Part of me knows I fell in love with him at first sight. I never thought falling in love with a stranger was possible, but there had been no mistaking that feeling. His family had just moved from New York City, which, in a small town with a population under 2,000, is a big deal. I couldn't have avoided him if I tried – not that I wanted to.
He was over three inches taller than my five-foot-seven, with dark sable coloured hair and the most extraordinary eyes I had ever seen. Emerald green, spiked with punches of gold and grey. When he turned those eyes on me, I felt speechless and clumsy for the first time in my life. How did I look to him? Was I dull, with my mousy brown hair and brown eyes? He was beautiful, exotic. He was a God.
I did my best to get to know him, get closer. He always told me what a great friend I was. Friend! That broke my heart when he said that, and I would silently scream to myself "I don't want to be friends!" I wanted to be closer still, be intimate, but I never told him.
I never told him until two years later, our final year in high school. I was going to Harvard; he had gotten a basketball scholarship to Berkley. We promised to keep in touch, but we both knew we wouldn't. No one ever does.
So, you see, I had to tell him. I told him and he hit me with a Dodgeball. Maybe that's what he thought he had to do.
We never spoke again after that incident. Not that I didn't try, I had to try – I loved him. But he never even returned my calls. That's when I realized something is wrong with me: Boys aren't supposed to love other boys. Or atleast that's what he hit me with, just before the Dodgeball.
© Kelsey Sanderson 2004