Vanity

My brother had taught me well. “You don’t have crushes when you’re little,” he imperiously informed me at the age of seven. I abided by this rule faithfully; I was not going to look stupid. When my friends told me of their new loves, who’d they stolen a kiss from behind the slide, I’d draw up to my full four feet and look down my nose. I’d repeat the epithet, insisting they were wrong. “You’re too young,” I’d tell them. “John Gray says so.”

All of this changed with alarming speed in the third grade. I blame dancing.

It was the dancing that did it. From the second grade on, my dance partner was the heart throb of GCDS. THE James Davis. I seemed to be the only one immune to his charms. But I wasn’t immune to the speculation of my friends. For awhile they had been insisting that he liked me. He was dancing with me, wasn’t he? They ignored the obvious fact that he had been stuck with me by my PE teacher; love had nothing it to do with it. I ignored these arguments, following closely my brother’s advice until one fateful day: my “Special Day.”

In the feel-good style of Gainesville Country Day School, all students were allowed one day a year where they could share personal achievements, pictures, bring in the parents, etc. In addition, every student wrote a validation to the Special Day boy or girl. After one’s presentation, the celebrated child would be presented with a collection of the validations, their special day book. When I got mine, the one from James stood out for one very special reason: he had signed it “love.”

Not from, not sincerely. Love.

Here was the incontrovertible evidence. At least to my friends. I could not argue against this perfect logic. He didn’t like me, huh? Then why had he signed his name love…? The thought that a boy might like me, especially the mythical James had a surprisingly flattering feel to it. I began to argue less with my friends when they discussed the way he had looked at me in class, or the intonation of his hello. I was, at that age, very susceptible to other’s ideas, hence my unquestioning belief in my brother’s age limit on attraction. So after a solid six months of convincing, I was sold. Between my friends, my rising status as an elementary school heartthrob, and my vanity, I had convinced myself I liked him. As boys go, it wasn’t a bad choice; blonde, blue eyes, soccer player, severe cat allergies which led to a constantly stuffy nose, giving his voice that oh-so-desirable nasal quality. I probably should have been tipped off that none of it was true when after two years he still had never tried to be anything but my friend. But I was still sold on my belief that he liked me, and it was just so much more fun to believe my friends.

Elementary Femme Fatale

I am fairly certain I peaked in elementary school. Starting about the third grade, I was the heart-throb of Gainesville Country Day School, with the majority of the boys in my class of 25 under my thumb. What has gone wrong since is a mystery; all I can think is that middle school hit and with it an awkwardness for which I was utterly unprepared. Thinking back on it now, I'm not quite sure why I drove 'em all wild. I was just as tall and gawky then as now; even more so. I was possibly the boniest nine year-old in Alachua County. My fashion sense was non-existent and I loved to part my long, wavy, frizzy hair right down the middle. I did this for so many years that I have a tiny bald spot at the top of my hairline marking the center of my forehead. I was also a fairly shy child. I didn't talk to many people in my class; perhaps my eternal quiet and face shaded by messy hair lent an irresistible air of mystery. Either way the boys fawned over me, something I found in equal parts appalling and flattering.

None of this really mattered (with the exception of a certain James Davis whose charms I fell for with alarming ferocity the last two and a half years of my elementary career) until my third grade Thanksgiving Feast. On that day, dressed as pilgrims in long skirts and kerchiefs, and crammed full of turkey and sweets cooked by my fellow classmates, my best friend Maddie and I found ourselves with an hour of free time and nothing to do. As we were both wholly un-athletic, and the only playground activities involved kicking a ball, swings, or the monkey bars, we decided to make some fun of our own. The CSARPLS was born: the Crazy, Scary, Annoying, Running Pilgrim Ladies Society was dedicated to the torment of boys. I thought the name lent an air of clever irony; not as though any of us actually knew what irony was, though...

ANYWAYS. We had a log book in which we thought we'd keep a record of our battles, carefully inscribed with sparkling purple ink. I recently unearthed the log book, long hidden in the detritus beneath my bed, to find a paltry two entries: the first, the mission statement of the CSARPLS, and the second, a glowing account of sneaking up on a boy named Scott Plavac whilst he played goalie in a soccer game. "I came up behind Scotty and shouted and then ran away. He was scared." Actually, I was the only active member; Maddie was even more introverted than me, content to sit on the sidelines and watch my exploits through half-covered eyes. The club lasted, although was only true to its mission statement of male torment for about a week before I completely lost my nerve. Despite my deranged attempt to scare boys/flirt with them (I didn't really see much difference), they continued to fall. The only exception to this rule seemed to be James, whom I seemed to legitimately frighten off, despite being dancing and seat partners for a criminally long period of time. When I actually tried to be attractive, it backfired horribly, something, I'm embarrassed to say, still happens. Maybe it's time to go back to scare tactics...