There
she goes, right where I knew I’d find her, taking books for her first classes
of the day from out of her locker. I am
lucky enough to have a locker only a few feet away from hers. My grandpa says never to underestimate the
value of location. Other students walk
by laughing, talking loud, horsing around, greeting each other, completely
unaware that I’m about to do this extraordinary thing, that my knees feel as
wobbly as a newborn colt.
Her
hair is prettily separated into dozens of spaghetti thin braids. Her hair clip is shaped like a butterfly
perched on a flower in full bloom. Last
year she wore braces, which did not keep her smile from speeding up the beat of
my heart. But after they were taken out,
the impossible happened. She became even
more beautiful.
I
had thought these last steps would be the hardest to take. Never would I have expected to grow so calm,
so bold. I suppose I feel that this is
beyond my control now. I’m like my
grandpa’s great big Cadillac, moving forward on cruise control. But when I arrive by her side, I realize
that the calmness was a mirage. My mouth
refuses to open. I feel dizzy. I think I might puke. Even when I had a bad case of the flu this
past winter, I managed not to do that.
Time
to regroup. I walk past her and stop in
front of my own locker. Why am I
freaking out? I’ve spoken to her several
times before. But never about anything
important, just small talk I’ve managed to sneak in whenever she wasn’t
occupied by the attention of others. She
has never made me feel that my clumsy attempts at conversation were
unwelcome. But I’ve never been convinced
that she was inviting me to say more, to speak what I really think, what I
truly feel, how I truly feel - about her.
I know that once I do, everything will change. It may change into bitter disappointment and
heartbreak, or else transform into something absolutely amazing. There is only one way to find out which.
I was
hoping to take command of the situation today like an action movie hero. I would follow my grandpa’s advice, tell her
that I liked her, and more importantly, let her know specifically what I
like. For example, her big hazel eyes;
the pitch of her laugh; her ability to expertly mimic the nasal voice of our
school librarian; the way she purses her lips in concentration when we’re
taking a test and she doesn’t realize I’m paying more attention to her than to
the exam; the magical scent of her hair that I catch as I pass by her in the
hallway.
Instead
of saying these things I just stand here, helplessly peeking out of the corner
of my eye, afraid to be caught staring, afraid that if I let her out of my
sight, the opportunity to act on my runaway feelings will be forever gone. Resolve is a lot tougher to locate once it’s
already been had and lost. So my grandpa
says anyway.
Some
might say I’m biting off more than I could possibly chew. My best friend Kurt is one of them. He insists that she’s one of the hottest
sophomores in school, as if I had not figured this out for myself. I also don’t need to be told that she’s very
popular, usually surrounded by friends from the school journal or the tennis
team she’s on, not to mention muscle bound admirers from the football team who
think they can effortlessly charm her because they wear jockstraps and jerseys,
never mind that they won only four games last year. But Kurt doesn’t see, or can’t see, that her
main priorities are not about being beautiful and in demand. She’s not like the extra fine, extra shallow
girls that Kurt lusts after who would pass on a guy like me with scarcely a
glance. If she was, she wouldn’t need to
reject me because I wouldn’t be interested in her to begin with. It so happens that she is an honor student
just as I am. And like me, she can often
be found in the library checking out not only books that are assigned to us,
but also those chosen for pleasure. Yes,
she is pretty and athletic and popular.
But she is also smart and ambitious and creative and funny and
sweet. In short, she’s perfect. Perfect for me.
Oh, there
is one other thing. She has the finest
looking butt you ever did see, sweet as a chocolate covered cherry, especially
in this pair of jeans she wears every other Wednesday like clockwork. They hug her hips just right, outlining her
curves with expert precision. In
anticipation of seeing her in those jeans, I wake up extra alert on those
days. Or at least a certain part of my
anatomy does.
What
does Kurt know about what girls want?
Not a whole lot, no matter how much junk he talks. He’s had exactly one more girlfriend in his
life than I have, giving him a grand total of one, and that only lasted a
month. He says I’m chasing after a girl
who is out of my league, but there’s nothing wrong with the league I’m in,
whatever it happens to be. I may not be
a jock or one of those guys who walks around in phat gear and blinging jewelry like
a big shot in a rap video, but I don’t think I’m someone a girl would be
embarrassed to be around either. I’ve
been called cute plenty of times, well at least a few times, the message
usually delivered second hand. But the
girls who have lazily pursued me in the past were ones I was not all that
interested in, and the ones who have sparked my interest did not pay me much
mind. I’m not sure why my love life, or
lack thereof, has worked out like it has.
I often see much dopier looking guys than me with pretty girls on their
arms while I stand by enviously and alone.
Maybe those guys are simply luckier than I am. Or braver.
Probably a combination of the two.
