Oh, My True Love, I Hate You

I met him in the first grade. The boy of my dreams. Craig B. Yes, he was shorter than the other boys were, but I was the smallest girl in the class, so I didn't mind. More than his attractive height, he also had the most beautiful dark hair that fell across one eye. He had to flick his hair just right with a little toss of his head, to move the dark lock back in place. Dark glittering eyes were framed by thick black lashes and his tanned face, already perfect, was made even more so with his perfectly pouted lips. He was a nice boy to look at and I did so. . . often. I ogled him, really.

He didn't seem so aware of my existence as I was of his. Jay noticed me, much to my great disappointment. He shook his paper-bag lunch every day as he sang to me, "Hey, hey, my name is Jay. And you're gonna be my girl some day!" I rolled my eyes and searched the school playground for . . . ah, yes, there he was: Craig. My dream boy.

At recess, I watched him shimmy up the tetherball pole and win; by cheating of course, but we short people sometimes have to use what skills we're given wherever we can use them. Rationalizing his bad behavior was easy, but I wanted him to notice me, and he didn't seem to be aware of my hero worship. Since I was painfully shy and would never deign to join the 'popular' girls and play tetherball, I did what any good girl would do. I told on him. Whispering, "You're really good at that, Craig" had no effect so drastic measures were absolutely necessary. I ran straight up to the first teacher I could find and told her about the horrible cheating I had witnessed with my own two eyes!

After that, he noticed me all right; and disliked me. He stuck his tongue out at me. He and his friends teased me and pulled on my ponytails, and tried to lift my skirt for "Dress Up Day," but still I was smitten. He was such a cute boy! Spending my recess with my dress pinned at my sides, with my girlfriends alongside me doing the same thing was worth it, I thought, for the marginal attention it gained me from "Mr. Wonderful."

By grade two, he'd given up shimmying up poles and drain pipes that led to the school roof and seemed a much calmer sort of boy. It didn't occur to me that the cast on his arm had anything to do with it at all. I was happily surprised after a summer apart, that he had somehow grown to be even more handsome! I truly didn't think such a thing was possible. He didn't even stick his tongue out at me anymore. In fact, he smiled. I was sure then that I stood a chance with him.

I wrote a note. "I love you. Do you love me? Check yes if you do, check no if you don't. Kimmie." I dropped the note on his desk as I passed by. I watched him read it as I slunk into my seat and I listened to my heart pound in my ears. He turned around from his seat at the front of the class (where the teacher could keep a better eye on him) and stuck his tongue out at me. That pink tongue sticking out of his mouth was disappointing, just when he'd stopped doing it. I watched, wondering if I'd be able to tell which box he was checking when he bent to respond to my confession. He didn't bend to the note. He didn't even check the 'no' box, rather than 'yes.' He didn't even bother to pick up his pencil! He ripped up the note! I was mortified—and angry. How dare he do such a thing with my love! Luckily, before I gave up on him entirely, I remembered the words of wisdom a friend had confided to me.

"If a boy is really mean to you, it means he likes you."

I pondered those words, decided that no boy was as mean to me as Craig was, and so I wrote another note, and another, and another, every day for weeks. He stuck his tongue out at me, ripped them up, and before long, it became a game between us. I was growing tired of the game and one day sent a note that said, "I hate you. Do you hate me? Check yes if you do, no if you don't." He smiled at me and stuck the note in his shirt pocket. I went back to sending love notes.

In one day though, everything changed forever after. It was gym class and the afternoon was especially warm. Mrs. Jackson let us have gym outside and we all lined up in two rows facing one another for a game of Red Rover. Small people generally dislike the game. The smallest in the class usually get slammed the worst because everyone knows to call the weakest over since they'll never break through, and the other team knows to run for their links since it'll be a breeze to bust through and claim a "prisoner," usually the strongest.

"Red Rover, Red Rover, we call Kimmie over!"

Just as I knew they would, they picked me first because I was the skinniest, smallest and weakest person in the class. There was no way I could break through their barrier. I never had before anyway. I glared hard at Craig, determined to show him how truly wonderful I was. I was ready to move our relationship to the next level. We would be nice to each other, he would walk me home, we would play tag and he would only tag me, not push me to the ground. I was ready and the best way to let him know how terrific I was, would be to show him with a test of strength. I would certainly win his respect! I headed straight for the spot where his stocky arm joined with the long skinny one of the tall boy next to him.

I ran! I ran fast! I ran hard! My teammates behind me saw this new determination in me and spurred me on. "Go Kimmie, go! You can do it!"

Yes I could! I was like a bull seeing red. I slammed harder than I ever had into the joined fists, nearly knocking the wind out of my slight body.

I didn't break through.

After my initial disappointment, I realized with a little thrill—in the spot where I'd let myself be punched in the gut—that I would have to hold Craig's hand. He smiled at me as he took my hand in his. My smile was sweet and shy, just like me.

And then I grimaced. Why, his hand was all sweaty! Pudgy and sweaty, and it didn't feel nice at all. I wanted to let go but each time someone came barreling toward our line, he held my hand tighter, his sweat coating my palm. I wanted to gag. Never had I felt such a sweaty palm in my life. Had I known the year before about his sweaty hands, I would probably have never sent him a single note.

So ended my crush.

No more notes, no more smiles, no more tattling on him when I caught him misbehaving on the playground. I washed my hands of him—literally. I pretended he didn't exist whenever he would say hello to me. I said "No thanks" when he offered to hold my hand in Red Rover. I even ripped up the note he gave me that said, "I love you. Do you love me? Check yes if you do, no if you don't." I kept the one that said, "I hate you."