Holding pattern

In every horror movie, there are moments that foreshadow where the action is going. The moment she drops trough and gets in the shower? Bad things are coming. He forgets to kick the gun away from the bad guy he just knocked out? Imminent death approaches. You can yell at the screen all you want, but danger looms. Looking back, I think there was one of those moments in my love life - a moment that may have predicted where I am today. It was a harbinger of things to come. And it was in the third grade.

I developed a crush early on in Ms. G’s class. I’d look across the room, and there he sat. He’d be looking everywhere but the blackboard - too cool for school. Maybe the temperature had to do with the color of his eyes - ice blue, which even back then I knew was a good thing. He wasn’t the class clown or the leader. He was the quiet kid. The George Harrison, if you will (and you better). His name was (presumably still is) Ryan Mason. And they called it puppy love...

The signals seemed as clear as day. It all started when we were seated next to each other for an entire week. We talked - seemingly innocuous things like our favorite color markers and the best sticker in my sticker book. The tide turned when he gave me his Gobstoppers. Other people had to pay - an oreo for three, and only the colors Ryan didn’t want to eat himself. I, on the other hand, got my choice for absolutely nothing at all. In third grade terms, that was practically going to third base.

The kicker came on the Feast of St. Valentine. When I came home after school, I surveyed my stash of Valentine’s - not counting because clearly everyone got the same amount - but judging the classmates that gave a Sweet Tart or two instead of chocolate. I came across Ryan’s Power Ranger valentine and decided to study it, commit it to memory. When examining closely, I could see that, behind the words “From, Ryan” was the smudged outline of the word “Love.” I had never been so happy that erasable pens didn’t truly erase. I asked all of my little girl friends if they also thought that we’d get married someday, and two out of three said a wedding was in my immediate future.

Alas it wasn’t meant to be. I made the mistake of telling the wrong girl - why does that girl exist at every age - Ryan’s speculated feelings. She went up to Ryan on the playground and asked him if he liked me. No time to beat around the bush when you’re eight, after all. He predictably said it wasn’t true. What wasn’t so predictable was that he’d approach me a few minutes later with all his friends and tell me exactly HOW untrue my thoughts had been. Needless to say I have hated Valentine’s Day ever since, becoming the most jaded nine year old my fourth grade teacher had ever seen.

What’s sadder than the image of a third grade me running away from the playground crying is that in the past year, at ages 23 and 24, I’ve encountered the same problem. Thrice. Different lyrics, same melody. I developed a pattern in the third grade that I unknowingly haven’t been able to shake. Bet that girl would have cried a little harder had she known that would be the case. I mean, God, to this day I still can’t eat Gobstoppers.