Whether he knows it or not, I've always been there for him.
OK, not always. Since I was three, and he held that umbrella over me in the rain after I had already walked alone some number of blocks to preschool, muddy and miserable. The gesture was appreciated – no, treasured. Nobody had ever been so nice.
I'm not pretty, and I'm not popular. If you looked for a picture definition of beautiful in the dictionary, I wouldn't be there. I am not graced with hair that shimmers in the sun or locks that cascade down my back. I don't "fill out in all the right places" like society dictates you should. My ears droop and stick out like a sore thumb (thanks for nothing, Bob). I don't laugh like an airhead at boy's jokes, bake cupcakes or lust over the latest fashions. It's not who I am.
I don't have many friends. They say I'm no good. You can't blame them totally for that assumption. For as long as most of them can probably recall, I have been a bully. I threaten, I shove, I yell, and I get results. I have to, because they'd never let me live it down if I show too much kindness or any kind of positive emotion in public. Long story. I don't really want to go there. So I won't. Nothing you can do about it.
Life isn't fair. If you think you're good at something, there's always someone better. No use tricking yourself. I'm no fool.
So why do I go out of my way for this boy? This naïve, silly boy who's always looking for the bright side? You could be trapped in a well and somehow he'd make it into a picnic. He really grates on my nerves. Always so calm, so freakin' happy. I want to throttle him.
To be blunt, I'm in love. I hate myself for it, but I can't help it. Arnold. His hair is the color of corn, but in silken waves that spike out at opposite ends of his head like a bristle brush. I affectionately call him "Football head" because… well, his head is the shape of a football. Everyday I think about Arnold. Even in my dreams, he's there, smiling that smile. When I'm not so afraid to really talk to him without calling him names.
I know I don't deserve the boy wonder. I know I make things difficult at times, and I do harbor pleasure from doing so. By the same token, I would never, never do something to really truly hurt him. I never call Arnold "orphan boy" (on account of his dear parents who disappeared when he was barely a few years old) or hit him or any of those things.
When the school's resident princess, Rhonda, told him he'd marry me someday, I saw what could be nothing less than desperation and fear. In the end, I heard him tell Gerald, his best friend, that he'd had a nightmare about it but that it had turned out not as horrible as he'd expected it to be. Rhonda later told everyone her errors in the system. But I still hold on to what I heard that day on the bus.
I'm still too afraid to declare my unwavering devotion (OK, so I did it once. But that was years ago and we both wrote it off as a "heat of the moment" thing. He's so dense I doubt it's remembered). So instead of using words, I throw actions. "Behind the scenes" jobs are my specialty and require a lot of energy and cunning. I once gave up a treasured Christmas gift just so Arnold could reunite a family. I can also be more up front; after making a mess of things that led to an unreturned crush, I was there to consol. It may mean hours stuck in the freezing cold, or climbing through small spaces in the dirt and darkness. But when I see that "everything is right now" smile of his, it makes me feel good. I let him think the world is full of magic and miracles, even though I know it isn't so. For now, it's the best I can do. Of course, it's immediately denied and covered up, should he discover it's me, but it has to be this way.
At the present time, however, something is beyond my reach, and protection isn't possible.
Grandpa Phil has died.
Chapter One coming soon.