She wrote a letter to a boy once, a letter that acknowledged a mutual attraction, a mutual outlook on life, the universe, and everything. It went on for pages and pages; complete open heart surgery, blood on the college ruled notebook, and she ended it with a “call me”. This was well before email, so she thrummed her fingers against her mother’s clean kitchen countertop and waited for the phone to ring.
A month went by. She and a friend were at the mall, that teenaged Hanging Gardens, and they spotted him going into Radio Shack. He had shorn his long hair, and had stopped wearing glasses. Her stomach churned and she was glad he hadn’t responded to her letter. She’d made a horrible mistake.
A week went by. The phone rings and she doesn’t answer, as she’s avoiding the telephone in the off chance that he calls her in late response to her glorious letter. Her mother yells upstairs for her to answer already, it’s for her probably, get the phone, she’s in the bathroom, etc. etc.
It’s him. After her shaky, chirpy “hello” she hears his gruff voice, “Got your letter. I totally agree. I totally feel the same. Totally.” Her response is diplomatic and swift, “I wrote that a long time ago, but thanks for calling me back!” and she hangs up, sweating and embarrassed.
There are things she’s not proud of. Her fifteen year old self was a baby still, but a mean baby.