Many thoughts inhabit the mind of a 13-year-old boy. The newly adolescent psyche is a chaotic
place. Amid the confusion, one thought dominates the others with undisputed presence. That
thought? Girls.
Yes, girls. Anything to do with them. For most boys, the most important event occurring after
their thirteenth birthday is the fact interactions with the opposite gender are no longer viewed as
taboo. Before my teenage years, I wouldn’t dare be caught with a girl unless every avenue of
escape was blocked for fear I might contract the deadly and highly contagious disease known
throughout schoolyards as Cooties.
Infection by this disease meant an inevitable onslaught of ridicule. Limericks involving a baby
carriage, sitting in a tree and some spelling were just some of the symptoms. However, with the
arrival of my thirteenth birthday came immunity to this bug.At long last, the threat of acquiring Cooties was lifted from my shoulders and placed among the ranks of Polio and ex-American Idol hopeful William Hung among ailments that no longer plague human society.
Although it was now socially acceptable to converse with girls, at thirteen, I wasn’t exactly adept at it.
School dances were a nightmare for me. A provisional dance floor emerged from cafeteria tables
roughly brushed aside, modifying the familiar room where I had so often enjoyed many a
chicken salad sandwich. Now an alien space occupied the center of the room that seemed to
share my reluctance to be at the event. The absence of the usual fluorescent lighting produced a
blackness that seemed to mask the identities of all who ventured through it. The music and the
pounding resonance of the bass reverberated throughout the room so that I had to shout to be
heard. I stood against a wall, talking with some friends while maintaining a close eye on the
object of my affections.
While most of my friends had girlfriends to dance with, I was usually by myself—too shy to ask
my love to dance. I wanted to talk to her more than anything. Why was it so hard? I was not
afraid to talk to her. She sat next to me in three of our classes. We regularly had profound,
personal conversations. Well, at least I thought we did.
Whenever we spoke, in my mind, I was
Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire:
“I love you. You complete me,” I would think.
“Shut up. You had me at hello.”
Unfortunately our conversations never progressed beyond the boundaries of homework problems
and asking for pens—not quite the romantic poeticism that played out in my mind.
However, the school dance was my opportunity to talk to her and declare my feelings. Here,
romantic interactions seemed almost inevitable based on the pageantry of the event, yet I
remained attached to the wall as if some invisible force was restraining me. I was a prisoner,
bound by my fear of rejection. I could do nothing but stare at her as she playfully danced with
her friends.
She was beautiful. She stood out of the almost subterranean darkness with the radiance of a
beacon. Her smile, though aligned with braces, caused her nose to wrinkle ever so slightly. I
continued to admire her. She wore a green and white dress that was obviously bought
specifically for this occasion as she moved uncomfortably, almost self-consciously about her
attire. Once, she looked in my direction and caught my glance; I hurriedly averted my eyes.
When the weight of her stare passed, I lifted my eyes to resume my fixation. To my dismay she
was no longer there.
I thought, “Maybe she went to the bathroom, or for a drink of water, or for—”
“Hey,” I heard somebody say.
It was she; she was talking to me. I didn’t know what do. I was stunned. Paralyzed. “What should I do? What should I say? Should I ask her if she wants to dance?” I
thought.
“Do you want to dance with me?” she asked.
I did my best to make some comprehensible, positive reply. She grabbed me by the hand as she
led the way toward an open patch of tile on the floor. Once there, she put her arms around my
neck. I somehow managed to control my arms and wrap them around her waist. We began to
dance—rotating in a small orbit on the floor. My heart, exploding with each beat in my chest,
surpassed the incessant throbbing of the bass that flooded the room.
As the song progressed, she inched closer to me so she could rest her head on my shoulder. I
knew what this meant. I had seen it happen before. She wanted me to kiss her. But I had never
kissed a girl before; I didn’t know what to do.
“If only the song would never end,” I thought.
But it soon did. Gradually, the surrounding couples began to separate as the lights started to
return. Once the last bit of darkness was chased from the room, everybody stood like moles in
the sunlight as they adjusted their eyes to the blinding brightness. As soon as I could see again, I
looked at the girl in front of me. Her nose crinkled as she smiled, and she brushed her hair back
into place.
“Thanks for the dance,” she said.
I didn’t say anything for a moment as I tried to think of some clever response. That’s when it
happened. She leaned in and kissed me. Any hope I had of impressing her with a quick-witted
remark vanished as I was reduced to an incomprehensible buffoon. I didn’t have time to
compose myself because she left with her friends soon after the incident. I stood there in the
middle of the cafeteria floor with a huge grin across my face.
That was the moment to end all others. I wanted to believe no romantic exchange that had ever
occurred, or ever would occur, could supersede the one I had just experienced. However, one
fact remained certain: I was infected with an even deadlier agent than the Cooties that plagued
schoolyard children—Love.
place. Amid the confusion, one thought dominates the others with undisputed presence. That
thought? Girls.
