|This is The One Pondering the HIM Question||10/22/2006|
I got a question on the last entry about how often I talk to HIM face to face. That’s a hard one. I mean, I do actually talk to him, and there were even actual conversations, but the most telling exchanges between us are the non-verbal ones. I’ll give you an example:
One day I was at our neighborhood park, one of those deals that have the slide attached to the swing set with the weird net thing you climb across to get from one side to the other, and a basketball court with a bench slightly behind and to the right of each goal for spectators. The benches are the metal kind with the holes that leave the patterns on your butt when you sit too long, and they have backrests. Anyway, the infamous HIM was playing basketball that day, and I was sitting with my notepad “writing” (but really, I was just watching the lean lines of his body arching through the air, contorting so gracefully, moving in such agile fashion from one end of the court to the other *big sigh*). He knew that I was watching him, and was being the typical male–showing off for the little lady on the sidelines. A guy I’d never seen before comes and sits next to me, which happens often because guys are waiting for the next game to start, or taking a break to drink juice, tie a shoe, whatever. So this guy strikes up a conversation with me, and I notice, hey he’s pretty cute and he’s interested. But not for long, as it happens. HE walks over and the guy gets up and shakes his hand, blah blah, guy bonding, guy bonding, and, as smooth as you please, HE sits down next to me, placing his arm around the back of the bench to rest a hand on my shoulder. All this time he and the guy are still talking. Finally, the guy is like “Oh, that’s you?” as if, again, I am HIS toy. There really isn’t any acknowledgement from HIM, he just looks at the guy, so the guy joins the game in his place. HE just sits next to me through the rest of the game, arm still around me, saying nothing. When the game is over, and everyone has come to the conclusion that I’m not available, he gets up and begins playing ball again.
Now, HE didn’t say a word to me, but I mean either he takes way too much pleasure in cockblocking than any one person should, or there was another reason he wanted people to think we were together. He is very used to getting everything he wants, so it wouldn’t be above his capabilities to assume that simply because he wanted me, I was his without giving me a say in the matter.
But as to conversations, we’ve talked about everything and nothing–family, whether or not we like one another (we “decided” we didn’t), whether or not to remain enemies (we “decided” we were too old for that), personal relationships with other people, lots of teasing…we even spent a high school spring break together. I’ve also had a million and one conversations explaining to boys/men that I’m not really HIS girl, which is hard to explain because I don’t really understand it myself.
It’s sort of a weird When Harry Met Sally, but completely different, lol. Every relationship that I’ve ever had, or haven’t had, has been shaped by this one guy. Oh heck, I have nothing else to write about, I’ll give you the whole sorry tale in the next few days. Get the popcorn ready.
My life should so be a movie,
|This is the One With the Magic School bus (HIM #3)||10/22/2006|
The thing with HIM and I was always changing. At first, I thought that he liked me. I mentioned the paper that I wrote about him, the one that was published when I was in high school in our Prize Papers. Well, that paper contained something I haven’t mentioned here yet, something that makes the story, and all the stories after it, make more sense.I was in fifth grade still, shortly after the corner store episode, when all of us fifth grade girls had a project that involved an African dance being taught by Prince and Thunder’s aunt(these are real names). When we had a break, we all sat around a big round table in the hallway while the boys practiced and talked about boys–who went with whom, who liked whom. There were a lot of differing opinions. Finally, it got around to me. I didn’t want to say, because although HE didn’t go to school with us, two of the girls there knew him. They talked me into telling them anyway. Both of the girls who knew him agreed with me that he was good looking. I didn’t think much else about it. I saw him all the time because he lived across the street and because I was a cheerleader for a football team he played for. We mostly argued, trading love taps (you know, when you really like a guy and you kinda push his shoulder and run. Older women do pretty much the same thing, except they say things like, “Oh, stop!” or “You’re so bad!” when they slap the guy’s shoulder) and feeling one another out. But the roundtable discussion changed the balance of things.I was set up. One of those girls decided that it would be funny to tell HIM that I had told everyone that he liked me. I didn’t really know this at the time, but my beloved had/has a bad temper, and it’s hard to tell what will make him angry and what he will take in stride. He was far from amused about the whole he liked me thing. I don’t know whether it was too close to the truth for comfort, or if he just decided that I was somehow damaging his reputation, but either way he wasn’t pleased.It was in spring, when it was raining a lot. It had rained that day. I was walking down the street to my cousin’s house, and he was coming from the same cousin’s house. We had a confrontation over why I’d say that. I couldn’t tell him what I’d really said, so my arguing I didn’t say it wasn’t very convincing. It was obvious I’d said something. In the end, he got so mad, he picked up a tire that was laying around, filled with mud, and threw it at me. I can’t be sure if he meant to hit me, but luckily, he didn’t succeed. He told me that I wasn’t the type of girl he would ever like–too ugly, or something, he didn’t elaborate.I wish I could say that incident didn’t scar me for life, but it kinda did.The very next school year, I met Mack. Mack was two grades higher than me. He rode the same bus I did to school. He was nice looking. I had to switch schools after the first few weeks, and it was my first day riding the bus when I met him. I’d just moved onto my street and didn’t know anyone except my cousins (we are everywhere). When I got on the bus, the only seat left was next to Mack. Mack was really nice, a great conversationalist. He could get anyone talking. Well, when school ended that day, I was the first one on the bus. Mack wasn’t far behind me, and had his pick of seats, but he sat next to me anyway.Sitting together on the bus became our thing. He always called me “cutie” in this irresistable way that made me blush, but I never believed him. I didn’t really think he thought of me that way. He was just an impossible flirt. I remember one day in particular he lay with his head in my lap, and I fed him pieces of a Cookies and Cream Hershey bar. I was that comfortable with him. But he was safe, because he was a friend, and there was no chance of romantic involvement, even though I liked him and he made me blush. HE was always there, though, in the back of my mind, repeating over and over “you’re not my type” “I’d never like someone like you.”Then one day he was there, really. We didn’t go to the same middle school, but he was there, on my bus, in my special place with Mack. Mack was sitting next to me when his bus pulled up next to ours once. He mooned them. It was kinda funny. It wasn’t funny when HE came to my bus and got on one day. I’ve no idea how he got to the school, but he did get there, and he sat in front of me. I stared out the window, ignoring everyone on the bus, including Mack. He threw balled up Starburst paper at me to get my attention. I didn’t bother to look at him. Why couldn’t he leave me alone?Mack graduated without me saying anything to him about liking him, and I never saw him again. I haven’t had a male friend I was that close to since. I wish I could see Mack again, with those slanted brown eyes and caramel skin, his generous mouth curving into a lop-sided smile, staring up at me while thoughtfully nibbling that Hershey bar. I wonder, if I’d never met HIM, what would have happened with Mack? I was so self-assured and confident before HIM, I believe that I could have done it, could have asked Mack for his phone number, or told him I liked him.HE wasn’t done yet, not by a long shot. Here’s where the story begins to get strange. There was this guy, Punch, a letter in a mailbox, a lost week, and, always, him. But that’s for the next entry.Missing Mack,