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At last, we come to one of the crowning moments of my crush on David B. It is an event doomed to be re-lived over and over in my adolescent mind forever (or at least until the first day of ninth grade.)
It was a few days after my fourteenth birthday. Art class was in its full swing of awesomeness, and I was really enjoying school. (Not of course, for academic reasons. As I’ve mentioned before, I learned upwards of nothing that year, and spent a majority of my time reading Simon R. Green’s “Deathstalker” series under my desk.) By this point, I’d confessed my love for David B. to a dozen or so of my closest friends. So basically, everyone knew about it. Somehow, he either didn’t know, or it didn’t faze him, as he continued to hang around me … a lot.
Before we go into this entry, let’s set the scene a little and take another look at my wonderful 2001 wardrobe. Do they still make body glitter? What about those little circlets of rhinestones you could stick around your belly button, Christina Aguilera-style? Inquiring minds want to know!
Good grief! has that man any sense at all? It seems so totally obvious to me!
Today in art, David didn’t do much. But near the end of class, we ended up at the bucket of clay slip (how romantic ^_^). I was talking to him, and I told him he had two sticky notes on his back. He asked me to remove them! I thought any idiot could get sticky notes off their back! So I did of course, but the moment I touched him I felt a little jolt of electricity run through me. It was a very strange feeling! Why the hello did he do that? Stuff like that only makes me like him more! It’s such a roller coaster with him. Either we’re interacting, or he’s ignoring me. I wonder if any of my teachers notice our chemistry. One thing is for certain- I either want to hit him or kiss him!
Excuse me, I’ll be over there, pounding my head on a desk.
Two words: STICKY NOTES.
I’m not sure how to feel about the fact that the only on-purpose physical contact David B. and I ever had was when I removed a post-it note from his back. Excuse me, that’s two post-it notes. So I guess it took more than one touch. Or something.
I’d also like to add that I changed “why the hell” to “why the hello” in case anyone ever read it and caught me swearing. I hadn’t yet embraced my foul mouth.
Also, note the anime-style smiley face. Cringe-worthy.
I am ashamed to say with how much detail I remember this particular event. It is burned into my brain, unfortunately. I could still tell you exactly where we were standing, and how the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows had that pale yellow, washed-out, late winter look. I remember being all “OMG HE IS INVITING ME TO ENTER HIS PERSONAL SPACE BUBBLE OMFG AMAZING.” It even surpassed the previous awkward sink encounter to become the greatest moment of our relationship.
This moment would go on to inspire several awful art projects, poems, and short stories. We’ll get to those later.
However, I’m pretty sure I made up the thing about “electricity” from every bad romance novel or “Gundam Wing” fanfic I’d ever read. I’m pretty sure all I felt was paper.
Gym class with David B. was the most awkward thing ever.
First of all, even in the dead of winter, the gym was always about 100 degrees. It’s hard to look sexy when you’re forever wiping sweat away from your forehead, while your carefully-placed body glitter melts in the heat.
Another problem was my wardrobe. At least 70 percent of my clothing was black, leading to all-black gym ensembles that were the opposite of comfortable. Because I was desperate to maintain my over-accessorized punk chic aesthetic, I refused to take off my jewelery, leading to numerous occasions where I almost killed another runner as my paperclip necklace flew off my neck. I know, more than once, I almost stabbed people in the eye with errant jewelry.
It didn’t help that the most popular athletic pants in the late 90s were of the saggy, bulky, swishy variety. I will never forget the sound of 30 pairs of black Adidas swooshy pants circling an indoor track. I don’t know how kids in the 90s ever sneaked up on anyone. You could hear people coming a mile away. Between swooshy pants and windbreakers, we were pretty much fucked in terms of secrecy. I remember trying to make sure my pants had the appropriate amount of sag, and that I observed the proper shoes-to-pants ratio. (Which, for girls, was about 1/4 shoe to 3/4 pants. Only the top of your shoes should be visible beneath your bellbottoms/track pants. For boys, the further down your ass your pants could be, the better.)
