I looked great in that shirt. The V-Neck showed off my chest, which was every 13 year-old’s dream, boys and girls. Being a 13 year-old with boobs meant you showed them off. The girls wanted to have them and the boys didn’t know what they wanted with them, but they wanted them. Yup, this was the shirt I will wear today, because today I am going to talk to Brian. I will. 

Now, imagine that the pants are too tight and I died my hair to be blonder (yellow). Got it? Ok, perfect. That’s the girl in this story.

I threw on my size 3 jeans, which should have been a size 5 or 6, but I would squeeze into the 3 and let my stomach and sides hang over the pants because the size number meant more than actually wearing clothes that fit. I brushed my yellow hair. The box said blonde, but let’s be honest, it was yellow. Ran my tongue over my braces smiled at my reflection and I was out the door to talk to Brian. 

The whole point of lockers is socialization. The school system pretends like they are there to hold your books and supplies, but no one uses them for that. They are there for us to talk to our locker neighbors, to wait by for that cute boy to pass; and, for hormonal teenagers, they are a great way to stalk your crush. I mean, you know that they will be at that exact place at specific times, so what else are you supposed to do with that information, apart from stalk your crush? I was going to exploit this childish idea of “storage” that the school system had for all it was worth. I was going to use it to bump into Brian in the most, Oh my gosh. I didn’t see you there. How funny that your locker is right here way in my too tight jeans and v neck every shade of purple shirt. I was going to get him to notice me. It was brilliant. 

Brian was perfect. He was beautiful, had blonde short hair, was taller than me, had a symmetrical square face with bright blue eyes, and he was a year older than me.  He was smart, and wore great khaki shorts with polo colored shirts. He was the manager of the girls basketball team, which I was on, thank you very much. And, perhaps best of all, he was a leader in cotillion. He knew how to dance and eat with manners, not that any of that actually meant anything to me. The important part of his cotillion membership was that we had danced before. So, it was fate. We had danced, he had seen my girly side in my dresses with my white gloves. He saw my athletic tomboy side, since he was the basketball manager. Plus, he knew I was smart because he saw me walk by his locker with my books all the time. What else could there be. 

It was the time of attack, everything was perfect. We had cotillion that night, so a natural conversation starter, and I would leave him wanting more, so much so that he would ask me to dance at cotillion. He would ask, we wouldn’t just be partnered together. 

I walked to the door of my French class flipped my hair and ran my fingers through it and looked out the door. Brian’s locker was diagonal from the French room, so I could plan the perfect accidentally planned bumped into ever. But, he wasn’t there, so I slid back into the room and hid behind the wall. I would wait 1 minute, that would give him time to get to his locker. I waited, running my fingers through my greasy hair and untangling all the knots I could find. I tried to hike my jeans up, to no avail since they were already using every fiber they were made of to cling to my body, and I pulled my shirt down just ever so slightly. I looked out the door and there he was. 

It went perfectly. I ran into him like I didn’t see him because I was so focused on the textbook book in front of my face (great cover right). I asked if he was going to cotillion that night, to which of course he said, yes and politely asked if I was too. The conversation flowed perfectly forced for a 13 year-old. It was brilliant. The only issue, Vivian. He wanted to know if Vivian would be there tonight as well. Of course he wanted to know if she would be there, and of course she would be. 

Vivian was a little taller than me, an actual size 3 because she was a real athlete, and her hair was the color the box lied and said mine would be. Plus, she was brilliant, girly, but also an athletic tomboy. She was also my neighbor and friend since the womb. We weren’t the kind of friends that talked all the time or had lots in common, but she was a friend because our mothers were friends and we were neighbors and they loved to get us together. We were in a silent competition with each other, always trying to be just slightly better than the other, making our parent prouder than the other made theirs. Truth is, I was the one in competition with her, she wasn’t in a competition with me. She was beautiful, smart, athletic, kind, funny, and her mother was doting and thought she hung the stars. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn’t it, she was too nice to hate. Vivian was on the basketball team with me, but she actually started and could dribble the ball without looking at it hunching over and waddling. She could even make layups. When we practiced she would always try to help, but something about the coordination of a dribble, and especially a layup, my body could not understand. The coach made me wear this white plastic duckbill across my nose and under my eyes to help me stop looking at the ball when I dribbled. Vivian never had to wear the duckbill. Plus, Brian saw all of this. 

I told him Vivian and I were carpooling so we would both be there and he was thrilled. I should have taken the very not subtle hints he was giving me of not stalking my locker, and asking if another girl would be at the event I was attending, but of course I didn’t. I smiled my best brace filled smile, flipped my hair, told him I would see him there and turned to walk to science. 

Me and Vivian (left). Look how effortlessly classy she looks but also like she could pick up any sport you could imagine and beat you at it. She could and did all the time.

In my graceful look at me exit I didn’t look where I was going and I smacked right into the chest of the tallest boy I had ever seen. 

“Sorry,” I muttered as I tried to navigate around him to my class. 

He chuckled and said something along the lines of “Watch where you’re going next time” and asked if I was ok. 

I glanced up at him and said I was fine as I side stepped to the right to move to my classroom. With all those hormones raging inside, even though I was certain what Brian and I had was fate, I did notice that the mountain of a boy was very cute. 

2 thoughts on “To That Perfect V-Neck…

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