My
First Hurts-So-Bad-It-Must-Be-Love Crush
I
didn’t know love hurt. That it was a constant, yearning ache, one
that would tie my heart into knots, one that would saturate every
thought with him, and make me think of him with every breath I drew.
He’s breathing too, right this very second. Does
he think of me? Has he even noticed me? We both gotta breathe, sure,
but I can pretend we’re breathing together.
Oh.
My. God. Thirteen sucks. Thirteen is when you discover the meaning of
bitter-sweet and gawky and heartsick. (And the rest of your family
discovers the meaning of self-absorbed, brooding, and melodramatic
and you can agree on one thing: thirteen sucks.)
I
would babble about this boy at meals, every word spilling from my
lips was all about him, My mother dismissed me as boy-crazy, and
while crazy was accurate since that was how I felt, I was only crazy
for one boy.
I
was in eighth grade in junior high school and his name was John. He
had dark hair and dark eyes and seemed so mysterious. He was quiet
and usually traveled around the school with an entourage of two male
friends. He wasn’t one of the popular boys or a jock or even an
outcast. He was a regular boy and I thought he was the cutest boy in
the universe. I would’ve delivered up my heart on a platter (still
quivering) if he would’ve even looked my way.
We
often took the same short cut home across the field after school, and
I would trail behind him and his friends. I would study every toss of
his head, feel weak at the sound of his laughter. I think all I
really wanted from him was to just look at him, to be near, to be
able to laugh with him and maybe, just maybe, hold hands. I don’t
think I even thought about a kiss, just his company and holding
hands.
One
day, he dropped a glove as he walked home and, heart pounding,
delirious, I picked it up. I took it home, thinking I would give it
to him in class the next day. I could only hope I wouldn’t faint
while doing so.
I
never found the courage to give him the glove. I think a part of me
never intended to. I kept it under my pillow. A keepsake. A promise.
A way to be close to him. I often wished I could walk up to him,
smile, and say, “Hey, John” and make him look at me with the same
yearning I felt twisting like ivy around my heart whenever I walked
past him without a word or a glance, my cheeks blazing as if he could
read my thoughts. (Hopefully not about the glove hidden beneath my
pillow!)
I
pined over John for a long time. Wrote maudlin poetry and moped. A
lot. I think I’m fortunate no one in my family smothered me in my
sleep (with the glove). LOL. During the year of my crush, John said
hello to me once and smiled. I blushed so hard that I’m surprised I
didn’t burst into flame. I stammered something, probably, “Uh.”
But the unrequited love affair of the century began to wane when John
was asked to read aloud in class. As he struggled with each word in
the book, I realized he didn’t read much. Well, okay, we could
around that. But when he pronounced Chicago as chick-a-go, I knew we
were doomed.
I
never had a crush as intense and painful and (one-sidedly) romantic
as that one. I don’t think I would’ve survived another. My family
would’ve made sure. LOL.
And
speaking of firsts:
You
can read a chapter from the first book in The Maker’s Song series.
Here’s
a link
to a sample chapter of A
Rush of Wings.
Thanks
so much for having me! It’s been a blast. You can also find me at:
