The first week of school, I lingered in the halls of your fairy castle dorm that I had so desperately wanted to live in. I read names scrawled on construction paper signs. Each door had four. Lucky, lucky, lucky, oh. Your name was so unusual ~ a literary character ~ that I liked you the moment I read it.
We met three times, maybe fewer and you could never look at me. That made no sense. From a distance, you were always rowdy, always joking, laughing, bright. With me, I guess your shoes were much more interesting. Your friends asked me once “do you fancy him?” Ah, of course. “Of course,” I said, brazen smile blazing, “who doesn’t?” And that is how my enthusiastic yes was parlayed into a sarcastic no.
There was never a good way to say these things to a boy who couldn’t look at me. But it was a yes, a yes, a yes-oh-yes sort of yes. So much so that I gave you the highest honor my childish heart could give: I named my snowboard after you. Every trip, I’d imagine you carving down the mountain right behind me and smile.
(Disclaimer: This is part of the letter series)