Prologue
I reconnected with my very first boyfriend this past year and discovered that he is a writer, too. We had spent some time talking about things we love now, so obviously I told him about my blog and poetry and my aspirations to write a book of some sort, and this opened the door for him to send me some short stories he had written. We discussed writing our story of how we met and some memory bursts. Of course, I seized the day and opened up a Google doc for us to get writing, and what I share with you now is a series created from our joint writing project. I hope you are as captivated and enchanted as I was while Oscar and I wrote a love story of innocence and coming of age.
Who Said You Can’t Find Love in Junior High?
Every once in awhile, you run across a love story so beautiful it makes you pause and wonder whether it could really be true. You think to yourself Has this ever happened to me and maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t awake enough to my world to recognize it? I dare you to allow yourself to fall in love with this story--I know I did.
A beautiful beginning
It was seventh grade and I was in the school band. I sat in the front row because I played flute, but since I wasn’t quite sure of my ability to play said flute just yet it varied from time to time whether I was on the far right, middle, or to the left of the band teacher, Mr. What’s His Name. What was his name? I know it started with a B... But anyways, I had to move seats quite a lot from what I remember and so I had different people within my view while suffering through the painful existence of a seventh grade girl who wasn’t exactly sure if the flute should be part of her life. When seated to the right of Mr. B, I distinctly remember being able to see the saxophone section. Either that or I just liked looking at the saxophone section. a lot. The first row isn’t very conducive to having a good view of the third row; therefore, I spent a great deal of class time half-breaking my neck to keep my eye on it.
You might ask why that particular instrument held my favor. Why not the trombone or even the rocking out, sexy percussion guys, right? My favorite part about the saxophone is that he played it. This guy. I know, I know. Every single girl at that age is boy crazy and I was quite the textbook character in junior high and I am fine with that (now), especially since that drive to connect with the opposite sex drew me to him-- a seemingly awkward, yet gorgeous and real guy named Oscar. His name alone was romantic to my unpracticed sensibilities, so you can imagine my giddy silliness at roll call every single time.
I remember wishing for Oscar to look my way, then repenting the thought whenever he actually did. With each verifiable glance, I began to really dream. He was an eighth grader and to just be noticed by an older boy gave me confidence layered upon confidence. I wanted for him to get to know me and hold my hand and be mine. I got so infatuated with him that he was all I could think about. I’d write his name over and over with hearts and flowers.
That was when I should have known I was a goner.
...to be continued next week.
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