Now that the semester is over, I’d love for us to keep our blog going! In my creative writing class this semester we did not get much opportunity to get feedback from our peers, so I’d like to post a memoir I wrote for class. I’d appreciate if you guys read it and could give me some constructive criticism. And I’d love to see anything you guys wrote, too!!
I haven’t really come up with a title for it yet…not sure if I ever will, lol. But…here it is!
I was a sophomore in high school when I fell in love with Nick. After a growth spurt that left me at about 105 pounds and just five feet tall, I was still trying to find myself. My dark brown hair was of medium length, slightly frizzy and just barely brushing against my thin shoulders. My eyebrows were too thin from plucking them myself and I wore the same deep red lipstick every day. I practically lived in a pair of light blue jogging pants my mother had bought me from Aeropostale and the only perfume I wore was the crisp and overbearing scent of Tommy Girl. Five days a week I would sit in Ms. Rothchild’s Spanish class, aimlessly staring at shiny posters full of words I couldn’t understand that covered the tan concrete walls. Five days a week I would look over to my right, to the back corner of the classroom where kids go when they don’t plan on learning a damn thing. That corner was occupied by one boy. All I ever saw was long locks of curly brown hair, surely attached to a face that was constantly buried in the perfect crease of one lanky arm, the other hanging loosely against an equally lanky torso, all leading to a pair of long, thin legs that were usually covered by a pair of dark blue sweatpants. Sometimes I would stare at this strange figure as I played with the tan cloth headband I wore almost every day that year. I stared, but when I looked away, my mind would wander right back to the confusing world of feminine and masculine verbs and wondering why the hell the Spanish language deemed objects as boys or girls.
After class each day I would silently make my way down the dingy hallways of my high school, always being greeted by a chubby young boy in khaki pants and some t-shirt depicting a cartoon character unrecognizable to most. Although automatically despising each other as awkward twelve year olds in junior high school, Eric and I became very close our sophomore year. While he would still deem it necessary to say at least one thing each day that would almost bring me to tears, he was a good friend, full of laughter that lit up his pale round face and painted his cheeks a vibrant red. A few days a week, Eric and his grandmother would pick me up after school and we would go to The Cyber Lab, a local LAN center. Every time I would climb into his grandmother’s van I was greeted by the crooked smiles of at least four tall, thin teenage boys excitedly discussing the latest videogames. Those lazy afternoons were spent in a small building lined with computers and kids wearing headsets who thought it was cool to use their anger as an excuse to yell profanities at their screens. I was usually the quiet one, until Eric brought Nick. Nick and Eric were best friends, but although we went to the same school, I kept to myself too much to realize this. During one of those careless afternoons, three chairs down from me sat that same lanky boy, his long locks of curly brown hair covering the part of his headset that sat on top of his head, his face clearly visible now and looking better than I had imagined it would, on those days that I would stare at him within the walls of our dreadful Spanish class. Thick eyebrows sat above brown almond-shaped eyes, a large, wide nose, and a small, but thick-lipped mouth. To me, he was beautiful. Something inside of me broke through my inhibitions and started thinking for me, lifting me from my chair and moving me towards him, never considering the consequences of my actions or what he might think of me, but only that I wanted him, and that I was going to get what I wanted.
On our first date, I wore that same tan headband and my favorite black boots with thick rubber heels, what I thought to be the equivalent of sexy. Nick’s stepfather drove us to the movies and we sat staring childishly at each other in the backseat, the passing headlights of oncoming cars letting him catch a glimpse at the large smile I tried desperately to hide, not wanting to be obvious about the love I had already felt for him the moment I saw his ungraceful features set in motion. My heart swelled as he gently grabbed my hand in the middle of the dark theater, and the way our fingers interlocked and he held my small hand in his large one told me he was mine. I still have the ticket from that night. It sits in a drawer of my desk, the paper thin now and creased from years of being held and displayed in different places throughout my bedroom, The Secret Window just barely visible, along with the date: April 4, 2004. I spent the next few weeks scribbling our names on every sheet of paper made available to me, each time writing “4.4.04” underneath. Although Eric had a crush on me, he gave Nick permission to make me his girlfriend that night, wishing us the best of luck.
The next three and a half years were spent in each other’s arms, laughing and growing, making mistakes and learning from one another. He was my safe haven, and there was comfort wrapped in the sweet scent of clean that lingered on the clothes he wore. I would close my eyes and breathe in the familiar innocence, leaning my face against the perfect dip in his chest. He was a whole foot taller than me, and the way he towered over me made me feel protected. In those moments, we promised to never give up on each other. That awkward teenage boy who had tried to go unnoticed in the corner of a bland classroom but had caught my eye in the hours of an afternoon in spring, had grown now into a strong young man with the same curls that brushed against my cheeks as we kissed.
As high school ended, tears were shed and arms were thrown around those we whispered about above the sounds of metal being opened and closed, combinations being spun into small plastic dials. Outside of those walls, our innocence was no longer protected and things began to change for Nick and me. Naïve and curious about life outside of such a perfect world, I ended our relationship in the hallway between my living room and kitchen, the plastic receiver catching the tears that swam down my left cheek. The thought of us in my car just weeks later still lingers with me, the radio playing softly in the background as I watched him plead with me, that protective aura stripped away and just a vulnerable young boy standing before me, begging me to love him. I am still shocked at how cold I could have been, telling him I couldn’t do it, although my eyes were burning with the last three and a half years of sweet discovery. Months later, after having satisfied my curiosity, it was my turn to do the pleading. We stood outside of my open car door as I rested my face in that same perfect dip in his chest, long, black streaks staining his white shirt as I begged him to be mine again. Broken and defeated, I tried desperately to heal.
In the early hours of January 15th, 2008, in a small apartment at Stockton University, Eric took his own life. I was the first to find out before Nick, and the first to dial his number with shaking fingers, listening in disbelief to his calm attitude towards the news, and sitting in a red vinyl booth at the back of the restaurant where I worked waiting for his call to confirm my discovery. Anything that had happened between us did not matter now, just that we were there for each other. A call back from his mother left me lying on the black-and-white tile of a small bathroom floor as I listened to the uncontrollable wails of a boy who had a piece of his heart stolen.
For months after that day, I held Nick as he cried in the middle of the night, waking from a deep sleep and being hit over and over with the loss of his best friend. It was he who now buried his face in my chest, clenching the blankets in his fists, begging to see Eric between long, hard wails, as I rocked him back and forth as a mother would comfort her child. I wanted nothing more than to take care of him, and the time we spent together in the early hours of the morning as I kissed his eyes and promised him the world, briefly reignited a promise that will never die but will remain, unacknowledged, beneath the imperfect smiles of a boy and a girl who taught each other how to love.