It Hurt Me More Than It Hurt You

I was thinking just yesterday about my first (and only I can remember) secret admirer. Maybe word got out what a bitch I was after the first one, and the boys knew not to admire me privately. They must have figured I wasn't worth admiring much at all, because I didn't even have my first kiss until I was nearly sixteen. If I remember correctly, it was just days before my sixteenth birthday, but I'm not good with dates. Little did those boys know what they were missing in me--a girl that doesn't care about anniversaries and is likely to forget them herself. I'm a real catch, as anyone can plainly see by all the bitching and moaning I do on a daily basis. But this is about one of the poor schmucks that actually liked me, not all the ones who failed to see my inner beauty.

Way back in the seventh grade, I sat next to a boy named Ken in biology class. We were partners, which meant worm and frog excavation were shared by us. It's not exactly a bonding experience, and I honestly don't know why anyone would want to ogle another over the stench of formaldehyde, but it was the seventh grade. I didn't know I was being ogled or anything else at the time. In fact, I was downright oblivious to a lot of things then, as you shall see.

I don't remember how it all began. I don't remember where I got the first note or much of anything. I just remember getting a note from a secret admirer on Hello Kitty paper, which happened to be popular way back then too. It didn't say much I can recall; just your standard "I like you" sort of thing without a signature or clue as to whom it was that sent it. I seem to remember getting a couple little gifts too, but I couldn't tell you what they were now. What I do remember is wondering who the hell this person was that was making my stomach do back flips every time I saw an unfamiliar note addressed to me.

A girl with some common sense would have caught onto the fact that Ken noticed the notes and grilled me about them. A smart girl would have realized he had more than a passing interest in my secret admirer. As I've proven thousands of times though, if I can't learn it in a book, I'm going to have to learn it by screwing something up completely. This case was no exception.

I got a little embarrassed by Ken's questioning, and this is the part I will never forget. He asked me what I'd been doing with the things I received, and I told him I tore them up and burned them. It wasn't until I saw the look on his face that the light bulb finally went on over my head and was so bright that I swear I smelled burnt hair. I tried to put out the fire. I told him I was kidding, and I actually kept them all, but I said that because I was frustrated from not knowing whom it was. I can't say I was thrilled that it was he who sent the things, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings either. It was too late for that though. The notes ceased, and nothing else was ever said about it.

This is one of those things that haunt me to this day, just like the note about Miss Allen that same year (I'll tell that story another day). I still feel bad for hurting Ken's feelings and will probably always wish I could go back and change that one moment. The poor boy got up the courage to do something really nice for someone, and that someone crushed him out of awkwardness. I can only hope it made him stronger and that it didn't leave him like me, getting his first kiss just before his sixteenth birthday. Maybe that was my penalty for having been so cruel. I'll never know for sure, and I don't think I'd ever have the courage to bring it up to him if I saw him again (fat chance of that, I'm sure). Plus, he might take too much pleasure in knowing I've carried this burden all these years. I hope he's happy now without it. Even after all these years, junior high still sucks.