Nice Guy (and Other Nightmares)

Nice Guy

Nice Guy

If only you had just said yes once

If only you had given him a chance

If only

It's been five years. Every time I go home, it's in their eyes. She's the one. It was her fault. Sounds conceited, right? Consider that they've also said it to my face. Who's they? My former classmates, the high school principal, the local news team, his parents, my parents. By not falling for a "nice guy", I brought doom and gloom upon the entire town.

It started in middle school. Drew Morrissey was twelve, acne ridden, fifty pounds overweight, and hadn't yet discovered deodorant. I was eleven, with dirty blonde hair, pink rubber bands decorating my braces and a pink padded training bra with monkeys on it. I hadn't yet learned the importance of not wearing a light colored shirt with a bright colored bra. My entire first day of sixth grade was haunted by immature preteen boys imitating primates. By the second day, I had learned my lesson and all was forgotten. Except by Drew. He cornered me in the lunchroom. "What happened yesterday was a travesty, Rachael. I just wanted to let you know that all boys aren't like...that," he said, gesturing toward a group of my classmates who were throwing peas at each other.

"Um...thanks," I replied. I knew he meant well, but the strong body odor radiating off him made me back into a trashcan as he spoke to me.

I learned later that at his elementary school, and in his sixth grade year, Drew was known as the smelly kid. A semester later, when we were placed in the same art elective, that hadn't entirely changed. Now he reeked of Old Spice. It was as if he'd rubbed it into his pores. That overpowering stench is the one I became intimately familiar with, as he sat behind me or next to me every single class. It didn't matter where I went. Front row, back row, by an open window in the middle of winter, or even under the loose ceiling panels. There Drew would be. I would ask two friends to sit on either side of me before class. In those cases, Drew would ask for their seat, as if that were a perfectly reasonable request. And something about his amiable tone made them switch with him.

"He doesn't smell anymore," Phoebe pointed out one day. "And he does really like you. No other boy in school is as honest about their feelings as he is."

"I don't like him," I said. "He's just...a lot. Like something out of an old movie. I'd rather have some guy who teases me or is just my friend than an epic romance in middle school."

"You just don't know a good thing when you see it yet."

For his art final, Drew submitted a "Renaissance-style" oil painting of me with an accompanying poem:

Ravishing angel among us

A gift from above

Caring above all else

Heart speeds up when she's near

A feast for the eyes

Endlessly pure

Love of my life

In the painting itself, I was unrecognizable. My hair was a golden yellow instead of pale platinum, my eyebrows were tamed, my teeth were straightened, and he had drawn in this ridiculous old school princess dress where I had cleavage. Not just more cleavage than I'd had in sixth grade. My breasts in this painting were larger than they ever became in reality. Everyone else claimed it was a perfect rendering and a beautiful piece, but all I ever saw was the globular breasts this weird kid had projected onto me.

Mrs. Loeber, head of the art department gave it an A and put it in the main hallway's display case. Everyone saw it. Our principal singled it out as a representation of "maturity beyond one's years" and a "lovely tribute." It was entered in the regional middle school art contest, and won first place. Drew appeared on the local news, saying, "Everything in my heart is on that canvas. I have no unrealistic expectations; I just wanted to let Rachael Hirschbaum know, without a doubt, how I truly feel about her."