I’m guessing that Lady Luck will not just fall in my lap. I’ll need to test her to see if she’ll work
for me. As for bravery, I’ll have to
fake it. Maybe brave people are
sometimes nothing more than cowards doing a good job of acting.
My
grandpa told me recently that my dad was quite awkward and shy in high
school. I think he was saving the story
until I reached puberty. My dad was
tall, which is usually a plus, except that he was the gangly type rather than
one of those guys who take off their shirts on playground basketball courts to
show off their 3-D abs. Apparently my
dad did plenty of tripping over his feet and his tongue when trying to impress
girls way back when. But his frame and
his confidence filled out as he grew older, and by the time he graduated
college he had successfully managed to win over the most beautiful girl he’d
ever met - my mom. There was hope for my
dad, so there must be hope for me too.
I’ve met the girl of my dreams at a younger age than my dad met his, so
I’ll need to grow into my own at an accelerated pace. I’ll need to get off the sidelines and into
the game, as sports obsessed Kurt would put it.
I
wonder what my grandpa would say if he were here beside me, an invisible guide
coaching me to action. How would he
motivate me to push away this gigantic boulder that my fears and insecurities
have merged into? I’m surprised to draw
a blank. The boulder seems too heavy for
even my grandpa’s endless wisdom to budge.
I remember him once telling me that if you can’t push something out of
your way, you need to find a way around it.
But this boulder is not only impossibly heavy, it’s also much too wide
to circle in the amount of time at hand.
While I
stand here idly considering my options, the bell goes off and she goes off with
it towards her homeroom class.
Everything around me suddenly speeds up from the slow motion it seemed
to be have been moving in when my vision was locked on a single target. Lockers clang shut, conversations are cut
short to be resumed later in the day, sneakers squeal as their inhabitants rush
past me in opposite directions, my classmates for the moment nothing but a blur
of colors. Not wanting to receive
detention for late arrival, I have no choice but to join the stream.
I
don’t hear a single word said to me throughout the school day. What my teachers are trying to place in my
head, I have little patience or luck attempting to hold in. In history class the talk is of wars fought
long ago. Geometry presents a bunch of
fancy names for simple shapes. My French
teacher communicates in a strange curvaceous tongue. In biology class I absently create colorful
potions that sizzle in beakers. And if
all of this isn’t thrilling enough, I am forced to grunt, groan and sweat for
the entertainment of Mr. Bellamy, who apparently was unable to decide between
becoming a gym teacher or a drill sergeant, so decided to split the
difference. But not a single lesson
taught from bell to bell explains how to find the courage to speak to a
beautiful girl.
When
my final class ends I rush outside and head home as if wearing blinders,
desperate to avoid an encounter that would only deepen what is already an ocean
of shame. I don’t want to risk seeing
her again today. I don’t want to be
reminded of what I let slip away before I was ever able to grab hold. With every step I further realize that my
flight is senseless. I can hide from her
today, but I will no doubt run into her eventually. There are still three years of high school
left to go. And even if I somehow was
able to keep our paths from crossing for all that time, it wouldn’t stop me
from remembering. Remembering how crazy
I am about her. Remembering that I’m a
coward.
I
arrive home to the sight of my grandpa nestled in his easy chair, spectacles
hanging precariously at the very tip of his nose as he reads a thick, leather
bound book. I’ve seen him in this pose a
thousand times, watched him run his large veined hands over his neatly trimmed
salt and pepper beard when he’s about to turn a page, observed his bushy
eyebrows raising every day to acknowledge my entrance when I get home from
school. It gives me comfort to know
that some things do remain the same.
They can be relied on no matter what happens around them.
Instead of
waiting for him to greet me and ask how my day went, I break our ritual to ask
the question I came up with on my lonely walk home.
“Grandpa,
what’s the hardest thing you ever had to do?”
My grandpa
answers every question of mine as if he was expecting it and had rehearsed
giving the perfect response. This time
proves to be no exception.
“I tried to
make myself the father I never was to your dad.
I’m still trying.”
“I don’t
understand.”
He removes
a bookmark from his shirt pocket to hold the page he’s on, places the book on
the table beside him, and takes up his pipe.
Although he puts the pipe in his mouth, he makes no move to light
it. My grandpa gave up smoking years
ago, transferring from daily packs of cigarettes, to a few cigars after dinner,
to one smoke of his pipe late in the evening, until arriving at his goal of
total abstinence. He still holds the
pipe in his mouth sometimes, usually when he’s worried or in deep concentration
over some important matter. This tips me
off to pay especially close attention to whatever he’ll say next.
“You see,
when your dad was growing up I wasn’t around for him very much. I used the excuse of trying to build a
career, providing amply for my family.
But even when I was home, I wasn’t involved like I should have been. I left the day to day details to your
grandma, not realizing that the day to day details are what make up our
lives. She’s the one who went to the PTA
meetings, bandaged your dad’s bruises, went to his school plays, protected him
as a growing boy and showed him how to be a good man. The most I did was watch the occasional ball
game on TV with him.”
