I came from a small town. I won’t embarrass the town by naming it, but it was so small that there wasn’t even a school bus. Just some nice lady in her car who would pick up the kids and drive them to school. We called her car the “bus”.
One of the other kids on the “bus” was a shy girl about a year younger than me. She was a petite little pixie with porcelain skin, curly brown hair, and big hazel eyes with long lashes. Oh, how I admired that girl. It’s hard to describe how smitten I was. Just looking at her made me nervous and pained. You see, I was shy, too, so it took weeks before I could work up the nerve to hold her hand there in the backseat of the “bus”.
My first crush. And wonder of wonders, she liked me, too. What did we do together? Nothing, except hold hands and have whispered conversations. We weren’t in the same class. We didn’t see each other outside of school. All we had was that short ride each morning and afternoon.
I was still years away from puberty and the hormonal agony that comes along with it, but this was a precursor. She was on my mind a lot, even as I was playing games with my brother, or riding my bike up and down the long dirt driveway that led from the road to our house, or running with my dog through the weedy field that bordered our property.
When her family moved away, I was heartbroken.
Now, I saw that girl again when I was about fourteen. She was, unbelievably, riding in a rodeo that came through our small town. I guess I had known she liked horses, but I’d forgotten. She called me after her performance to let me know she was in town and to see if I wanted to go get a soda. Of course, I said yes. She said she was calling from her aunt and uncle’s place and could be ready soon. We made arrangements to meet. I hung up the phone with my heart pounding in my chest.
Rodeos weren’t my thing, but if I’d known ahead of time she was coming, I would have cheered her from the bleachers. But I didn’t know until after the fact, so I never got to see her ride.
At school there were girls I liked, but this was almost a year before I worked up the nerve to ask any out. When my mother dropped me off at the A&W, I was nervous and excited. Would I recognize her? Would she know me? We’d both grown. I was a lanky boy with shoulder-length hair in baggy pants and a striped t-shirt. And she, apparently, was now a cowgirl.
I waited near the front door, shuffling my feet and trying to look cool. Then there she was, getting out of a big white pickup truck that pulled a horse trailer. She wore a pink and burgundy plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves and tucked into a pair of tight blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into a pair of dusty cowboy boots. Her curly brown hair was pulled back into a long ponytail and her hazel eyes danced when she saw me.
“Evan!” she squealed as she ran toward me. She’d overcome most of her shyness; I still struggled with mine. But when she threw her arms around me, I was at least able to make myself return the hug.
Nearly as tall as me, she was gangly in a strong and graceful way. All long legs and slender arms. Her porcelain skin had tanned to a golden brown and there was a light dusting of freckles over her nose that hadn’t been there before. She smelled like hay and flowers, felt like a homecoming. I was speechless, a lump the size of a tennis ball in my throat.
We ordered large frosty mugs of root beer, which I proudly paid for from my allowance, and sat at a table across from each other. She was an animated talker and I couldn’t stop staring as she spoke. Her twinkling eyes, the way her ponytail swung when she moved her head, her slightly crooked smile, her lean brown wrist encircled by a bracelet of dangly charms. I thought she was beautiful.
“So, do you wrestle bulls?” I asked, naively. “That seems dangerous.”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “I carry a flag.” She told me about her horse, her school, her friends, the farmhouse where she lived, the corrals and barn, the pasture where her horse grazed with the others her father owned. She talked of riding along the creek and being part of the drill team.
I couldn’t think of one remarkable thing about my life to share with her, but I made awkward attempts at being interesting. Mostly, as I recall, I just mumbled.
When our mugs were empty and her dad pulled up, we said our quick goodbyes.
“It was so great seeing you again,” she said, as she squeezed my hand.
Get her number. Get her address. Come on! My smile felt frozen on my face and my palms were moist. I heard myself saying, “Same here.”
Then I was watching through the window as she skipped lightly out to her father’s big truck, ponytail swaying. With a wave of her hand, she got inside and he drove away.
I never saw her again.
Through the grapevine, I heard about her from time to time over the years. I knew she’d married, moved to Texas, and had some children. Then I lost track of her entirely.
Now I’d like to say something to her:
Brandy, wherever you are today, I have no idea if you remember the boy who couldn’t get it together enough to ask for your phone number, but he remembers you. And if you ever read any of my books, don’t be surprised to find a character here or there based on you, and on that wonderful first-crush feeling that inspires me to this day.
