I was in my junior year of high school. I was seated at the corner of a relatively small classroom, where the fluorescent light tubes above me blinked every now and then, and where the instructor never bothered to look for completion of classwork. Of course, our teacher wasn’t lazy or incompetent; this was simply part of his teaching style. We were currently doing “busy scut work” – working on a worksheet, figuring out the passage in front of us, while the teacher sat at his desk, absorbed and – for the moment – unobservant.
A boy of strikingly handsome debonair was seated at the side adjacent to my corner, upright and alert. Of course, beauty belonged to the beholder, but he was the kind of boy who could blend in a Vogue supermodel photoshoot very easily. He had chocolate hair that wasn’t doused in gel, as was customary for most boys at my school (I’ll never understand the reason why). His face was freckle-free, and his dimples lit up his angular visage. His high cheekbones could be seen – sharp and tightly cornered – from a distance. His shoulders sagged slightly but were otherwise strong, and adept. In other words, I considered him more than attractive. For some reason, he seemed to be seeking someone. His searching gaze sought to make a desperate acquaintance with someone, but he could not find her. I knew it was a “she” – I didn’t know how or why but I just knew. However, in his last resort, his scrutinizing eyes managed to lock with mine.
A flash of anxiety struck me with a sharp pang of pain. The consternation created was overwhelming. His eyes were a deep familiar caramel, the color of gold hash browns, with a few flecks of dark brown scattered here and there that shone brilliantly. The bridge of his nose was slightly crooked as he endeavored to remember who I was. His arched eyebrows squinted to analyze my every trait. I knew who he was – he looked exactly like someone I had known in the past.
Warmth coursed through me – it was a pleasant, albeit foreign, feeling.
I couldn’t help but impudently continue gazing. As I stared deep into the amber abyss of his irises, I could almost see reflections, glimpses, visions of something more, something precious yet unattainable…The days a boy and a girl had spent with another, whispering on the telephones at night, the day their hands entwined with one another, igniting a sense of nervousness and accomplishment, the moment they knew that the spark between them carried a meaning more realizable than could ever have been conceived before … and the moment they decided to end it all… together.
When I zoned into reality again, lightheaded and bewildered, I realized that the lovely boy was still glaring at me intently, curious and inquisitive, despite my rude act of staring. Had I just hallucinated? I usually daydreamed in history class; literature was rarely my go-to catnap class. After what seemed like eons, his beautiful face registered a notion of recognition, whereupon he smiled warmly. It was a flawless smile – the kind that looked practiced but could never be deliberately contrived, the kind that made one feel truly loved and valued, the kind from which confidence oozed out like a solid waterfall. The kind I wouldn’t mind seeing first thing every morning and last thing every night. Thus, I decided to smile back, casting off the gloom and despair that I had just recently experienced. I grinned widely, acutely aware of my lack of orthodontia. He then motioned me to come sit next to the lonely mahogany colored seat next to him.
Oh, dear. Why did I ever smile in the first place?
I saw the intricate creases on the palm of his hand, which almost seemed to form an unknown constellation. In retrospect, I could best liken it to the constellation, Aries – slightly linear in shape. His hollow cheeks glowed with a unique beauty, inexperienced with the pain of separation or betrayal. His olive complexion gleamed radiantly. Never in my life had I wanted to do something so absurd as to sit next to a charming and flirtatious boy during English class. A part of me almost begged to go sit next to him. What’s the worst that could happen? Interacting with a wallflower like me could never hurt anyone. Before I could make a move, however, a girl with dark auburn hair and azure eyes turned to him and reached for his hand to pass a gray, crumpled note. He clutched it immediately and began to read. Whatever connection I had with the boy, was now lost.
Suddenly, they were chattering away, lost in conversation. It was like the nostalgic sphere in which he had invited me to was closed shut as he welcomed the other guest. It was only me now, alone again. I felt an abrupt, dreadful, nauseous impact. It was him and her all over again. Just him and just her.