Crushes

Carter from Mrs. Scott’s kindergarten class. He was the only boy who didn’t have an absurdly short buzzcut. He was also the fastest at tag, so he seemed the natural pick. 

Madeline from Mrs. Scott’s kindergarten class. She had the gentlest of hearts and the shortest haircut of all the girls. I told myself, ‘It’s just because she looks like a boy.’ 

Nicholas from Mrs. Michelle’s first-grade class. He had a shaggy haircut. 

Cooper from Mrs. Kat’s second-grade class. He had a slightly longer shaggy haircut.

Annie, whom I met at Summer Camp at age eight. Her curls blazed in the sunlight while she cartwheeled and less than gracefully tumbled down the grassy hill by the edge of the woods, all while singing some old classic rock song that none of the other campers knew the words to, except for me. I told myself I wanted to be her friend very badly, and that's why I felt so jealous of the other kids she hung out with. 

Aiden from Mr. Stafford’s fifth-grade class. I honestly don't know why. He was so cruel to me. 

Peter from sixth-grade music. He was also cruel, but I lived for his occasional kindness. 

Hannah, an eighth grader, whom I met through my seventh-grade friend group. She was mean in a cool way and pretty in an ethereal way that appeared as though she emanated an aura of light. She stole my Yankees cap as a joke one day and held it just out of my reach, and I felt something click. I left the mall early because “I wasn’t feeling well.” I laid awake all that night, staring into the darkness of my room, wishing the mattress beneath my quivering body would absorb me into the abyss. 

Petey from eighth-grade English. He was the first boy who liked me and wasn’t embarrassed to say it out loud. He was then–as he is now–a wonderful character with the most unique sense of humor. He once did an overly dramatic and heavily animated reading of Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 87,” all because I dared him to do it and he wanted to make me laugh. I had so badly wished to like him back; I think I even prayed for it. Maybe in another life. 

Jonathan was my boyfriend from sophomore year of high school. He was sweet and played the guitar for me to sing along to. He encouraged me to audition for the musical, even when I said I was too anxious and could never keep time in music. He helped me learn and practice my audition song, and helped bring my voice back into time and back into tune. And he was ecstatic for me when I got a mere ensemble role, with a “featured dancer” role as a bird. I desperately wanted to return his feelings. I tried with everything in me. I could never apologize to him enough. 

Naomi, who was my best friend from junior year of high school. She brought color into my world. She finished every sentence I started, like she was reading my mind. She always went along with my banter, regardless of how ridiculous and obscene it got. Her voice sounded like music, like the most beautiful song only your soul can sing. She was the dearest friend I had ever known. She was everything to me. And I knew, in my heart, that I could never have her. 

Jackson from my junior year high school production of Cinderella. He was the Prince, naturally. I was in the ensemble, resentfully. Every girl in the cast and crew was desperately in love with him. I never saw whatever made him such a divine being in their eyes. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, he liked me. And when the hottest guy in the entire music department is somehow into you, you feel like you must at least try to be into him back. We talked a bit over the summer. It was less than thrilling, even when he unexpectedly sent me photos of his erect cock. I used Google for every ‘sext’ I sent him.

Naomi, who was still my best friend at the start of senior year. She kissed me. We were alone in the basement at a party. She was drunk. I was just sober enough to remember. All the feelings I tried to bury came to the surface all at once. 

Jackson, who became my boyfriend at the start of senior year. He found me crying in the music library at school the morning following the party. I had tried to confront Naomi in the hallway, and she had brushed past me like I wasn’t even there, not sparing me a single glance even as I called her name over and over. He held me just the way I needed in that moment. He brought me back down to earth. I kissed him. I needed to like him. 

Naomi, a stranger I knew everything about. I tried to ignore her, as she ignored me. It was physically strenuous keeping my eyes away from her direction at all times. Still, I snuck a few glances, at least one a day. Sometimes looking at the back of her head or her leg bouncing at her desk at the front of our history class. Sometimes glimpsing at the side of her face or at her worn-out character shoes during rehearsals. Sometimes, I just looked in her general direction hoping to see a glimmer of her. Each glance jolted my heart with a crude pain. As weeks passed into months, each glance hurt a little more than the last. Still, I ignored it, and eventually became used to the constant ache in my chest. 

Jess, Jackson’s older sister. She was the first girl who liked me and wasn’t embarrassed to say it out loud, at least not behind her closed bedroom door. She was nice. Or she was until the night Jackson walked in on us, entangled in each other at the edge of her bed, topless. 

Naomi, a rekindled friendship. She reached out after word got out about why Jackson and I broke up. She didn’t mention the party, and neither did I. She stuck firmly by my side for the rest of senior year, even when our friends began to ostracize us. Despite everything that had happened between and around us, the world fell back into rhythm again. I told myself that being her friend was more than enough. 

Naomi, the one that got away. We spent nearly every day together that summer before starting college. We went on long drives to nowhere, blasting our favorite songs on my busted car speaker, singing our hearts out. We would often get caught up in ridiculous side quests that would end with us at the elementary school playground at two in the morning, our mothers blowing up our phones, demanding we come home. We never so much as mentioned the party or the morning after, yet it resounded in the air between us at times. Yet, things had never been more wonderful. I felt like we could face anything the world had to throw in our path, and still nothing could break us. Then, the night before I left for school, she kissed me again. We were alone in my car, in the middle of the night, parked just out of view of the windows of her house. We were both sober. She told me firmly that her parents would disown her if they knew. She then held my face softly in her hands and sorrowfully whispered, “Maybe in another life.” She wept as she told me she “could never apologize to me enough.” She hugged me tightly for a moment, then quickly turned to get out of the car. She breathed a heavy “Goodbye.” I remember her face, glancing back at me over her shoulder, the moonlight illuminating the tears smeared down her flushed cheeks. I haven’t seen her since she disappeared behind her front door. I still drive by sometimes, just to see if the door is still closed.