Why I Couldn't Hit "Send"

For the boy who gave me blisters

For The Boy Who Gave Me Blisters

            “Come on! Tell me! Who is it?”

            And just like that, we’re in middle school again. Except this time, you’re not shaking my arms harshly, trying to dislocate my tiny shoulders like the last time you asked me that question when we were twelve. This time your right arm is draped over my shoulder as we walk to my car because you’re tall enough to do that now. But we’re not in middle school anymore and having your arm around me and your side pressed against mine doesn’t make me swoon like it used to. We’re definitely not in middle school anymore because the answer to that question isn’t “You.”

            Instead, I say, “I’m not telling you.”

            We finally get to my car and you’re still smiling that crooked smile I used to love, like really love, as you naturally make your way to the passenger door. “You’re going to tell me later though. You always end up telling me.”

            I’m taken back because it’s true. And I hate how confident you are.

            So I unlock the driver’s side as nonchalantly as I can and purposely leave the passenger door locked, leaving you outside. “Hey!” you protest, shaking the handle. As soon as you realize what I’m doing, I swing open my door and rush in and lock my door before you can get to my side. You barely miss the door as I yank it closed.

            Now, I’m the one smiling and laughing hysterically.

            “Open up!” you yell, knocking on my window.

            I buckle my seatbelt and put the keys in the ignition, threatening to start the engine. “I’m gonna leave you!”

            “Come on. I have no other ride home! And you hate driving alone! This is why we’re friends!” 

            I roll my eyes and give in, unlocking your door. You jog towards the passenger seat, hop in, and buckle up like the many times I’ve driven you home before.

            You read the time off the digital clock on my dashboard and shake your head. “Look at that. You wasted a valuable two minutes when you could have been gushing to me about your new boo thang.”

            “Oh Lord. Please don’t call him that,” I groaned.

            “That’s what I’m calling him until I figure out who your new boo thang is.”

            I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot.

            And I catch myself smiling because I realize how much I like us like this. We used to be kids wanting to be teenagers, and now we are teenagers acting like kids. It’s funny how things turn out sometimes.

            When we were little, you used to be able to get me to do anything no matter how stupid it was. Like, have a competition to see who could hold ice cubes the longest because you said it would be fun. You dropped the ice after twenty minutes and I won, of course. But when my mom asked what happened to my hands, I couldn’t really blame you for the blisters because you didn’t hold the ice for me.

            But now, I’m the one with my hands on the steering wheel and the foot on the gas pedal. We’re speeding down the street towards your house and you’re changing the radio station because I asked you to. You’re in the passenger seat yet you decide that the music is too mainstream for our drive home and you hook up your iPod with the AUX cord, blasting a song you downloaded last night. And I’m nodding my head to the beat of the bass because I’m starting to like it.

            As you’re slouching in your seat, scrolling through your iPod for the next song, I find myself gripping the wheel even tighter and I remember how painful those blisters felt. Because if anyone would assume that the roles have changed, they would be completely wrong. Because you still have that power you over me. And more dangerously, you are fully aware of it.