When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up. I wanted to be pretty, mature, curvy and hot. Growing up seemed like heaven: cars, boobs and boys. Freedom from my awkward innocence. I was dying to get the hell out.
Physically, I stayed a kid a lot longer than most of my female classmates. While the “hot girls” were developing cleavage in their cotton training bras, I was a surfboard who was so behind in her development that she had to have 12 baby teeth pulled just to be up to speed. What a horrible thing to do to an ugly duckling who was still years away from her period. The summer before high school I had massive gaps in my smile like I had drank nothing but Coca Cola since birth. I could put my four front teeth over my bottom lip. Four perfect chiclets. No boobs, no period, no teeth. This is when I stopped believing in God.
Before the tragic tooth excavation, I was still a pretty weird looking kid. Cute, if you like mice more than actual humans. I was skinny with pale hair, even paler skin and I had big, dark eyes that took up half my face. Regardless of my awkward looks, I did manage a false confidence and strong attitude (which I carried on throughout high school). I stuffed my shyness away because when you don’t have beauty on your side, you have to find other avenues to get respect from your peers. Especially the boys.
“Flirting” came in two forms: teasing or note passing. Teasing was the best way to flirt because it was long form. An epic saga that started at recess and didn’t end until summer break. A girl could always tell the flirt-teasing from the real-teasing. Flirt-teasing was innocent, playful and often left you pawing back and smiling like a Southern pageant queen blushing off a compliment. Note passing was less tedious than teasing and straight to the point. It was all business, kind of like Tinder. “Do you want to go out? Check ‘YES’ or ‘NO’”. “Do you like Brandon? Check ‘YES’, ‘NO’ or ‘MAYBE’.” Of course all of this was practice. We were pretending to be adults, because our flirting never went anywhere. We held hands, pecked one another, and the really advanced kids sucked face (or just told everyone they did). You got more action as a toddler playing “doctor” then you did in the the sixth grade. “Going out” meant that you held hands in the hallway.
My crush was my friend Dane. Remember when “liking” someone was big shit?
I still remember Dane’s black and white sneakers, his glasses and his fuzzy, blond crew cut. He was short and spry. Dane didn’t walk, he bounced. And he wore the khakis his mom bought him. They were very M.C. Hammer meets professional baseball player.
Dane and I passed a lot of notes because we sat across from one another. Every page in my Duo-Tang had a note-sized bite taken out of the bottom corner. We jammed as much gossip as we could onto those tiny pieces of paper. I have this cloudy memory of Dane passing me a tiny, folded flap of paper and it finally getting flirtatious. This wasn’t the typical “Do you like me” note flirting, but nuanced and contentious. It was as heavy as heavy gets when you are a kid.
I can’t remember how it ended, but what I do remember is that initial feeling. It was the first anxiousness of crushing on someone and knowing you really meant it. Dane gave me butterflies and I had no idea what to do with them.
I don’t think I ever told him I liked him. It was easier to joke with Dane during a game of Capture the Flag, or help him with the crushes he had on my friends with cleavage. That was always the safe position: the friend. It was easier to flirt from the sidelines. No one even knew you were playing. I wonder what Dane is doing now? I can remember my childhood best friend’s home phone number, the name of every grade school teacher I ever had, and my Halloween costume of 1996, but I can’t remember Dane’s last name.
I wish I could text my 11-year-old self and ask her what really went down with Dane. Was she unintentionally using the nice guy to practice for her teenage future, or did she really like like him?
I’ll never know unless I find those tiny notes and my childhood diary.
If only.
• Have a sex question for Mish? Email [email protected].
