The Second Chance

The next eleven months of my life might has well have taken eons. Because in junior high, each month can represent a lifetime, each season a reincarnation.

It is actually pretty fascinating that I stayed fixated on Scott Davis for so long, seeing as how junior high school girls generally have the attention span of a gnat; at that age we change styles, friends and crushes more often than we change our favorite pair of earrings.

But fixated on him I was. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I stalked him – I saved that particular talent for my elder years – but I watched very carefully. I knew exactly where his locker was. I had his class schedule pretty down pat. I knew who he liked, and what kind of action he took about that. I had several spies strategically placed in the cafeteria during his lunch period and in the school yard during his free period. I was never without Intel.

For nine months Scott Davis went without a girlfriend. I was dumbfounded as to why – was he not the hottest guy walking the halls? – but considered myself fortunate. Lack of competition made my quest a bit easier. But alas, his single state of affairs couldn’t continue. In February, Scott Davis starting going out with Mary Parker.

The hussy was a year younger than me, rode my bus and knew of my obsession with Scott. (I mean, at that point Scott was the only one who didn’t know of my obsession with Scott.)

I felt betrayed, but I attempted to move on. I accepted the proposal of one Mike Billings, and had the unfortunate experience of sharing my first French kiss with him; he kissed like a lizard, his tongue darting in and out of my mouth like he was attempting to set a record.

Mike became one of my more short-lived relationships, coming in second by lasting a week. Scott still held the record, due to my temporary insanity, at three days.

In March my luck began to turn. Mary broke up with Scott. I briefly wondered if there was something about him that was purely un-dateable, but quickly changed my mind, and resumed my mission to win back his heart. A girlfriend of mine attempted to help things along by inviting him to her 14th birthday party on the night of March 27, 1992; a date that would go down in history. (My history, which is, of course, the only one of any importance.)

The evening progressed much like the dance had eleven months prior, with childish games and coy flirting. At one point, and I’m not sure how but didn’t really care, I ended up sitting on Scott’s lap. It’s a weird thing to be a teenager and find yourself on the lap of the boy you like. You shift your weight, not letting your feet leave the floor, for fear that your 100-pound frame will seem too heavy to him, your but too bony, your position too awkward. With all the thinking that goes into it, the enjoyment is virtually sucked dry. But the knowledge that I had been there? In Scott Davis’ lap? Oh, I rode that high for the rest of the night and a few days after.

We danced around each other for the better part of the evening – again. The big difference was that this time I was mentally willing him to take action, and watching the clock, counting down until the arrival of the parents, losing heart as each minute ticked by.

And then somehow (once again the details of how seem less important than the fact of) we were outside, alone on Sara’s back patio. A light drizzle was starting. I’ll never forget that. I was being drizzled on, waiting for this beautiful boy to make me his girlfriend.

He took his time about it, so much so that I was damp, but ask he did.

And it was, hands down, the best moment in my thirteen years on the earth.

Hallelujah, here was my second chance. My dream boy, right in front of me for the taking.

And what the hell was I supposed to do with that?

Thank God Scott knew what to do.

He smiled, a crooked, charming, perfect smile, and then leaned in for the kiss. This time there was no trace of a lizard, no desperate competition. It was slow, and soft, and sweet, and sensual. All things that should not be allowed at thirteen, but there they were.

For the first time in my life my heart plummeted to my toes, my pulse quickened, my breath became shaky. All I could think was, so this is it, and, God, please don’t let me go.

I would spend the better part of the next seven years thinking those same thoughts.