I remember a lot of sweaty, awkward, hormonally-charged moments in gym. One in particular will always stand out in my mind. We were playing volleyball, the only sport I didn’t completely suck at. I had decent aim and hand-eye coordination, and it didn’t require any running (always the bane of my existence). I was on a team with Cherry and Lisa, and we were scrimmaging against some of the unpopular girls.
I was poised to send back a serve from one of the Stefanies, when I noticed David B. walking on the other side of the court. Pretty much any time he entered my general radius, I became awe-struck. It’s like I had this sixth sense about where he was in relation to me, and I was always trying to remember my most basic functions should be cross my path. That day, I remember him strutting past us, stopping to high-five one of his friends. He stopped, ran one hand through his brown bowl cut, turned, and shot me one of his famous half-smiles.
I completely missed the serve. The over-inflated school-issued volleyball landed square on my hand, right on the last joint of my right thumb.
I couldn’t properly move that thumb for weeks.
It was awesome.
Today i was talking to Kit online. I told her about David and she said that I should ask him out. Also, she said that she noticed the chemistry between us. And that she noticed how strongly we reacted to each other from the first day of class! I’m glad that someone else noticed this. S and S are completely oblivious to the whole thing. I’m just really confused about everything, I’m so lost, I don’t know what to do!
Sometimes I feel like I want to kiss him, and other times I want to hit him. It is so——————————————> weird. With RF, it was never like this. Actually, it kinda was, but more like a “good friends” thing than a flirting thing. How can I, Diane Lorraine, like David? C’mon he’s some boring old (home town) boy! He’s certainly no Treize Khushrenada, or any smart, cool, and confident world leader. Instead of a Lady Une x Treize, it’s more like Han Solo x Princess Leia, with occasional Gene x Melfina moments. It’s a strange kind of “every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction” deal. Mostly we disagree, and flirt like that. But then we have these sweet lapses when no one else is around, in which we have quiet talks.
When we interact, it’s like we pay attention to nothing else but each other. Austin, Elliot, Dustin and Neal are my buddies, but we never react that way.
OK, I’ll be honest, some of this was hard to type. Especially the parts where I compare my romance with David B. to other fictional couples. Good Lord. (I believe Gene and Melfina are from the anime Outlaw Star in case anyone was wondering/cared, which I am sure you weren’t/don’t.)
Everything I learned about sexual tension, I learned from Han and Leia. I’m not sure if this makes me really awesome, or really lame, but there it is. At 14, I truly believed that they, along with my fiction OTP (“one true pairing” for those of you who didn’t spend their teen years reading fanfiction on the internet) Rhett and Scarlett, were the perfect couple.
I also like where I’m too lazy to write out all the o’s in “so” so I just draw a line indicating the level to which I am frustrated.
As I’ve said before, I think it’s funny that all a dude has to do to garner my interest is be a douchebag. It’s funny, because this continues to be true today. Though it’s interesting to note that the first guy I ever dated did not banter with me until much later in the relationship.
That particular banter didn’t even happen until a strange, end-of-summer week where we hadn’t been able to spend any time alone. He had friends visiting, and I had emptied my bedroom (including the bed) in anticipation of moving. We ended up airing our sexual tension at the local all-night diner in the form of a loud, long, ridiculous argument in front of all our friends. The argument was resolved with us running outside and kissing.
It was awesome.
My friend Lisa and I thought we were so cool.
While the rest of our peers were freaking out about Freddie Prinze Jr., we were fangirling over Rhett Butler. Lisa was the only other 8th grade girl who shared my obsession with Gone With the Wind, which made us instant bffs. We were the only girls in our class who had grown up with Scarlett O’Hara, and this made us feel superior to practically everyone we knew.
In any American high school, there is at least one girl who dresses in vintage skirts and spends most of her time sighing over the good old days of black and white film stars. She usually gets to feel superior to everyone else because she wears cardigans every day and has seen every classic movie.
I desperately wanted to be this girl, except I got started way too early, at the age of 12. By the time I reached high school, adventure had stolen me away from the classic movie world. From ninth grade on, I spent most of my money on insanely large gold jewelry, clunky brown boots, and black eyeliner, desperate to achieve the looks of Rachel Weisz’s character in The Mummy. But to this day, I still consider myself a vintage girl. On an average day, I rock a style that combines the form-fitting skirts of Joan Holloway on Mad Men with the clunky gold snake bracelets of your average adventure heroine. Like Hannah Montana, I have the best of both worlds.
Though we were primarily concerned with the social machinations of the Old South, Lisa and I also loved 80s movies (during gym class, we wore our sweatshirts cut off the shoulder Flashdance-style) and for some uknown reason, we spent a great deal of time quoting and obsessing over the 1990 Johnny Depp movie Cry-Baby.
If you haven’t seen this John Waters masterpiece, it’s available for free on Hulu. But to sum it up, it’s basically Johnny Depp being a 50s badass, singing like Elvis, and being a tantamount example of Rockabilly fashion. It’s fantastic.
This entry comes from just after my 14th birthday, in the thick of our Cry-Baby obsession. If I remember correctly, our favorite quote was from the Traci Lordes character, who is explaining America to the new foreign exchange student her parents plan to replace her with.
“In America we like boys…bad boys!”
Uh, yeah. I don’t even.
And the plot thickens. Last friday I had a dream I kissed David! We were at Emily’s house. We were just hanging out, until we got closer and closer, until we were hugging. He said something, and I said something (I don’t remember what) and then I said “kiss me” and he did! I’m not sure how I feel about this. Today, he was there in all my classes. In english, during a part in the Movie “Diary of Anne Frank” when Peter’s mom says, “Look at his little girlfriend” his eyes met mine! Then in art, me + Lisa were cleaning up the clay tools, when he shows up and starts bugging us. He reached over to clean a tool (he was standing next to me) and he was so close I could touch him. Lisa was talking to me about “Crybaby” but I didn’t hear a word she said! I gazed @ him and he gazed at me for what felt like forever. Finally, though, we left – and so did he. But I just didn’t get it! WHY! I’m SO confused? What’ll I do?
Oh, good god. Again, let’s reiterate that anything substantial that occurred between myself and David B. was IN MY DREAMS. Awesome.
This entry might win some sort of prize for “most inappropriate film association.” I doubt any romantic looks were ever exchanged during a viewing of The Diary of Anne Frank.
During 8th grade, we had this weird unit on the Holocaust that lasted most of the year. Almost all of our classes related to this particularly depressing topic, which quickly denigrated from being Serious Business into “good lord, this again?” I reached my personal Holocaust Limit when my art teacher suggested that I relate my clay project with Anne Frank. I then proceeded to make the ugliest, lumpiest, heaviest piece of pink crap ever created. Sorry, but that’s just completely ridiculous. Art is supposed to be a creative expression of yourself, not yet another excuse to shove an already-overexposed subject down my throat. Our year-long unit culminated in a visit to the Holocaust Memorial Center in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. My friend Breanna and I applied too much blue eyeliner on the bus, and the heat inside the building caused it to melt, making it look like we’d been bawling our eyes out the whole time. Our teachers praised us on our empathy. Awk-ward.
Art Class was a big fucking deal, because I got to sit at the badass girls table, which was next to the badass boys table, where David B. was. I remember fighting for that seat, squeezing into it at the last possible moment. Class seating was very important, because it could determine your social status for the rest of the trimester. My seating (in the back, closest to the door) meant I got to dick around, make frequent trips to the bathroom to touch up my butterfly clips/glitter lip gloss, and sing along to “Some Girls” by Pink on the boom box with the rest of the female class badasses. Yes, art class was awesome.
David B. and I had most of our greatest moments in art class. Blessed with a spacey teacher who spent most of her time on the pottery wheel in the back, I was able to spend 99 percent of my time throwing myself at him. My hormones were on over-drive, and any time he remotely entered my personal bubble, I about died.
This particular incident I remember, because I think it was the first time in life I experienced that cliche, “everything around you slows down” moment when you are close to someone you like. I still remember where I was standing, the water running over my hands, the grey “Abercrombie Football” t-shirt he was wearing. It was probably (tragically), one of the most fantastic moments of my young life.
Sadly, I’m pretty sure David B. just needed to use the sink.