FIRST CRUSH

You are twelve when you learn you love a girl. You have never seen anyone as beautiful as Zara. Her eyes are squinty brown, the depth of seas, slicked hair pulled back into pins, stabbing a knot behind her neck. You are sitting under the red Maple tree, your legs crossed under the cemented chair, hers, erect, one across the other. Her school uniform is a shade darker than allowed. Her lips are lined cherry, and you wonder what they would taste like in your mouth.

She’s with Frank. You tell yourself and bite your lips. She would never see you the way you see her.

She is cross-checking her assignment with yours—correcting the wrong ones, filling in the gap spaces. This is the kind of relationship you’ve had for about a month, since the first day in chemistry class when Mr. Waterfeld paired both of you up for an experiment. You are the smart one, and she’s the pretty one, and the two complement each other. This is what you tell yourself at night when you stare into the mirror and imagine her halo coated around you. In the hallway, she talks to you and for a second or two, the spotlight turns on above you, and you are as grateful as you are jealous.

But today, under the red Maple tree, everything is different, and you know something would happen. You can feel it. It's in the way she looks at you, and you are sure.

Yep...everybody knows that look...when you definitively know...she is paying attention to you...she's locked in.

You are in middle school, you are twelve, and she’s thirteen. And you have never seen anyone as beautiful as Zara.