But I could only avert my eyes for so long. Soon enough, laughter and whispers could be heard all around me. I ventured a glance, and everyone was staring at me, mocking grins plastered on their faces. Madeline Scott squealed in laughter, and when I saw the letter in her hands, I crumpled. It was the worst moment of my young life.
I stared down at my notebook; drawings of unicorns, rainbows, ribbons, and the geometric patterns I favored from an early age. I brought my pen to paper and resumed my border of perfectly stacked triangles. I meticulously worked my way along the page as Mrs. Jackson went on about basic addition and subtraction, which was so beneath me. I was already into multiplications.
My pulse was racing. I felt light-headed and clammy, struggling to breathe. I felt trapped, like I was caught in a coffin, six feet under. I desperately wanted to escape, but I knew to do so would only bring more attention to myself. I kept my eyes on my notebook, and hoped that it would end soon.
Mrs. Jackson’s back was turned as she scribbled on the blackboard. I wasn’t looking up but I sensed her turn around and shuffle some papers on her desk. She handed us an exercise to do, and said she’d be out for just a minute or two.
Fear drowned me. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I knew exactly what this meant. No supervision meant that these kids were free to say or do whatever their wicked little minds wished. I ventured a glance up at Connor, and when he turned to me, my eyes pleaded with him.
Save me. Tell them you like me too.
As soon as our teacher stepped out, and the slam of the door was heard, it began. Madeline Scott was the first to mock me. “I adore your eyes, your hair and your smile,” she cooed, and topped it off with kissing sounds. The whole class erupted in laughter.
They’re just bullies, the whole lot of them, I reminded myself.
Christian Ward chimed in. “Can I tell everyone that you are my booooooyfriend?” His voice was an irritating squeal in an attempt to sound like me.
The class only laughed harder. My whole body was on fire. My ears were buzzing. I couldn’t breathe.
Someone else called out, “We could eat popsicles together. Do you like banana popsicles?”
“Yesss,” Connor broke in. “Banana popsicles are awesome.”
The fact that Connor was in on it was a blow for sure, but I wasn’t completely wrecked until, Sarah, my only friend, got in on it too.
“Can I borrow a pencil, future Mrs. Timmons?” She snickered, and in that moment, I realized that I had no one at all.
I fell into sobs. Until then, I’d been putting up a good fight, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.
When Sarah noticed me crying, she was quick to act. “Let’s stop. It’s not funny anymore. She’s crying.”
A horrible, uncomfortable silence floated above us all. I quickly grabbed all my things and scurried outside, my gaze stuck to the floor as I finally escaped the hell of my third grade class.
The aftermath was almost as horrible as those few minutes in Mrs. Jackson’s class. I was forced to go to school, despite my strong objections. My mother thought it was just “Mischa being Mischa”, and I was too embarrassed to tell them what had happened. I didn’t want my sisters to know that Connor had rejected me.
Connor never spoke to me, never acknowledged my letter. He could have made everything right just by accepting my request, and telling the world that he liked me too. But he didn’t. And I realized then that I was a delusional fool. I ripped up every single page of my notebook. I threw the scraps in our old steel pink bathtub, stole some matches from the kitchen, and burned every single page.
The teasing persisted for a least a week, but I held my head up high. Someone even gave me a half melted banana popsicle, and I took it politely and ate it, feigning enjoyment until it was gone. I refused to cry or sulk. I was still embarrassed and devastated but never let it show. The next week, everyone was making fun of Janice Mitchell who showed up at school with her Strawberry Shortcake underwear stuck to the back of her pants. I suppose her mother wasn’t familiar with fabric softener. I felt bad for Janice and never participated in the mocking, but I was so relieved that they were all finally off my back.
Turns out I not only discovered love that year, but I also learned all about heartbreak.
16
The second time it happened was when I was fifteen. Andrew Phillips was my second love. A blond haired, blue eyed boy who loved chess like I did. I fell for him as soon as he played his first move. He had a girlfriend named Samantha at the time, a cute little thing who wore her brown hair in braids. She was as nerdy as I was, but perhaps not as pretty.
But once I entered the picture, she didn’t last long. I knew stealing another girl’s boy was wrong, but I was driven by a desperate need to have him for myself, by an uncontrollable romantic obsession. I was shocked but how powerful this fixation was, by how it could so easily transform me from a mild mannered good girl to a little vixen. I didn’t recognize myself.
We shared our first kiss behind a 7-eleven, and I let him feel me up a week later. Two weeks later, I gave him a hand job. But that’s as far as I was willing to go. The idea of sex, be it intercourse or oral scared me. All the diseases out there filled my head with horrible images of rashes, warts and sickness. I knew that Andrew wasn’t a virgin like I was — he and Samantha had had sex before and I wondered how many partners Samantha had had before Andrew. She seemed sweet as pie, but I knew looks could be deceiving. I looked sweet as pie too, but I was anything but.
A few months later, I still wouldn’t give it up, and he broke up with me. He crawled back to Samantha with his tail between his legs. That’s when I became really obsessed. I called him obsessively, showed up at his house at all hours, even sent him a scrapbook I made about the both of us. It didn’t take long for the news of my insanity and stalker tendencies to make the rounds around the school. From then on, I was officially the school psycho, and boys wouldn’t come near me. Neither did the girls for that matter.
The third time I got hit by cupid’s bow, I was sixteen, and the boy in question was Brian. Thankfully, this story had a happy ending, for the most part, current discoveries notwithstanding.
Then there was Anthony. Anthony was a chapter in my life I’d rather forget.
And now, Joel. I know I need to break out of this early if I have any chance of not falling down the rabbit hole again. But is it too late? I already know too much about him. I know what he eats for breakfast. I know he hates pickles. I know he wears slippers. He likes the Chicago Bulls and classic rock. All the time, when I thought I was innocently creeping his Facebook feed, he was becoming more real for me, he was digging his way into my heart, stamping himself onto my brain.
Yet, I was still safe because our gazes hadn’t met yet. All it takes is a second. I already knew he was gorgeous — I’d seen enough photos, but I had no clue just how beautiful he was in the flesh. A picture doesn’t let you see someone’s soul, a grin is frozen, captured in a fraction of a second. But when someone smiles directly at you, you see everything. I saw it all. And I loved everything I saw.
