The first thing anyone ever noticed about my friend Wendy was the color of her eyes. They were perhaps the most unusual shade of hazel I had ever seen. Her luminous orbs, as she poetically preferred to call them, would change with her mood and occasionally the season. In winter, they were green, striking, but not unique. In summer though, they metamorphosed into an eerie color found in the center of a flame, that little tongue of deep, dangerous blue fiercer than the blustery reds. But no one ever saw the cobalt-eyed Wendy, but I, for she lived out her summer holidays in the isolation of New England with an aunt. I saw the cobalt only once, because Wendy once sent me a photo, a rarity because she hated photos, of her fishing on a windy day.
But it was not until last year, in the depths of October, when I saw an emerald-eyed Wendy, and knew that they changed with emotions as well. There we were, in art class, listening to the ceramics teacher Ms. Fry highlight the importance of glaze technique, and I saw it, a flicker of green as Andrew Mason walked by in the hall with his laptop in tow. Andrew was a second generation child born into a family that had moved its company base from India to the United States in the fifties. He was a cyber-geek in all sense of the slang term, wanting to follow in the programmer footsteps of his father and brother. He intentionally tortured his friends with weak programming puns. And he never parted with anything that had microchips. In fact, he lobbied in September for special midnight access to the school computer lab in the upper east wing of the school. It was granted, and in return, Andrew was responsible for aiding Mr. Whitz debug school computers as needed. The boy was quite handsome, tanned skin and warm brown eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, and was not athletic. It is my personal theory that only youthful metabolism kept him from eating his way into an early grave.
Despite his inoffensive dress and interest, nobody liked Andrew very much. For you see, Andrew had a little secret that all his peers had suspicions of, but all adults were blind to. In sixth grade, three years ago, I saw Andrew typing furiously on his laptop. With my binoculars, which had coincidentally been on hand at the moment, I read what he wrote. It was a letter to his mother, Jezebela, which was supposedly from an anonymous stalker professing his love. I watched as he printed it out, and sealed it in a nondescript envelope. I knew it could not possibly be the Oedipus complex, because I knew he liked Holly Matthews. I would come to the conclusion that was probably correct; he was practicing the art of sadism for his own amusement. From that day on, whenever a classmate fell victim to misfortune that seemed too ironic to be fate, my thoughts would turn to Andrew Mason, and his tanned fingers furiously typing a letter that would be found in the hands of his comatose mother a week later.
I should probably have reported him, but I was compelled by my own indifference and the threat of his retaliation to keep my voice down. Andrew Mason was dangerous, clever, and beautiful; I was not dumb enough to blow the whistle. Thus, when I saw Wendy's eyes at that moment, I knew something was wrong. Wendy was anti-social naturally from spending twelve years in a very provincial town, and so far, her sexuality was ambiguous. Some students preferred to wear their sexual preferences on their sleeves and parade it while waving banners, but Wendy was a strange figure in that crowd of hooting, cat-calling, tonguing adolescents. In fact, Wendy kissed me once on my eleventh birthday, after I told her about my crush, wishing that I could be kissed and know the feeling of true love. She was a spectacular kisser, and believe me, I will never forget her flexible cat's tongue tasting mine. Sometimes, when I'm lonely I'll remember I sometimes think back to her sinful pink mouth. Girlish, but really sexy. But I'd never masturbate to the memory, because some things can't be tainted. And despite this particular sexual awakening, we know that we couldn't ever be lovers. I'm a queer for one thing, and secondly, the object of my venereal desires is my English teacher, Mr. Kurst. I have no idea if he has a first name, but I swear, he unwittingly made me his abject love slave the day he assigned me a paper on Gabriel García Marquez's Love and Other Demons. The sensuality of the book combined with his heady scent as he corrected my paper over my shoulder has made Mr. Kurst the object of my infatuation. I'm completely aware that my longing is really unfounded, and that my desires will come of nothing, but I find that Lust does not deal with my own conscious mind.
I spoke with Wendy at lunch under the shade of an oak in the courtyard about the her unprecedented reaction in Ceramics class. She confessed the truth, and I embraced her. She gave me a peck on the cheek in return, and combed back my blonde-brown hair with her fingers. Reader, I wish Wendy all the caution and luck in the world, because my dear friend is in love with Andrew Mason.