I remember him now. The first boy I ever loved. Really. On the heels of a deep crush on some ocean eyes.
Ocean eyes that never saw you.
This boy is different. He sees you. Sees how you pay attention in class. Attention to the information. Intent on understanding. He sees through your quiet. Sees the depths of the still water. Writes you a note and passes it to you. You see the smile in his eyes when you look back at him. It does something strange to your heart. This is a strange feeling.
The ocean eyes twist your stomach in knots. These eyes see that there is no need for butterflies. Not now.
The next class you find that he has moved his spot to sit beside you to the chagrin of the girl who was sitting there last time. You tell yourself it’s so he has a better view. Oh. That was true.
He whispers to you. Asks you things. Questions about biology. Something about knowing he is there. Makes you do better.
He partners with you for exploration of the scientific method. We will experiment. We will observe. He trusts you enough to choose you. No, he trusts himself enough. You have come to recognize that he is pretty smart. It feels good to know that he sees this in you as well.
“Takes one to know one,” he says to you now in the cafeteria. He is constantly eating but remains trim. You wonder about this secret power. Maybe it has something to do with being a man.
You notice that he has cream cheese from his bagel on his teeth and you like him a little more.
Was that possible?
He didn’t notice at all. That’s why.
You don’t say much. More just listen to what he has to say. Answer his questions. Sometimes ask him one in return. You don’t understand what is happening. It all feels so foreign and like remembering at the same time. Like walking in Morocco.
You come to recognize his car in the parking lot, he has pulled up beside you enough times and rolled down the window to talk to you. This time he pulls up and tells you to get in. He’ll drive you to your lot. Somehow, he landed the good parking.
You get in but feel the urge to get back out. You resist it. Feeling your body pressing into the black leather seat, as though it will pull you away from this moment.
“What do you like to do?” he asks. “Do you like to go out?”
“I don’t really go out,” you answer, forgetting to add that you never have. That’s why. That’s all.
“Oh,” he says and is quiet for a moment after that, and you long to fill that silence, but your own voice is a foreigner in a foreign land. Not sure how to speak the language. Looking for a guide. A hand to lead the way.
He puts on the music and seems content with that.
“Thank you,” you say. “For the ride.”
“Anytime,” he says, smiling at you before driving away.
Your eyes scour the hall. You learn his schedule through this careful observation. Isn’t this what you’re learning to do in biology class?
You don’t like your English teacher. She doesn’t praise the way you write. It’s not mechanical enough. Doesn’t fit the structure you have outlined. The B from that class will haunt you as it was the only thing less than an A that you earned in this school. The only thing standing between you and that round zero at the end of your chaos. 0
As you reach up to change the music, your arm hits the keys and fives you a zero. This was the only butterfly that ever served you –the ones that land on your arm. Here in the sun.
“Forgive her,” says the boy with the smiling eyes. “She didn’t know you were a writer. That is why she was your teacher. I didn’t know either.”
“Neither did I, but I learned from the Bee. The one who stung me and made me feel ashamed.”
“And the butterflies.”
“And especially from the flower. This one here, the one that I never gave you.” I reach down and pick him a daisy. White petals. Yellow center. I hand it to him now and our eyes meet. Now, for the first time, and he hears all the words that were swallowed by the wind.
He places his hand on my cheek. “I knew I wanted to do this,” he says, and kisses me gently.
“What was that for?” I ask, surprised, but not.
“To say goodbye.”
“That didn’t last as long as I would have liked.”
He hands me back the flower and holds it against my chest. “This is yours,” he says. “I want you to keep it. You deserve to have it. Thank you for sharing it with me after all this time. It’s beautiful.”
“Hello,” I say.
He smiles at me. “Hi.”