Yes, girls. Anything to do with them. For most boys, the most important event occurring after
their thirteenth birthday is the fact interactions with the opposite gender are no longer viewed as
taboo. Before my teenage years, I wouldn’t dare be caught with a girl unless every avenue of
escape was blocked for fear I might contract the deadly and highly contagious disease known
throughout schoolyards as Cooties.
Infection by this disease meant an inevitable onslaught of ridicule. Limericks involving a baby
carriage, sitting in a tree and some spelling were just some of the symptoms. However, with the
arrival of my thirteenth birthday came immunity to this bug.At long last, the threat of acquiring Cooties was lifted from my shoulders and placed among the ranks of Polio and ex-American Idol hopeful William Hung among ailments that no longer plague human society.
Although it was now socially acceptable to converse with girls, at thirteen, I wasn’t exactly adept at it.
School dances were a nightmare for me. A provisional dance floor emerged from cafeteria tables
roughly brushed aside, modifying the familiar room where I had so often enjoyed many a
chicken salad sandwich. Now an alien space occupied the center of the room that seemed to
share my reluctance to be at the event. The absence of the usual fluorescent lighting produced a
blackness that seemed to mask the identities of all who ventured through it. The music and the
pounding resonance of the bass reverberated throughout the room so that I had to shout to be
heard. I stood against a wall, talking with some friends while maintaining a close eye on the
object of my affections.
While most of my friends had girlfriends to dance with, I was usually by myself—too shy to ask
my love to dance. I wanted to talk to her more than anything. Why was it so hard? I was not
afraid to talk to her. She sat next to me in three of our classes. We regularly had profound,
personal conversations. Well, at least I thought we did.
Whenever we spoke, in my mind, I was
Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire:
“I love you. You complete me,” I would think.
“Shut up. You had me at hello.”
Unfortunately our conversations never progressed beyond the boundaries of homework problems
and asking for pens—not quite the romantic poeticism that played out in my mind.
However, the school dance was my opportunity to talk to her and declare my feelings. Here,
romantic interactions seemed almost inevitable based on the pageantry of the event, yet I
remained attached to the wall as if some invisible force was restraining me. I was a prisoner,
bound by my fear of rejection. I could do nothing but stare at her as she playfully danced with
her friends.
She was beautiful. She stood out of the almost subterranean darkness with the radiance of a
beacon. Her smile, though aligned with braces, caused her nose to wrinkle ever so slightly. I
continued to admire her. She wore a green and white dress that was obviously bought
specifically for this occasion as she moved uncomfortably, almost self-consciously about her
attire. Once, she looked in my direction and caught my glance; I hurriedly averted my eyes.
When the weight of her stare passed, I lifted my eyes to resume my fixation. To my dismay she
was no longer there.
I thought, “Maybe she went to the bathroom, or for a drink of water, or for—”
“Hey,” I heard somebody say.
It was she; she was talking to me. I didn’t know what do. I was stunned. Paralyzed. “What should I do? What should I say? Should I ask her if she wants to dance?” I
thought.
“Do you want to dance with me?” she asked.
I did my best to make some comprehensible, positive reply. She grabbed me by the hand as she
led the way toward an open patch of tile on the floor. Once there, she put her arms around my
neck. I somehow managed to control my arms and wrap them around her waist. We began to
dance—rotating in a small orbit on the floor. My heart, exploding with each beat in my chest,
surpassed the incessant throbbing of the bass that flooded the room.
As the song progressed, she inched closer to me so she could rest her head on my shoulder. I
knew what this meant. I had seen it happen before. She wanted me to kiss her. But I had never
kissed a girl before; I didn’t know what to do.
“If only the song would never end,” I thought.
But it soon did. Gradually, the surrounding couples began to separate as the lights started to
return. Once the last bit of darkness was chased from the room, everybody stood like moles in
the sunlight as they adjusted their eyes to the blinding brightness. As soon as I could see again, I
looked at the girl in front of me. Her nose crinkled as she smiled, and she brushed her hair back
into place.
“Thanks for the dance,” she said.
I didn’t say anything for a moment as I tried to think of some clever response. That’s when it
happened. She leaned in and kissed me. Any hope I had of impressing her with a quick-witted
remark vanished as I was reduced to an incomprehensible buffoon. I didn’t have time to
compose myself because she left with her friends soon after the incident. I stood there in the
middle of the cafeteria floor with a huge grin across my face.
That was the moment to end all others. I wanted to believe no romantic exchange that had ever
occurred, or ever would occur, could supersede the one I had just experienced. However, one
fact remained certain: I was infected with an even deadlier agent than the Cooties that plagued
schoolyard children—Love.
