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.
