I must have been about ten. There I was in the isle, staring at her shapely figure. Marveling as the overhead-lighting glistened off her smooth contours accentuating her beautiful form, but she was cold as ice to me. I grabbed the handle separating us and pulled her free, popping her top in the process. I pressed my lips over her mouth and the fresh carbonated orange liquid washed my thirst away with each swallow. They made perfection with the invention of the Orange Crush soft drink.

You were my first crush

Oh, how I loved staring

into your emerald eyes

I longed for your attention,

but you didn’t care for mine

For I was the wrong gender

that you had in mind

I never told anyone about my feelings

Cause what I was feeling was wrong

Or at least, that’s what society said

Teachers and preachers alike

mocked those like me

My feeling for you

became my greatest secret

When you talked to me

it was hard to keep down the butterflies

Not wanting to scare you

I would try to not act suspicious

least you question my intentions

and run away with fear

You my first crush,

but as long as my feelings for you remained

So too did the need to mask my face

I had learned how to put on a plastic smile

My puppy dog love had isolated me

from you and the rest of society

Everyday I sat at my desk

in that fourth grade classroom

feeling like an isolated fool

When you ask me, I don’t tell you the truth.

It’s midnight in middle school, your pillow tucked beneath my chin, and when your face turns towards mine they do too, hungry eyes gleaming in anticipation.

I lie.

Blond hair. Ten million freckles.

Everyone oohs, giggling behind the collars of their pajamas. (Three days later, he’ll ask me to be his girlfriend; he dumps me after less than a week.)

His eyes were almost as blue as yours.

When I think of you, I think of primary colors; the house we built in the playground, precursor to the one we’ll have in the countryside when we’re rich and grown; Barbie movies, American Girl dolls and Avril Lavigne on your pink iPod; dance skits and birthday parties and

you.

(is it too late to say sorry for writing this?)

Here’s the thing: when people ask me how I know–

(when you ask)

–I’ll think of her, hair bright as acorns in the sun; the one after, soft and hard-edged; the one who pierced my ears in the bathroom two hours before prom, beautiful and dangerous.

But those are the ones that come after, after I learn to soften without obliterating completely, to switch from Elizabeths to Elijahs, Ashleys to Aarons. That wasn’t something I’d mastered yet when I sat on your floor, wrapped in borrowed blankets and waiting stares, and offered you him instead.

And I still won’t tell you – when I sit on your couch and drink cheap wine, listen to you bitch about dating, watch you swipe on eyeliner sharp as knives, take photos of you by murals downtown, and judge your Tinder dates over supermarket sushi.

The truth is, you’re my best friend.

And if there was ever any other –

Some things are better left unspoken.

His name was Shane. My girlfriends older brother, right next door. He was beautiful, black shiny hair, dark tanned skin, older and intriguing to me. I would spend the night at their house, hardly ever got to see him because we were trapped in my friends room, which he did not dare to enter. The times I did see him were magical.

Remember Ouija boards? Well, she had one and her brother would join us in the basement while we experimented with the board. You know how you put your fingers on the pointer and it magically moves around on its own? Well, sometimes, if I was lucky, his fingers would brush mine and I would feel the shocks of excitement course through my young, adolescent body.

In the summers, we would swim. They had a in-ground pool with a diving board. We would have diving contests, judging above water and below the water with swim goggles on. I liked lurking under the water best, that was the best chance to sneak a glance of his body, unnoticed and unaware. I was young and this boy was hot. I'm no perv, just curious about this young mans beautiful body.

This was not love, only a crush. Nothing ever came of my young lust for this man/boy, I was too shy and he was older and simply not interested. We never made moves on each other but I will always have a fondness for him that I will hold in my heart. He was my first crush and never forgotten.

My first love arrived on a banana seat Sting Ray bike, as if he was Christopher Columbus discovering the New World. Chuckling young children were playing tic-tac-toe nearby, a frail old man with a long white beard wearing suspenders was raking leaves across the street, and right above me, two mockingbirds danced their mating game, all without my attention. A gathering of the first fallen leaves scattered beneath the 20 inch wheels as he approached. The discarded foliage looked tiresome against the crumbling asphalt. “Hi Barbara!” With the gravity of his voice, I awakened, looking up and into his eyes. “Hi Anthony!” I said curiously, looking at him like an artist seeing Michelangelo's "David" for the first time.

The way Anthony's charcoal eyes burned into mine was reminiscent of something I didn’t know I craved. Not unlike the heroine addict’s first high, I was hooked. How did Anthony and I both know of our mutual desire with only a glance and a greeting? As sixth grade classmates, we had known each other before that day, but without significance. Emerging like a previously dormant wild flower, my newly found arousal washed everything else away; the pain, the bruises, the shame. The world was now beautiful and it would continue to be until he got a little too close. I proudly wore Anthony's ID bracelet for almost a year, until I dumped him for his best friend Phil. Shame on me for even being able to admit, I never once thought about how he felt when I broke his heart. My drug of choice, Anthony, was no longer working for me. My fix became Phil; for a month, maybe two. Like with all substance abuse, more and more is needed to get that high. But I only know this now looking back.

2nd grade. Too young? I suppose so.

But my mind was always running, even at a early age.

Nick was his name.

Tall, tan, and teeming with the ability to either make you feel like something, or nothing, just by looking at you.

He loved baseball and basketball.

He liked candy and kickball.

Athletic he was.

Attracted to me he was not.

But that didn't stop me.

I crushed on this boy up until the fifth grade, up until I went to a different middle school than he.

I look back now... nothing pops out to highschool me that was so amazing about him.

