incident, and he asked me out on a date. By now we were sixteen or seventeen, but I may as well have beenthirteen with my level of comfort in dating. Then came the moment in my life I wish I could take back. I’m sure there’s more than one, but I think this one haunts me because I was young. It’s the sort of moment from your youth that you wish you could go back with your adult brain and fix for yourself and, more importantly, for the injured party.
Lest you get the wrong picture, Chris wasn’t only Nice. He wasn’t some milquetoast character from the movies. He was really smart, and he was funny too, and he was a cute guy. He called me up to set up our date. By now, my thirteen-year-old fear brain had taken over and I wasn’t looking forward to the date. I really don’t know why. Because he showed such fervent interest in me? Because I needed that danger or swagger in him or a feeling of inferiority in myself to feel interested? When he called to set the date up, though, he was turning on the charm. He had given a lot of thought to this and he suggested dinner and a movie—dinner at Bel Canto, one of the Italian restaurants in town. This was the classier joint with white cloth tablecloths, a step above Mario’s, which had vinyl red-checkered tablecloths. I remember he said that we could get a romantic table in the corner or something like that, a concept that sent me mentally fleeing. In the middle of this call, the other phone line rang. I was on my parents’ phone with Chris and said, “Could you hold on a sec?” and picked up the “kids’ line”—the ancient equivalent of call-waiting. It was my friend Eve. “Eve! I don’t know what to do! Chris is on the other line and he’s talking about this date. He’s making it all romantic and stuff. What should I do? Now I don’t want to go!” I don’t quite remember the words but it was something alongthose lines. “He’s talking about a romantic table in the corner! Oh my God!”
I flipped back to Chris to continue begrudgingly making these plans. “Hi. I’m back.”
“Hi. You know, you can hear through to the other line on this phone.”
“Huh? … Oh.”
My mind didn’t comprehend that this could be true. What was he talking about? Was that really possible? In a slight panic, I went forward, not addressing what he had just said at all. Here’s where I wish I had some adult judgment working for me and had actually addressed what had happened.
I awkwardly hurried off the phone with Chris. I discovered in the next few days after running some tests that indeed, through a glitch in the phone system, you could hear the other line. I didn’t mention it to Chris, apologize, explain, attempt to make an excuse, anything. I simply ignored it. We did go out to a movie and it was hurried and perfunctory. By then I was in full dread mode, only compounded by my gaffe. We went to see Airplane 2 and didn’t go out to dinner before or after. I was treating it like an unpleasant appointment I had made and just had to get through.
Class act that he was, he never held my immaturity or rudeness, depending on how you want to frame it, against me. Our senior year, he signed my yearbook. I was with my friends after school, hanging out on the benches, when I sat down to read what he wrote. It was the first time I can remember crying not out of sadness but from sweetness. This is what he wrote:
“Rachel—There was a time when I would have done anything for you, and I mean anything. I wanted to be, and I guess I still do, your Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, and Indiana Jones all rolled up into one. You are a truly beautiful person. You will wow ’em wherever you go. Remember that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark where he lassos the girl and pulls her in to him? Well … that’s what I’d like to do with you.”
I know. I was a damn idiot.
Scarce few men have said anything that sweet or poignant to me since then. Chris appears to me regularly in dreams where I
Lest you get the wrong picture, Chris wasn’t only Nice. He wasn’t some milquetoast character from the movies. He was really smart, and he was funny too, and he was a cute guy. He called me up to set up our date. By now, my thirteen-year-old fear brain had taken over and I wasn’t looking forward to the date. I really don’t know why. Because he showed such fervent interest in me? Because I needed that danger or swagger in him or a feeling of inferiority in myself to feel interested? When he called to set the date up, though, he was turning on the charm. He had given a lot of thought to this and he suggested dinner and a movie—dinner at Bel Canto, one of the Italian restaurants in town. This was the classier joint with white cloth tablecloths, a step above Mario’s, which had vinyl red-checkered tablecloths. I remember he said that we could get a romantic table in the corner or something like that, a concept that sent me mentally fleeing. In the middle of this call, the other phone line rang. I was on my parents’ phone with Chris and said, “Could you hold on a sec?” and picked up the “kids’ line”—the ancient equivalent of call-waiting. It was my friend Eve. “Eve! I don’t know what to do! Chris is on the other line and he’s talking about this date. He’s making it all romantic and stuff. What should I do? Now I don’t want to go!” I don’t quite remember the words but it was something alongthose lines. “He’s talking about a romantic table in the corner! Oh my God!”
I flipped back to Chris to continue begrudgingly making these plans. “Hi. I’m back.”
“Hi. You know, you can hear through to the other line on this phone.”
“Huh? … Oh.”
My mind didn’t comprehend that this could be true. What was he talking about? Was that really possible? In a slight panic, I went forward, not addressing what he had just said at all. Here’s where I wish I had some adult judgment working for me and had actually addressed what had happened.
I awkwardly hurried off the phone with Chris. I discovered in the next few days after running some tests that indeed, through a glitch in the phone system, you could hear the other line. I didn’t mention it to Chris, apologize, explain, attempt to make an excuse, anything. I simply ignored it. We did go out to a movie and it was hurried and perfunctory. By then I was in full dread mode, only compounded by my gaffe. We went to see Airplane 2 and didn’t go out to dinner before or after. I was treating it like an unpleasant appointment I had made and just had to get through.
Class act that he was, he never held my immaturity or rudeness, depending on how you want to frame it, against me. Our senior year, he signed my yearbook. I was with my friends after school, hanging out on the benches, when I sat down to read what he wrote. It was the first time I can remember crying not out of sadness but from sweetness. This is what he wrote:
“Rachel—There was a time when I would have done anything for you, and I mean anything. I wanted to be, and I guess I still do, your Errol Flynn, Cary Grant, and Indiana Jones all rolled up into one. You are a truly beautiful person. You will wow ’em wherever you go. Remember that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark where he lassos the girl and pulls her in to him? Well … that’s what I’d like to do with you.”
I know. I was a damn idiot.
Scarce few men have said anything that sweet or poignant to me since then. Chris appears to me regularly in dreams where I
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