His name was Greg Dunsfield and in all my 13 years I had never seen a boy as good looking as him.
His freckles contrasted with his ruddy, healthy complexion and his wavy, strawberry blond hair stayed collar-length even though long hair was in. Greg eventually grew to a basketball-worthy height but it was those broad shoulders – sigh – that carried our football team to several victories.
Until sixth grade I attended a neighborhood school, then for seventh and eighth grades several small suburbs collated into one middle school. Since my last name was Dunn, I had the divine fortune of sitting right behind Greg, who was from one of the neighboring communities. Fate, I decided, brought us together. His shoulders blocked my view but that was more than all right. There was one problem with the seating though; I was behind him.
He passed papers over his shoulder, and for a long time I took them. Then I began to wait a moment, and he’d turn around – not that I wanted him to see self-conscious me but it gave me a chance to see him. He caught on after a while, then the papers hung over his shoulder as he shook them for attention.
Passing notes to girlfriends was a favorite classroom distraction – I still have one in my drawer. It was near the end of seventh grade and hope of getting Greg’s attentions wore thin. Faith Hardy, who knew how to get male attention, became my mentor. “How can I get Greg to notice me?” I wrote.
“Wear a little lipstick and when you walk shake your…”
I got the message but I just knew my lips were the size of an orangutan’s, no way was I going to draw attention to them. As far as shaking any part of my anatomy, out of the question. What a bittersweet mixture of feelings – caring too much to let go, yet too shy to let him know. I'm certain he knew but I like to think he never knew how much.
As seventh grade ended, one of my girlfriends had a pajama party and, over giggles, The Rolling Stones and pizza we shared our deepest secrets.
Until then, no one knew of my feelings but Faith, and at that party we found that four of us shared the same infatuation. Certain, though, that none of them could possibly care for him as much as I. I wept into my pillow as we finally settled to sleep, knowing that it would be three months until I’d see him again in the fall. “See you in September…” a line from a popular song that year made my teenage soul ache.
Eighth grade became more progressive as students were divided into levels of academic achievement. Had I known that the seat in front of me would be occupied by Barbara Cochran rather than Greg Dunsfield, I would have cried harder that night of the party.
A study hall, though, was mixed with Greg’s level and mine. At least I had something to look forward to and I became more daring. I wore pale pink lipstick.
Nothing worked. There remained one remnant of solace throughout the two years of middle school. Even though Greg hardly noticed me, neither did he notice any other female in school. Not a bookworm by any means, his major interest seemed to be sports.
I joined the track and basketball teams and excelled in relay races. Although my initial motive was less than teamlike, as my athletic skills improved, affection for Greg lessened.
Now being a part of a team is a wonderful thing but being half of a couple had to be better. Even as my feelings waned, I gave him one last chance.
Eighth grade was nearly over. For almost two years, with feminine pride I withheld the extent and depth of my feelings from him. Moving on to high school meant an even greater dilution of my time with Greg. More communities were brought together for high school and with our academic ranges broadening, I could hope for no more than glimpses of him in the halls.
My mind made up, the time had come to show him how much I cared. I wore my best outfit, a rose-colored lipstick and practiced walking, well, a bit looser.
During study hall, we took our usual seats. For some reason, though, Greg chose a desk a couple empty seats behind the last student in the row. After the usual note fluttering with my girlfriends urging me on, I moved to a seat directly across from him. He looked up surprised, gathered his books and moved back a couple more desks. Startled, I looked at my friends, who motioned for me to pick up and move close to him again.
No sooner had I settled than Greg once again picked up his books and moved to the last seat in the row. My pride took a beating, but once set in teenage motion, there was no stopping me. I moved, too.
I slung my purse on the back of the seat and settled with a reddened, determined face when there arose a malodorous smell. It was clearly not his cologne I smelled, unless he was wearing Eau de Rotten Eggs. Looking boyishly sheepish, Greg gave me what was the most intimate look we shared in two years.
“Excuse me,” he murmured.
Gathering my purse and books with what I hoped resembled indignity, I slinked to a seat closer to the front. My girlfriends wondered about my retreat. I shrugged my shoulders like it didn't matter and opened a book. From one look I sneaked back at him, I can still see his shoulders shaking like a wind-up toy. And no wonder his eyes watered – he kept pressing his thumbs into them the way males do when they try to stop even laughter from moistening their eyes. It was the longest study hall God ever bestowed on a student.
It wasn’t Greg’s fault that he had been put on a pedestal. Or that he tumbled off it faster than a cat knocking a jar off a mantel. My Prince Charming turned into Pepe LePew. Wasn’t he, after all, just a male like so many other males who surrounded me every day since first grade? No better, no worse, no different. Why had it taken me over two years to figure that out?
I don’t remember speaking to him again, although we weren’t mad at each other – just had nothing to say. In high school, he found the love of his life in Jo Anne, who I think was involved in sports or something. Maybe she wasn’t. I think I saw them together a few times during our four years of high school. Maybe he even married her. I wish them nothing but happiness and love, and hope she cooks his favorite foods. Often.