Crushes
by
Bob Cohen
One day in 1958, our Fourth Grade teacher, in her twisted wisdom, decided to change the class seating, and Roxanne, by far the cutest girl in class, wound up sitting next to me. I was scared and thrilled. Along with every other boy in class, I had a crush on her. The beauteous Roxanne sported a cute pony tail that predated the Soccer-Mom look by 40 years. And she was totally down-to-earth, unlike so many cute girls at that age who obviously love being the center of attention.
As for me, in grammar school I was the ultimate geek. I wore corduroy pants to school every day, and I continually picked my nose in class. Not surprisingly, no one wanted to sit near me.
Roxanne never talked to me, or even looked my way, but at least she didn’t make fun of me, for which I was grateful. For my part, I expressed my adoration by riding my bike past her house every day, hoping to get a glimpse of her, while at the same time fearing she’d see me.
In the Spring, our class took a field trip to nearby Old Sturbridge Village, and somehow I got the courage to ask Roxanne to pose for a picture. She reluctantly agreed, and I quickly took a shot of her with my Brownie Instamatic. Although I long ago lost the picture, her image is indelibly imprinted on my brain.
Fast forward 10 years.
During my first or second year of college, I was home for the summer when my grandmother called me. “Have I got a girl for you!” she enthused. “She lives in my condo complex.”
After a little probing, I discovered the girl was Roxanne! I was alarmed. At that age, I had little experience with women and I saw no reason to assume that Roxanne was any less out of reach at nineteen than she was at nine.
I was afraid to call her, but my grandmother persisted, so I finally gave in. I phoned Roxanne, who invited me over to her parents’ condo for a visit.
My first sight of her took my breath away. She was even more beautiful than I remembered and I felt tongue tied, trying to make at least awkward conversation. We spoke a little about fourth grade and, much to my relief, she either didn’t really remember me or was too polite to admit it.
She told me she was a fine arts major, and she asked if I wanted to see her portfolio. It was filled with nudes she had sketched in a life drawing class. Sitting next to her examining nude drawings, I was uncomfortable, but she seemed relaxed. Clearly, this girl, as unaffected and genuine as she appeared to be, was mysterious and way beyond my attainment.
Nonetheless, by the end of that relatively short evening in which I quickly ran out of small talk, I screwed up my courage to ask if I could call her again. She said yes.
I never did.
Bob Cohen is a local businessman in Western Massachusetts. He has always had the desire to write fiction and finally he is scratching that itch. He doesn't expect he'll ever write The Great American Novel, but he's not ruling it out.
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