September 2002

Jared. It could only be Jared! 

The sun streams in through the dusty blinds and illuminates his porcelain skin and gentle profile. He’s such a pale lad that if I stare too long, he blends into the cinderblock. 

My eyes move up his torso, past his long neck, and beyond his jet black Caesar cut. He blinks and slowly looks to the right where I’m sitting as he feels my pubescent attraction radiating from my eyeballs. I quickly gaze upward and study one of the three hundred pseudo-motivational posters that adorn my sixth grade English class. To further enhance my fraud interest, I furrow my eyebrows and silently mouth the bullshit inspiration with feigning interest. I nod my head profusely with newfound confidence and understanding:

“Thirty years from now, it won’t matter what jeans you wore. What will matter is what you LEARNED and how you USED it.”

This No Child Left Behind proverb is accompanied with a picture of a polar bear. Polar bears don’t even wear jeans.

But I do! And I pinch my arm with anger and watch the mark fade from red to rosy white with bitterness. I WANT to wear jeans from Limited Too and Aeropostale, but Mom says their too expensive and they probably wouldn’t even fit. Fuck the future. My future internships are meaningless compared to my constant daydreams of prancing around in stretch flares with embroidered flowers and gems. They didn’t make them in my size. In my head, I am a size four. Outside my head, I am eleven years old, chubby, frizzy haired, and brace-faced. I wear lipgloss and silver eye shadow that I tricked my dad into buying for me while Mom was at a Springsteen concert. I’m still a catch.

I like Jared because he’s quiet and unassuming, and I think he could like me. 

On the bus home that day, I announce to my friend that Jared is cute. His voice has already begun to change from soprano to baritone and my inner Lolita is on fire. 

“He’s alright,” she says, bored.

“I think I like him!” With that phrase exclaimed, I have now marked my territory. 

I want Jared to be my b/f. I want our names scribbled on each other’s hands in gel pens. I dream of having his name in my AOL Instant Messenger profile accompanied by our anniversary and an overabundance of hearts.

<3