Round faced and perky breasted, I cried into my locker, lamenting cheeks full of pimples. You turned my head and looked in my eyes and said, "You are beautiful." And you meant it.
In your basement, during commercials, it took me three hours to tell you three small words: I like you. And then, only two months to tell you three big words.
During free periods, we snuck into empty classrooms and watched the latest episodes of Roswell and Buffy, which you taped for me because I was grounded. Team Angel, we both agreed. And thank God, or it all could have fallen apart.
You were kicked out of Biology for distracting me too much. "You know this, she doesn't," he said, as he ordered you to learn on your own in the library. Though I still had to take Biology for Philosophers at Bryn Mawr.
We drove to our own little hill in Brookline and had picnics on the grassy slope. You brought me strawberries and your mom's tuna sandwiches. We lay on the blanket and named the clouds. Tuna breath really isn't so bad.
