When I was in Junior High, I pined after the same cute preppy boy, Brian, the entire three years of middle school. I was madly in love with him—that is, in between being madly in love with several other boys. We flirted with each other all of the time, but our timing always seemed to be off. When he was available, I had a boyfriend. When I was available, he had a girlfriend. Our love story was more tragic than a telenovela.
Toward the end of our 8th grade year, we finally “got together.” (Note: we were in 8th grade so we didn’t “go around” like the 6th and 7th graders; we “got together.”) Our relationship consisted of holding hands in the lunch room, passing each other notes during Social Studies, and sneaking in a kiss after school behind the band room. And talking all night on the telephone.
Unfortunately for this doomed love story, Brian had asked another girl to the 8th Grade Graduation Dance prior to us getting together. And I had another date as well. Surprisingly, neither of us even considered backing out of the prior commitments. We knew our relationship was so strong—our love so deep—that we could handle going to the dance with other people.
You see where this is going, don’t you? While I was faithful to my one true love, Brian betrayed me in the worst possible way. He kissed his date that night. The rumors flew like a flock of seagulls across the gymnasium dance floor until they reached me. My heart stopped. I broke out into a cold sweat. I dropped my orchid corsage that I had been readjusting, and in slow motion, it fell to the floor where a nearby dancer proceeded to step on it. The flowers were crushed beyond repair—just like my fragile 13-year-old heart. My poor date thought I was going to pass out right there in the middle of OMD’s “If You Leave.”
The rest of the dance was a blur. I don’t even remember how I got home. Once I got home, I sat on the bathroom floor in my neon taffeta dress and cried most of the night away. Blue mascara running down my cheeks, I fell asleep on the bathmat. When I woke up in the middle of the night, puffy-eyed and hoarse, I wrote this bad poem:
3 Stages (Editor’s note: I don’t actually count 3 stages, but I’m sure my 13-year-old self did.)
He passes by my doorway,
not even bothering to say “Hello.”
So many times I ask myself,
where will our love go?
He captured my heart
and led me on.
He stole my feelings,
and now he is gone.
He said it would last forever
and then he walked away.
So many times I remind myself,
there’s so much he forgot to say.
He forgot to say, “I love you.”
He forgot to say he cared.
He neglected all emotions,
and all feelings that were share.
He ran off with another love
and left me here to cry.
He ran off with another love
and he left my heart to die.
He ran off with another love
and he did not say, “Good-bye.”
(The End.)
This poem came to mind the other night because “the other woman” and I were having dinner with a group of girlfriends. I love to tell the story about how Stephanie stole my one true love. Steph’s a good sport about it, mostly I think because she’s still relieved I was never mad at her. But I never blamed her for anything. I mean, who could resist Brian’s pastel IZOD polo shirts and spiffy Sperry Top-sider shoes?
P.S., Brian and I are still “Christmas Card” friends.
P.P.S., I think it’s humorous to note that I was spelling my name with an “i” at this point in my life. So the poem is signed, “Foxi.”
