My First Girlfriend
I knew the game -- I'd never participated, myself, but I sure as hell knew it. Several of the more popular kids in my 6th grade class had hooked up -- Tyson had a steady relationship with Emily for almost an entire school year. Heck, even my best friend Eric – a kid who frequently shouted random made-up words, made weird noises, and loudly repeated mis-heard song lyrics – had met a girl named Erika at camp, and (partly through the similarities of their first names, and partly because he called her the "prettiest one in their camp group") started "going steady" with her.
Now I was ready. It was the big time. 7th grade. Where boys became squeaky-voiced men, and (more importantly) a bunch of different elementary schools sent their kids to one big school, thereby increasing the eligible supply of lovely ladies three-fold. I had put the awkwardness of my years-long-crush-that-ultimately-led-to-me-never-even-actually-talking-to-the-girl-I-liked behind me, and now I was ready for the ladies to just line up, and break off a delicious (if somewhat ripe) piece of Tyler Bundt Cake.
And what better class for a woefully insecure boy to "hook up" in than 7th Grade Band. The open seating plan made for a wonderfully spacious area to roam about, and "lay your mac down." Plus, the class size was double that of a normal classroom, increasing the odds by...however many more kids there were in band than in a regular class (probably three-to-one...I'm guessing...). Finally, the "girl-to-guy" ratio was decidedly in favor of the gents, thanks to the ladies' affinity for the clarinet and the flute, and guys' affinity with "being cool and avoiding dork-heavy classes like band."
It happened pretty suddenly. I was picking up new sheet music (as was my job, being the leader of our misfit section), and I saw a flautist lean over to a neighboring clarinetist, asking her who I was. The clarinetist said in a very clarinetty kind of way, "I think his name's
However, that other girl surprised me – who the heck would ask about me? Lowly me? The percussionist with the Saints© Starter© parka, cowlicks, a Hypercolor© t-shirt, a shiny forehead and store-brand "pump sneakers."
But a low rumble was starting. I returned to the back row, flush with a couple pages of new sheet music, and handed it out to the rest of the apathetic ne'er-do-wells known as the "percussionist section." Already, an expanding group of flautist, clarinets, spilling into the french horns, were exchanging hushed whispers and looking in my direction. Normally I'd take this as a sure-fire sign of "group mocking," but I happened to be in one of the few places on campus where I was considered "somewhat cool." Plus, it wasn't accompanied with the typical "whispering, looking, then giggling" that went along with your run-of-the-mill mockery.
No, this was very different...strange...and toe-curlingly frightening. I did my best to look very suave and cool about the whole thing – clicking my .7mm mechanical pencil...curving the bill of my Seahawks cap...pumping up my sneaks...clumsily twirling a drumstick between my fingers...et cetera. Anything I could do to kill how dorky and socially inept I had felt since the first day of Junior High.
Suddenly, there was a breakthrough. I was approached by a female trombonist, asking if I "liked" the whispering flautist, whose name, I was informed, was "May" (month changed to prevent bringing embarrassment upon myself regarding someone who owns a MySpace account...and could potentially read this). I told her, very suavely, that I didn't know anything about May...but that she seemed nice. The trombonists' eyes went wide, as if she were a terrier that had just been tossed a "Snausage" and she retreated, giddily, to the expanding pack of nattering 7th grade girls.
After some consultation with the beet-red, face-buried-in-hands-from-embarrassment "May," the trombonist (let's call her "Imogen," because I don't remember who actually did this part of the story, and I've never really known how to pronounce the name "Imogen." The name "Siobhan" is also like that. And for the longest time, "Hermione" was that way as well, until some chick wrote a movie or something with the name in it...or something...), Imogen, returned.
"May wants to know if you want to go out with her."
"Really?"
"Yes. Do you."
"I don't know...I'd like to ask her myself...I mean...shouldn't I?"
There was a brief pause. "She can't talk now because she has a sore throat. So, do you want to go out with her, or not?"
I paused, missing the fact that May had been chatting away with her band of girls...sore throat and all. I didn't really care about that little white lie...because this was amazing. Some girl actually liked me – I was utterly befuddled. Up till now I had been convinced that I was born without any of the confidence my older brothers possessed, any of the charm from my father, the grace from my sister, or any the wonderful bone structure of my mother. I was...for all I believed...quite ordinary looking...if not a little "funny looking."
But somehow this "May" was interested in me. Not just "talking" to me (which would have been enough for my fragile self esteem), but actually romantically interested in me. I found it very hard to believe...and at that time in my life, when I thought things were too good to be true, I normally just assumed it meant that the people involved were just making fun of me somehow.
However, now was no time to worry about that. Because...what if she actually did like me? Imagine the ramifications of that. My girlfriend. Holding hands with me, walking down the aisles of our Junior High School...eating at the same lunch table together...talking on the phone...and just maybe (months and months into the relationship) sharing an awkward, dry-lipped kiss behind the English class portable...or something. I don't know...it would have done wonders for my self confidence...not to mention my status among my peers (both of them).
"Well?"
"Um...okay. Yes. I do."
"Great! I'll go tell her." And the trombonist ran off.
I saw her relate this news to May...who was wearing a purple Adidas parka...with her hair adorned by "a ribbon," and "bangs that went straight up from her forehead, and cascaded in a hair-spray-hardened wave across her lovely scalp" (Erika informed me that these are called "mall bangs"). To me, she was gorgeous...and while I might not have completely agreed with her taste in men (are you tired of the self loathing yet?), she sure was put together well.
Band class seemed to drag on forever that day...my new girl sitting across the room, exchanging shy smiles with yours-truly. Finally, the "bing" sounded over the P.A., and class was dismissed. I waited until May had fully disassembled her flute, grabbed her Espirit bag, and headed for the door. I intercepted her just outside the door.
She nodded her head, yes, and touched her throat gently to let me know she was unable to talk.
"Great! Okay...good, I just wanted to make it official, you know."
She nodded again.
"All right...well...I've got to get to my next class...so...I'll see you later." And I waved goodbye, delighted with my newfound stake in the area known as "manhood."
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