained would be the second it got even worse. I was stuck between a rock and a hard locker.
But one boy was differnet. Zac was directly next to me, and while he never stood up for me directly, he was never mean, and even treated me like a real person. He was shorter than me, kind of scrawny, and also sort of resembled a lizard. At least, that's what I thought. Due to a mutual friend, we started talking online, and before long, I realized the unthinkable might have happened. A boy might actually LIKE like me. He walked next to me to class and kind of hung around his locker to talk to me longer. But instead of being elated, I was really fucking anxious.
Not only had I never had a boyfriend, but I never even had a boy show any sort of interest in me AT ALL. Well, that's not true, completely. The weird kind with extreme ADHD who smelled bad in my grade school once bought an ice cream after lunch, and insisted I eat it on the playground while he watched me. (Yes, that's really fucking weird. I bet he has a food fetish now.) I was so used to being outright ignored, if not harassed, that someone showing any interest in me was scary. Really scary.
My discomfort with the whole situation was also caused by my strong desire to be popular. Zac wasn't popular. I had seen enough teen movies to know that if you wanted to be in the in crowd, you needed to land yourself an A list boyfriend. But the year was coming to an end, and no one else showed interest in me, but I was still hopeful. The Semi-Formal dance was coming.
But Zac was the only who asked me, so I said yes, and then immediately had a panic attack. What the fuck was I going to do with a date? But I still got a dress somewhere at the mall, and I remember thinking it was pretty fucking sexy. It was a black tube top dress with a diagonal hem and pink roses on it with glitter all over. Why I thought a tube top would be a good idea for someone who had negative A cups, I have no idea. Of course, the dress was hideous. Actually, I found it a few years ago, and had to choke back vomit from the embarrassment. And, so you know, I topped off the dress with crimped hair. Yikes.
Anyways, I don't remember too much about the actual dance. All I know is that I felt real awkward because Zac was shorter than me, and also because he didn't know how to dance. I didn't want anyone to see me with him, I didn't want to risk any shred of coolness I might have still had. I wondered why as soon as a boy actually liked me, I immediately lost interest in him completely. I had spent the past four years dreaming about a boyfriend and a first kiss, and when it was sort of in reach, I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.
Of course, the next year was awkward because Zac still had the locker next to mine. We didn't talk for a whole year, but later, in tenth grade, we ended up being good friends. The rest of high school, he was one of my confidants and partners in crime, like the time we found a microwave and threw it off a second floor staircase. I haven't talked to or seen him in a while, but upon stalking his Facebook recently, I saw he turned into a pretty major hottie, with interesting hobbies(according to his Facebook: “Reading,Writing,Cycling,Running,Hiking” Also, I've heard, he enjoys smoking pot and classic rock) (Ok, I like none of those things except writing, but I guess they're all interesting in theory). Any girl would be lucky to date him now. Actually, he was always really considerate and really smart, so I probably would have been lucky to date him way back in junior high.
So I Zac wasn't my first love, or first boyfriend, but he was definitely the first boy who showed romantic interest in me. And he was the first boy I blew off. I'd send him this post, just because I know he'd think it was amusing, but according to his Facebook he's hiking the Appalachian Trail. See, even if I didn't semi-dump him way back when, we would have never worked out anyways.

Reed, ages 5-12

You are what you love
and not what loves you back.
-Jenny Lewis

I have never, my current boyfriend included, loved anyone as purely and completely as I loved Reed. Seven years of my life are punctuated with vivid memories involving only him. Somewhere around age ten, I stopped even thinking about what would happen if he ever, miraculously, recognized my undying love and responded to it. I was content to pine from afar.
I fell in love sometime during first grade, or kindergarten. I don't remember the day it happened, but I know that every day after, my focus was not on arts and crafts and arithmetic, but on spotting him on the playground. I was a timid kid, plagued by insecurities even at young age. I was small, awkward looking (my chin was really, really pointed), and had memorized the entire order of the Presidents by the time I was in first grade. Yeah, I wasn't popular. Throw in a lot of Skeggings and you pretty much have the idea (Skeggings, for those of you who had a deprived youth, are flouncy skirts CONNECTED to leggings, which created the ultimate early nineties ensemble for a six year old). Anyway, my teacher in first grade taught reading and the teacher next door taught math, and we switched classes once a day. He was in the opposite class from me, so when we switched I would run to the head of the line and practically knock people out to sit in his desk. I played with his colored pencils, examined all his possessions intently, and persistently looked for a clue of how to make him like me. I think my obsession with Reed was a direct cause of me being terrible at math. If I had spent a third of the time paying attention that I spent on fondling his eraser collection, I would probably be able to count without my fingers now.
Because I was acutely aware of my awkwardness, I didn't even consider the fact that a boy, any boy, could like me back. Consequently, I was fiercely private concerning my crush. I remember one time in fifth grade my friend, while we were hanging out at the pool, tried to get me to tell her who I “like liked”. I dunked underwater and screamed “REED” at the top of my lungs, confident that all she would see was bubbles. My secret was safe.
Cut to sixth grade graduation. Our yearbook was basically photocopied paper stapled together, but we didn't care. We all rushed around our end of the year pool party, collecting signatures. I worked up the courage the entire time to even approach Reed with my gel pen to ask him to write a message. I, clad in an L.L. Bean one piece with nary a trace of puberty evident in my awkward pre-teen form, finally went up to him right as our parents were coming to pick us up. I waited, with bated breath, hoping for a “See You Next Year” or at least a “U R COOL.” He passed the book back to me, and went over to play basketball with his friends. I looked down. There, in iridescent blue ink, was the most soul crushing rejection I have ever experienced. It said, simply, next to his picture:“Reed”. That was it! It wasn't even in cursive! I think I cried my self to sleep that night.
Despite the fact that after seven years of school together all he could think to write to me was his name, I still held on to my crush. In junior high, we all met five other school's worth of kids. Nascent hormones raged, and all my friend swooned over the popular jocks. I still only had eyes for Reed, who was obsessed with Blink 182. But we weren't in the same wing, so I only saw him at random intervals. I never even waved. Then it happened:the band and chorus trip to Six Flags.
I got to fucking sit next to him for TWO HOURS. It was pure happenstance, but I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Sure, he only sat there because his friends were sitting in front of me, and sure, he basically ignored me, but I was six inches away from him for an extended period of time. My elation faded soon after when I found out that he was moving to North Carolina. I was heartbroken.
Sadly, I only got out of my awkward phase at the end of freshman year, so Reed's memory of me is probably as the goody-two shoes chick with stringy hair. I still kind of feel like I have something to prove. LOOK, REED, I GOT KIND OF CUTE.
When I started writing this, I thought about where he is and what he's like. Turns out he's a fucking adorable hipster boy in a band. Jesus Christ.
So, although this is painfully uncomfortable for me, I added him on Facebook. He didn't reply right away. It took him two days to add me back. And in those two days, I was yanked back into that sixth grade heartbreak. So now this is the real test. I'm going to post think blog on my status, so it's entirely possible that he will read this and think I am a fucking psycho.But I had to prove it to myself, that I'm not that little girl anymore.


Uh, Reed, please don't de-friend me or file a restraining order. I would die.

Hello, again

There is love in our bodies and it holds us together
But pulls us apart when we're holding each other
We all want something to hold in the night
We don't care if it hurts or we're holding too tight
-Florence and the Machine

I saw my old friend Jake the other day for the first time in a year. As we drank whiskey, mine mixed with flat Diet Coke and his in a mug because there was no ice, I updated him on my relationship. I, as people in happy relationships are wont to do, gave a monologue about how great my boyfriend is and how much I look forward to our life together. Jake listened politely while smoking a Pall Mall out the bedroom window. He was quiet for a minute and then turned to me. “Mo,” he said, “now you've found that feeling, run from it as fast as you can.” Yes, he actually said that. He's an indie rock musician, everything he says sounds like an Elliott Smith lyric (he's going to read this and fucking kill me for saying that. Sorry, Jake.). Anyway, I couldn't help but think of his ex-girlfriend after his perfect little soundbite. She was a beautiful girl, the kind of girl who had an existential crisis more often than she did her laundry, and, of course, she was hopelessly charming. She took a lot from their relationship: money, emotional support, and his cat. She left him more cynical than before (and I had no idea that was even possible). It's been four years, and he's over her now, but to my knowledge, he hasn't had a serious girlfriend since. Maybe I'm making way too big a deal about this, but the whole conversation got me thinking about how my current view on love and commitment has been shaped by my past relationships. Because I've had a bunch, as long as you use the term “relationship” loosely. Watching a guy you're on a date with shotgun a Foster's in the backseat of his car outside a dive bar, well, it counts for something, but not a whole lot. But when I reflected on the convoluted route I took from first love to current bliss, I realized that some of the most important boys in my life were never really boyfriends at all. They were variations on a vaguely romantic theme. None of them ended up working out the way I planned, of course. But countless fights, tears (some mine and some theirs), orgasms, flowers and drunk dials later, I finally found the boy who things just work with. Is it him, or did I finally learn something after all these years? I like to think it's a combination. But I won't undermine the influence all those boys had on me. This is an open love letter to each of you. This is for all the boys I've ever loved.