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My First Crush: Scott

Scott was my first crush and the last “typical” boy that I remember liking. He was tall, smart, and he didn’t know who his father was and for some reason that little bit of damage made him seem attainable. It made me think I had a chance with a quarterback. But Scott liked Krista. She was perfect and just nice enough not to hate. She didn’t like Scott but liked the attention because beautiful girls can never hear “you’re beautiful” enough times. I would watch Scott from the back row, the way he looked at her — hope and desperation in the same expression. That look made me like him even more because he felt for Krista what I felt for him. But I knew that no one was really in my league. I wasn’t a cute girl. I looked like my sister’s younger brother and I was fat. Absolutely the worst thing that any girl can be in the fifth grade. But it never stopped me from hoping that just maybe, Scott would see past it all to me. It never happened and one day I just stopped liking Scott. I remember it was a Friday because we were allowed to spend the last ten minutes of class talking. It was history and I had the seat right behind Scott. He was singing Rock the Casbah so I asked him if he had heard the rest of the album because it was really good. He looked at me and said…”I was singing to muffle the sound of you breathing. If you lost some weight you wouldn’t have asthma.” My lip started to shake so I bit it shut. I didn’t cry in any place he could see, but I internally detonated. I wanted to say… ”At least I have a dad!”, but I couldn’t. I would have rather dynamited my whole insides then make him feel like I did at that moment. He no longer looked good to me.

When I was 38, Scott sent me a friend request on Facebook. I wasn’t fat anymore and I was pretty. Not the kind of pretty who knows it but the kind who earned it. He told me how beautiful and funny and unique I was. I told him I didn’t have asthma anymore and that Combat Rock was still one of my favorite albums. He didn’t remember any of it. I took his friend request for the wrong reasons. I wanted him to see what he was missed, I wanted him to feel the rejection when I purposely ignored his comments on my pictures. I wanted him to remember. But he didn’t. I guess fat girls can never hear you’re beautiful enough times.

About Ara Harris

Music junkie, Atari 2600 bringer backer, word maker upper, loves to photograph and write about suburban decay. Ara grew up on a corner lot in small town Ohio. She began escaping the micro minds of the Midwest by listening to music, watching b films, and touring the cities in her mind. She wrote poetry on the back of algebra tests and asked Lou Reed to take her to prom. Two decades later she self published a full collection of poetry that one reader described as “a Tom Verlaine riff in every synapse”. She believes that we all have a gift, we just have to find it.

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