9.27

The only time I was happy I cried was about twelve years ago, you know, during that age of innocence when your hormones kick in and any attention from a girl is a five-ton truck of portent barreling down on you. You know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you were fourteen at some point. Everybody was, but only some of us were fourteen year old boys.

Anyway I was walking through a clothing store and I was hellishly thin at the time so nothing fit but everything was my size. I had an armful of clothes to "at least try on, dear" that my mother collected from somewhere. You will have to believe that this woman was able to find the only unfashionable clothing in a brand-name store, so my armful of rugby shirts and bright madras shorts were piled up to my nose and things were horrible.
Of course I had angst outside of my mother's style failings. High school, you know, kills the confidence and joy of even a steely, tough teen. I was a lily-livered, twitchy brat. School was not easy. And then there was, of course, a girl. I mean it sounds so passé, but what can I say? If it's true it's true. I was charged like a cannon full of horrible, dripping poetry. I wrote dark, meaningful songs that had twelve verses and a (proposed) guitar solo. If I could apologize for those times, I would. But I'm afraid I would have to write a letter to humanity itself. But really, you never saw this girl. She was just on the cusp of real womanhood. You know the type: full-bodied, lithe, curvaceous, with a figure that you could ski on. The kind of girl that older men hope is legal. Full of confidence because she hasn't realized why she shouldn't.

No. Let me not be so crude. She had long brown hair that hung into her face when she was working at the desk in front of me and if I looked up (I always looked up) I could see her ear peek through her hair so delicately it was foreign and mystical. Her hair formed walls to the world so only I could see her face so I felt like she really was for me even though it was just chance that we were seated together. Her grip on her pencils (always pencils, and always the old-fashioned twist mechanicals) was so delicate I knew she was afraid of breaking her lead and I knew she was a careful woman. When she moved her hair out of her eyes her smell would waft over to me. She thought I had a cold because I was sniffing so often, and when I had sniffed one too many times I guess she thought I was really sick and she gave me some tissues but I never used them just smelled them when I woke up and the house was still and I was tired. My legs were already long, but sometimes I would push myself against the desk so our knees would brush underneath and I could feel my arousal burn up from the top bit of my jeans and fill my chest cavity until it was so difficult to breathe I had to go to the bathroom to get away but it didn't help, obviously because she was in my head still and I felt so awkward walking around so hot and bothered. And despite all the trouble she caused me I never asked to be moved (my English teacher said poetry had something to do with it) but I don't know anything about that.
My life was hell and she filled my head and tortured my every living moment with such a sweet smell that I started justifying all my decisions based on what she would think. I ate corn at lunch instead of broccoli because she hated the word broccoli. I wore my shoelaces untied because the boys she liked wore their laces undone. I talked about music even though I didn't like it because I knew she loved music in general and never cared who was singing as long as someone was.
But I'm being boring and obtuse, by which I mean to say that when I was standing there in that store with my mother's horrid turtlenecks and corduroy pants I saw my girl the one I've just gushed about for an uncomfortable amount of time the girl of my dreams and aspirations.
And I saw her and didn't stop seeing her and forgot to start seeing where I was going or to stop walking or anything so I fell down and couldn't have just fallen on the clothes. I twisted as I fell and all the horrible clothing poured on top of me.
I just laid there and hoped for death. None came to join the tears who apparently had their phone on I mean seriously the number of times I have called death in my life you would think he would get his phone serviced or at least stop shoving all his chores off on lesser men. I felt hands shuffling the clothes off of me and I prepared to deal with my mother but instead I smelled it through the wide-striped polo wrapped around my face--the smell of the tissues I keep in my backpack with my ipod.

I could see her face through the clothes and I could smell her through my tears and I could feel her hands on me just the way I think a woman touches a man as she picked me up and whispered.
"Tom, don't cry. If you cry, I can't laugh."
She said it and I wanted to recognize how funny the situation must have seemed to anyone who wasn't me. so I failed at that and did one of those unattractive hiccoughs that everyone seems to do when they cry really really hard. She hugged me and whispered again, just for me to hear and us to know and it was the only time I've been glad I cried in twelve years.
"I think you're pretty cute."