He leaned towards me. My hands were cold. We were sat in front of bottle-green, metal lockers. We were 15. I’m pretty sure that’s not how you do it, was my first thought.
I blushed. I hoped my braces didn’t cut his lips, as he ended up licking my chin. His eyes were closed. Bad aim.
“Ummm,” I looked at him. His eyes were closed for far longer than necessary. “So, does that mean you’re my boyfriend? Are we going out?”
“Yeah, guess so,” he shrugged. I smiled. “Oh, that’s nice.” I had no idea what to do with a boyfriend. I was 15 and more interested in getting an A+ in Earth Science. He reached for my hand. Long, sweaty fingers interlaced with mine. Gross.
We both stood up, hands entwined, walking down the hallway, past the lockers, towards the front door with the broken latch. It felt like a rehearsal for The Things You Do With Your First Boyfriend. Hand-holding? Okay. Done.
He opened the door for me. That’s nice of him. We walked out, suddenly surrounded by noise and laughter and classmates trading stories and notes about their classes that day. He was swallowed up by his football teammates. He was tall, the top of his head was above everyone else’s. He was obviously popular, the pats on the back and the boys’ laughter encouraging his ego. They’re talking about me, I thought.
I only just noticed that I wasn’t in a group. I was standing in front of a cement pillar, unmoving, staring at him. Everyone else had left for somewhere, someone, more interesting. I clutched my rucksack nervously. I didn’t need to be there anymore, I felt superfluous. I had nothing to say, so I smiled wanly.
I wonder what it’s like to be a girlfriend, I thought, as I watched the tops of my shoes hit the pavement in rhythmic, numbing steps, as I slowly walked home.