I am
somewhat surprised, close to stunned actually.
My grandpa is saying things beyond the logic of the world I have
experienced. The words he speaks don’t
match up with the deeds of the man I know him to be. Recognizing the disbelief in my eyes, he
explains himself further.
“I was
amazed by the kind of father he turned out to be, especially under the
circumstances of having to do it mostly by himself. I used to make excuses for the way I’d been,
saying I had the worst possible role model in my old man. But what he passed down to me, I failed to
pass along. Maybe the fact that your dad
had to become both father and mother
to you had something to do with it. He
needed to somehow fill the void left by your mother’s passing, and he did one
hell of a job. I watched him raise you
with enormous pride, and in the process, I got my first lessons on how to be a
real father, not just the man who pays the bills.”
Hearing him
speak of my father like this really gets to me, but I manage to hold my tears
in check. Okay, I hold most of them
in. Can you blame me for letting a few
slip out?
“After the
accident when you moved in with me, I was given the opportunity to put into
practice what I had learned. And I must
be doing an okay job the second time around because you’ve grown up to be a
wonderful young man, even if you do wear your pants too baggy for my
taste. I’m guessing you’ll grow out of
that eventually. In life you grow in and
out of all sorts of things.”
“You’re
doing a great job, Grandpa.” I would
give him a hug if he was more of the touchy-feely type, but knowing better, I
just return his contagious smile. He
puts his pipe back down and takes his book up, pushing his glasses closer to
the oval auburn eyes that I inherited. I
cross the living room of our bachelor pad, as my grandpa is jokingly fond of
calling the house, and head upstairs to my room.
For reasons
I do not comprehend and will not bother trying to figure out just now, the talk
with my grandpa has released my apprehension.
I find myself able to get to the business at hand. Knowing her last name and the street her
family lives on, locating her phone number in the White Pages is a breeze. My fingers do not tremble as I dial. There is no quaver to my voice when I ask if
she is home. And when she appears on the
other end of the phone line, I simply begin speaking to her as if it’s the most
natural thing in the world to do, rather than the near miracle I know it to be.
Our first
real conversation lasts nearly two hours.
It goes easier than I could have ever imagined, like a baby squirrel
figuring out how to climb a tree. She
seems to have expected my call, to have been waiting for it even. I learn countless new things about her. We turn out to have a whole lot in common,
sharing the same favorite flavor of ice cream, and favorite song currently on
the Top Ten countdown, and favorite book read in Literature class last year,
and mutual annoyance at the frantic hand waving done by a certain pigtailed
know-it-all in every class. I quickly
grow fond of the frequently said phrase - “me too”.
As
the phone call draws to a close, nervousness finally returns. I ignore this emotion and tell her that I
have one more question to ask. To calm
myself, I close my eyes and recall the first time I ever rode a bicycle without
training wheels. I remember the shock of
looking back and learning that my father had stopped running alongside to keep
me balanced, that I had been riding for awhile all by myself. I remember how unstable the bike got after
that, how I lost control, the skinned knee earned for the effort. I remember getting back up, brushing myself
off, hopping on the bike again and riding towards my dad like I had been doing
so all my life.
The
details of life when my dad was still around grow fuzzier as time passes. I don’t want to forget anything about him,
but little by little my memory fades.
Once I ran home in a panic after school because I suddenly realized that
I couldn’t picture what he looked like.
I flew into my house and straight to the nearest photograph with him in
it. That picture is of my parents, the
father taken from me by a drunk driver and the mother I never got to know at
all because she died while giving birth to me.
Neither of them died as heroes, such as what they’re calling the firemen
and police officers who rushed into the World Trade Center back at the
beginning of the semester. If you have
to die, I guess it would be nice to be called a hero by those you leave
behind. My father and mother were just
ordinary people with worse than ordinary luck, I suppose. Then again, my grandpa says heroes come in
all sorts of shapes and sizes that you can’t always recognize.
With
heroes, and my long ago bicycle lesson, and the steadying hands of my father, and
a mother I never met who has always seemed like my own personal angel in mind,
I ask a girl if she would like to go out on a date with me. It is the first time I have ever done such a
brave and wonderful thing. I probably
didn’t do it perfect. But I did it. And how did it go?
As
my grandpa says, sometimes it is the journey that matters, not the
destination. She answers that this
weekend isn’t good for her. My heart
drops. Then she says that the following
weekend would be much better. So my
destination is the movies next Saturday night.
I don’t
know how I’m going to wait so long without bursting. I sure do wish it was sooner, although I’ll
probably need all the time I can get to prepare myself. It will probably take me at least a few days
to learn how to be charming and clever and whatever else girls like a guy to
be.
Fortunately,
my grandpa is a great teacher.
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