One of the other kids on the “bus” was a shy girl about a year younger than me. She was a petite little pixie with porcelain skin, curly brown hair, and big hazel eyes with long lashes. Oh, how I admired that girl. It’s hard to describe how smitten I was. Just looking at her made me nervous and pained. You see, I was shy, too, so it took weeks before I could work up the nerve to hold her hand there in the backseat of the “bus”.
My first crush. And wonder of wonders, she liked me, too. What did we do together? Nothing, except hold hands and have whispered conversations. We weren’t in the same class. We didn’t see each other outside of school. All we had was that short ride each morning and afternoon.
I was still years away from puberty and the hormonal agony that comes along with it, but this was a precursor. She was on my mind a lot, even as I was playing games with my brother, or riding my bike up and down the long dirt driveway that led from the road to our house, or running with my dog through the weedy field that bordered our property.
When her family moved away, I was heartbroken.
Now, I saw that girl again when I was about fourteen. She was, unbelievably, riding in a rodeo that came through our small town. I guess I had known she liked horses, but I’d forgotten. She called me after her performance to let me know she was in town and to see if I wanted to go get a soda. Of course, I said yes. She said she was calling from her aunt and uncle’s place and could be ready soon. We made arrangements to meet. I hung up the phone with my heart pounding in my chest.
Rodeos weren’t my thing, but if I’d known ahead of time she was coming, I would have cheered her from the bleachers. But I didn’t know until after the fact, so I never got to see her ride.
At school there were girls I liked, but this was almost a year before I worked up the nerve to ask any out. When my mother dropped me off at the A&W, I was nervous and excited. Would I recognize her? Would she know me? We’d both grown. I was a lanky boy with shoulder-length hair in baggy pants and a striped t-shirt. And she, apparently, was now a cowgirl.
I waited near the front door, shuffling my feet and trying to look cool. Then there she was, getting out of a big white pickup truck that pulled a horse trailer. She wore a pink and burgundy plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves and tucked into a pair of tight blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into a pair of dusty cowboy boots. Her curly brown hair was pulled back into a long ponytail and her hazel eyes danced when she saw me.
“Evan!” she squealed as she ran toward me. She’d overcome most of her shyness; I still struggled with mine. But when she threw her arms around me, I was at least able to make myself return the hug.
Nearly as tall as me, she was gangly in a strong and graceful way. All long legs and slender arms. Her porcelain skin had tanned to a golden brown and there was a light dusting of freckles over her nose that hadn’t been there before. She smelled like hay and flowers, felt like a homecoming. I was speechless, a lump the size of a tennis ball in my throat.
We ordered large frosty mugs of root beer, which I proudly paid for from my allowance, and sat at a table across from each other. She was an animated talker and I couldn’t stop staring as she spoke. Her twinkling eyes, the way her ponytail swung when she moved her head, her slightly crooked smile, her lean brown wrist encircled by a bracelet of dangly charms. I thought she was beautiful.
“So, do you wrestle bulls?” I asked, naively. “That seems dangerous.”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “I carry a flag.” She told me about her horse, her school, her friends, the farmhouse where she lived, the corrals and barn, the pasture where her horse grazed with the others her father owned. She talked of riding along the creek and being part of the drill team.
I couldn’t think of one remarkable thing about my life to share with her, but I made awkward attempts at being interesting. Mostly, as I recall, I just mumbled.
When our mugs were empty and her dad pulled up, we said our quick goodbyes.
“It was so great seeing you again,” she said, as she squeezed my hand.
Get her number. Get her address. Come on! My smile felt frozen on my face and my palms were moist. I heard myself saying, “Same here.”
Then I was watching through the window as she skipped lightly out to her father’s big truck, ponytail swaying. With a wave of her hand, she got inside and he drove away.
I never saw her again.
Through the grapevine, I heard about her from time to time over the years. I knew she’d married, moved to Texas, and had some children. Then I lost track of her entirely.
Now I’d like to say something to her:
Brandy, wherever you are today, I have no idea if you remember the boy who couldn’t get it together enough to ask for your phone number, but he remembers you. And if you ever read any of my books, don’t be surprised to find a character here or there based on you, and on that wonderful first-crush feeling that inspires me to this day.
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