I first met S. in elementary school, in the optimistically named “Gifted + Talented Program.”  After a particularly heated round of Math Wizards (some sort of critical thinking/math game designed to develop us into heads of industry), I decided that he was my sworn enemy.  “I will hate S. for the rest of my life,” I declared on the bus ride home.  His crime?  In an attempt to intimidate me (and therefore rattle my concentration in the last round), he had pronounced my outfit “stupid and ugly.”  Unacceptable!  Don’t worry…I still won.

My feelings changed in seventh grade, when he stapled my hand to a piece of neon poster board.   While it was most likely a random and senseless act of pre-adolescent violence, I was decidedly smitten.  As I walked to the nurse’s office with my hand wrapped in those awful brown school paper towels, I wondered if S. was interested in kissing me.   After years of plotting his demise (and rolling my eyes with dramatic flair every time he spoke to me),  something about that staple made me decide he was THE CUTEST BOY EVER (a title bestowed by me to approximately 8 boys/men since then).

For the next two years, I find myself practically swooning when he asked to borrow my strawberry eraser in algebra class.

My hands trembled when the benevolent hand of gym class fate partnered us for square dancing.  “Sorry, I drank too much coffee.”  A bold lie!

Obviously I was in a non-stop tizzy when we became biology partners in ninth grade.   As a result, my understanding of photosynthesis is hazy at best.

And then!  Tenth grade!  He sat directly in front of my in Trigonometry.  During the previous summer, while I was losing my virginity and collecting Sub Pop albums, his hair had grown shaggy.  He returned to school with an assortment of necklaces and the obvious lazy eyes of a stoner.  DREAMY!

The first day of class he turned around, gave me a wink, and then broke the little clip off of my cheap Bic mechanical pencil.    “Do you like Alice in Chains, or what?”

I nodded my head.  Of course, of course.  Another lie.  I had a vague idea of that band, from reading Spin.  I made a mental note to have Laura (my best friend, now the proud owner of a license to drive) to take me to the record store after school so I could invest in the Alice in Chains discography.

A few days later (after many hours listening to Dirt on repeat), I ran into S. in the hall outside Trig class.  “Hey, S…that ‘Them Bones’ song is crazy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, totally.  Wow, you really are the coolest girl,”  he responded enthusiastically.  Yes! Score a point for me.

I had to take it to the next level.  “I’m really having trouble with some of the proofs for homework this week.  Is there any way you could help me with them?”

OH MY GOD!  At this point, Kathleen Hanna should have appeared at my house to personally seize all of my riot grrl albums.  What kind of “math is hard for girls” nonsense was I playing?  For one, I had been the captain of the math team.  I guess I was hoping that the alleged brain-damaging effects of marijuana might have dulled S.’s memory.  Secondly, a majority of my “income” came from tutoring underclassmen and junior high kids in the fine art of theoretical mathematics.

Anyway, feminist guilt must have gotten the best of me, because even though S. gave me his phone number so he could “help” me with my Trig homework, I never called.  Later that year, he broke my heart by allegedly telling a frenemy in my gym class that I was “the weirdest girl in the history of girls.”  My best friend was convinced that he really meant “weird” as a synonym for “cool.”  I was skeptical.

Eventually he went to prom with my other best friend, who pronounced it “the most awkward and boring night of [her] life.”  After college, he went on to be a migrant farm worker as part of of some kind of rebellion against “the man” (yeah, I’ll admit I was somewhat impressed).   Now he is a photographer in Southern California.

Meanwhile, close to two decades later, I still know every word to every song on that Alice in Chains album.  And I can do a pretty impressive acapella version of the guitar solos.  I’ve been caught unconsciously doing that more often than I care to admit.

P.S. I’m only interested in making out with boys that are actually impressed by my math skills.  I guess that’s a sign of maturity.