When I got to the party, Cherry’s sister was already there, making the friendly time with some other guests. I overheard a bit of the conversation: "They say, everything you fear has already happened to you before," she told someone, illuminating the truth about our deepest neuroses.
Whatever. I did some shots and grabbed a beer. I played board games and I even danced a little. But Cherry, the belle of the ball, the reason, in fact, I dragged my shy ass over here in 20-degree weather (okay, so it’s a three-minute walk, but I'm kind of a pansy Californian), was hard to keep track of.
Cherry was in her room, on the phone, with the door closed. She came out and danced a little. She smiled at me. I winked at her. She went outside. Some of her friends came over. I smiled at her. She smiled back. Some of her friends left. I couldn’t keep track. Again, whatever. I played it cool and went home at around 2am. Right before falling asleep, I remembered the last time I was at this exact same party.
It was one night in middle school — a birthday party. Back then I was completely crazy for the birthday girl; hands down the prettiest, coolest girl in my class, and I never got to spend a moment with her the whole night, because I just couldn’t go up to this girl, grab her, and dance with her, and all the other guys could.
I’ve never been that guy and I never will be. After a great deal of introspection, self-evaluation, and chain smoking, I’ve come to terms with that. Well, mostly. You know how it goes.
Nevertheless, I went to school with this girl for two more years, and although my dumb preadolescent crush burned and burned and turned me all melty inside every time I saw her, I could never bring myself to say a single word to her. Like, ever again.
And I didn’t go to another party until I got to college.
I’m not mad at the girl. I don’t blame her. I was a shy, silly, stoopid little boy back then.
The point is, I still am.