This is a work in process, and full of stuff I'm not going to share (yet, or ever). But I do like these couple of paragraphs, so far, and I think they're random and vague enough to keep what needs to be private, if not exactly disguised, then at least maybe a little interesting.
If you knew me in the ninth grade (bless you), it might be violently clear to you what I'm not talking about ("who I'm not talking about" would be more correct). I'm working something out in my own head and heart, so please keep the not-so-secret secret, secret, would you? You'd think after all this time the ninth grade would be long forgotten, but I guess I don't move that quickly.
These three paragraphs are here in the right order, but stuff's been taken out or changed slightly. They don't really make sense as a group.
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I think boys wore their Levi's baggy in those days because parents bought them a bit bigger, hoping the kid would grow before the jeans were destroyed or too ratty at the knees. At least, that's what my parents did. It wasn't a fashion statement, it was realistic shopping for a growing kid. His Levi's were baggy because he was a lanky guy, not necessarily tall, but gangly nonetheless. He had bird legs, is what I'm saying, strong from all that skateboarding I guess, but skinny. And no ass to speak of, not then, not later, and, probably, not now (though this cannot be verified, as checking out his ass would be verboten. At least, should the opportunity arise - it won't - I won't be reporting about it, here). He wore t-shirts and OP shorts, and Vans. He had brown hair, and blue eyes. It was a nice face, with a slow, sweet smile, and later, quite a bit of acne.
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Just a year before I had stood in the foyer of this classroom, supposedly there to lock up my flute before heading to my own, later-starting first period class, but really hoping to watch and hear the exciting older kids play "real music," like Sousa marches, "El Tigre," and "Have A Coke and a Smile." Now, as a freshman, it was me those little kids were supposed to be idolizing. I don't think it ever really worked out that way. Maybe because as I got older I became sarcastic and dissatisfied, instead of sarcastic, funny, and cool, like the kids I had idolized.
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I was always aware of where he was, though. I kept an eye on him, somehow. I was a skinny girl with gigantic hair and glasses. I was cross-eyed; I learned early to keep my eyes down or to cultivate my bangs to cover my right eye. It was the 80s and I had bad style - I come by it naturally: my mother has bad style. I disliked my looks but I was too stupid to figure out how to change them. I played the piccolo. I had weird clothes and I walked around with my head in a book, and that year I became obsessed with this one boy...
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Ah. So now you know where this is going. Well, to be continued. Or not.
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