He was just like any other boy in elementary school, yet he caught my eye.

Sometimes I browse around his Instagram, just to see what's going on, you know.

I do this with all my elementary school "friends."

He hasn't changed, by the way.

Taller than ever, six foot something at least.

Still loves to play baseball and basketball.

He must have gotten contacts, his black-rimmed glasses are gone.

Strange, the little details you remember.

Funny, I crushed on him for four years, and now I'm just like, whatever.

Moved on, I know.

My first crush was is pre-school. I don’t even remember his name. He was tall (for a preschooler) and had perfectly cut blond hair. Everyone liked him. He was the most popular kid on the playground. I remember fighting over him with my best friends who I am still best friends with today. We used to play super heros during recess. He was always the bad guy, I was the hero, and one of my best friends was the innocent he had kidnapped. I remember always being jealous of her, but no one would ever let me be kidnapped. After pre-school, we went our separate ways and never talked again.

That’s about all I can remember of my first crush. As you can see, it didn’t mean much.

My first love was so much more. We went to school together all through middle school, but I didn’t really notice him until 8th grade. He was a nerd and a total jock at the same time, an unlikely combination. I never imagined myself falling for someone like him, and then, suddenly, there he was, in my life. I never told him how much he meant to me. I regret that now. He meant so much to me, I can’t even explain it. I guess I kind of count him as my first real crush. I was never in love with that playground kid. It was kind of like he was just a way to pass time until I met Jacob. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to have a crush on anyone since. I found my match and now, there is nothing to top it. I guess I will never know what could have been if I hadn’t been so scared.

Even when I was little there were many boys that struck me as cute.

But then there was my first real crush.

I was in middle school--probably 8th grade--and it wasn't easy to utterly detest males at the same time as I was starting to find them very attractive. Boys, quite frankly, were annoying to me. They never thought before they acted and they always acted in the most immature, disrespectful way possible. At least, that was the image I had due to the majority of my male classmates.

And it is precisely because of this that I have very fond memories of my first crush.

You see, I didn't know him at all and yet he changed my view of the male population entirely--making it possible for me to be more generous with my classmates and to eventually put aside my grievances with males and see them for their strengths rather than their weaknesses. He deserves the credit, truly, and he did it all with one smile.

I saw this boy all the time--he lived in my neighborhood, mowed lawns on my street, and sat in the pew in front of my family in church. He and his brother (whom my sister and I thought wrongly for years was his twin) were cute, but seemed incredibly serious, and I had never spoken a word with them.

One day in church something was different. His family never turned around during the sign of peace, but this time he did. He looked directly at me, held out a hand, and smiled.

My heart definitely skipped a beat. He had the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen.

And that was it.

My crush lasted for two years on the basis of one smile.

Funny how much one smile can do.

The hundreds of faces in the rowdy marketplace froze, as though time trickled to a standstill. I looked around, each pair of eyes hurling disbelief at me.

Warm blood gushed from my palm.

My chest contracted and expanded so rapidly I could feel the air pressure fluctuate. Ahmed, behind me, was already retreating—his calf muscles strained to reverse his direction. Khaleed, two heartbeats to my right, was about to scream, wanting my head.

The warm viscous fluid flowed down my forearm, crimson tendrils reached down, droplets pelting the dirt below.

The first cry emanated, igniting the inferno of chaos. How could a girl do what I just did? Their tiny brains probably exploded millions of times over. I was property, a plaything, an object of desire to be used and abused.

My sister, Jameela, was crouched on her knees, papa's battered head lay cradled in her arms. The gaping hole just above his cheekbone still fresh.

The gun that killed my father fell from Hussein's limp hand.

I felt pure unadulterated rage. All papa did was leap to his daughter's defense, to shield her from prodding eyes as they tore her clothes off, to be paraded like a prized cow.

My eyes were scalding.

I released Hussein's mangled skull, letting it fall. I lifted my foot next, above the bloody carnage. The sickening crunch as I dug my heels into the mess of bone fragments, fleshy sinews, and brain matter was the last straw; but judging from their horrified expressions, it was more flight than fight.

Those animals never stood a chance. I could've vapourised them all with just a look, but I wanted them to feel pain. My father's pain. Jameela's pain. My pain.

I am Kale'na, of the House El, the last daughter of Krypton.

What's more awkward than having to play Mary to your crush's Colin in a 6th grade classroom adaptation of The Secret Garden screenplay? How about if that scene is the one when Colin proposes to Mary? After class we headed to our lockers at the end of the hall. We were both new in town, so our lockers were next to each other. Mine was right above his. How many times did I drop something onto that poor boy's head? Books, lunch, even my lock once, but those hazel eyes (or were they brown?) looking up from under that middle-part bowl cut were forever kind.

"Glad that's over with," he said with an embarrassed smile.

I looked away, blushing. "Yeah, me too." Maybe it was the puppy love goggles, but I thought maybe neither of us minded all that much. In hindsight, it's straight out of a YA novel. Who gets stuck in front of her class with her crush proposing to her?

No matter how many awkward interactions I had with Spenser, he was always sweet to me. And we had some non-awkward ones too. At the new student ice cream social we played rock-paper-scissors, and then he shared candy from the prize he won. He carried my backpack one time after school. There are so many other moments.

But our time together was short.

His name was on the roster at the beginning of 7th grade. Every time they called role, I held out hope that he'd come back. Whether he moved again or something else, I never knew. I learned quickly that the term crush is also literal.

I think about him occasionally, and wonder if he is still as kind as he was ages ago to a hopelessly awkward and clumsy, lovesick girl.

#challenge #nonfiction #firstcrush