She was sitting
there, so close to me. Our elbows bumped occasionally when I would reach for my
bag, or when she rearranged her papers. We sat like this, every single day in
Physics 200, laughing together at our teacher’s bad jokes and sighing at the
same time when he assigned us extra work. She had a Mario pin on her backpack.
I fought the urge to complement her on it every class. But I wouldn’t dare.
You see, I have a
problem. I don’t know how to talk to girls. I don’t understand them. To me,
they all seem like aliens, these unearthly creatures that have no problem
choosing the right things to wear, the right things to say. It’s a problem
that’s familiar to almost every middle school boy who has ever walked this
earth. Their hair always looks perfect, even in the rain. Their eyeliner
doesn’t get all over their eyelids. They laugh loud and often, flipping their
curls towards no one in particular. It doesn’t matter if their opinions are
wrong; they spout them confidently anyway. From the minute I meet them, I just
know that they are making fun of me in their heads. I don’t think I ever really
considered myself one of them, even when I was younger, before I knew anything
about the world.
I was a boisterous
child, full of ideas and jokes. I knew how to make people smile. It didn’t take
long for me to realize that that wasn’t what gets you included, at least not in
elementary school. Back then, it was clean white Sketchers and denim jackets
and Polo shirts, simple as that. But I liked my appliqué jeans and turtlenecks.
I didn’t know how to put on makeup, and I sure as hell didn’t know what eyebrow
plucking was. But everything I did was wrong. It’s like these girls had a
rulebook handed to them when they were born, and I was skipped over. No one
tells you, when you’re small, that these things don’t really matter. And even
if they did, you wouldn’t believe it.
I was still young
enough to think that everyone was good at heart. The boys, they threw cuss
words and insults and were best friends again in minutes. I met my one of my
best friends, John, in 5th grade. He introduced himself to me by
biting me on the shoulder; I bit him back. They were a ragtag bunch, who judged
your worth based on how dirty you were willing to get at recess, and I earned a
place in their ranks by digging a cave into the pitcher’s mound. Theirs were
ideals I could get behind, and they became my brothers. It was my defiance against the straight
blonde hair and pearls and standards I could never reach. I shook off their
backwards glances and sneers like they were nothing, but their disapproval
wounded me, and it’s a scar I still bear.
***
One day this
semester, my physics teacher decided to have us check our answers with the
person next to us. As soon as he said it, my face flushed, and then went white.
I couldn’t hear anything but my own heartbeat. I desperately tried to find a
reason to leave the class; I cursed myself for not using this day to sleep in;
etc. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her finishing her problems. One smooth, copper
hair fell out of her clip and she brushed it from her face without a care. What
was it with all these girls? One hair out of place and they don’t pay it any
attention. I would’ve had to run to a mirror.
As if God himself
couldn’t bear to see me in such anguish, the boy sitting to the right of me
offered me his paper. I exhaled, for what felt like the first time in hours; I
was in my element again. I made some easy comment on how boring the class was,
and he laughed. He saw my Mass Effect jacket, and we were immediately launched
a discussion on the best video game in that series. It didn’t matter that the
math problems were left unattended on my desk—I was socializing. Like a real
person. And for a moment, I remember who I am.
Humans are social
creatures. We don’t have claws and spikes, so we survive by forming bonds and
families. I act like I can get by without it. But college hurts, being away
from my sister and mother, not having someone to tell secrets to or go shopping
with. Worst of all, I have no one to invite to a Disney princess movie
marathon. Every time I’m around other girls, I feel like I’m an undercover spy,
not wanting to speak, lest my cover be blown. Every day, commercials spit
products at women, telling us we aren’t good enough without them, like we were
born incomplete. Am I the only one who took that message to heart?
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