The Inconvenience of Falling In Love

It’s 1998 and I’m in grade eight. It’s kind of cool sounding if you ask me, how every year will match my grade up until I graduate. I’m just one semester away from diving head first into my freshman life. 

I already have an empty hot pink binder, ready to fill with that chapter of my journey. My cheeks get hot as I admit this, but I’ve also decorated it with stickers; peace signs, Ring Pops, shooting stars. I have a Lisa Simpson on there, too. I know it’s a cartoon, but my eyes turn into big, red balloon hearts whenever she plays the saxophone. I wish I had the courage to play music, or at the very least, be good at something. The only time I’ve only ever really performed was alone in my bedroom, when I belted out Celine Dion’s full “Falling Into You” album into my hairbrush. 

I’ve always been one light-up sneaker stepped into my future. When I was nine, I counted down the days until I turned ten. I would X out the squares on my calendar with my orange Mr. Sketch, no sooner breathing in that tangy citrus smell right up my nostrils. 

With the confidence of a peacock, I said to my mom, “I’m almost double digits.”

Her shoulders went up and down, one corner of her mouth lifting as she whisked pancake batter. Her apron was covered in flour. 

“You’ll miss being a kid one day, kiddo.” 

I shook my head no and glided on my strawberry Lip Smacker. And, okay… I totally licked the whisk clean once my mom was done with it. 

Now that I am a teen, I bite my nails, wondering if my mom was right. Sometimes, I daydream about popping the VHS of my life into the VCR and hitting rewind. 

But here I am—so close to high school!—yet nowadays, it’s less about where I’m going, but more about what I’m leaving behind. My skin gets weirdly itchy when I think about walking away from the shadows of junior high for good. 

There is one thing I will genuinely miss, though: my English teacher, Mrs. Clarkson. Everything she says is like a poem leaving her lips. Her words come together like a random mix of bright flowers that somehow make up the perfect bouquet. She always knows exactly what to say to make you feel good. 

Things like, “This essay is impressive, Jenny. I can tell you’ve been putting pen to paper a lot. Great work.” 

I was beaming.

“Thanks, Mrs. Clarkson. I worked really hard on it.” 

I went from a cowardly lion to the queen of her pride that day. 

Mrs. Clarkson wears the classiest dresses. They’re always pulled in at her waist with a thick belt. I feel like a ding-dong in comparison with my clumsy polo shirts and baggy jeans. I hope when I’m an adult, I’m even half the porcelain perfection she is. 

I often zero in on her wedding and engagement rings. They look expensive, like something the Queen of England would wear! They are sparkly, just like her. No wonder Mr. Clarkson asked her to marry him. 

A great teacher aside, it’s safe to say being thirteen has not been all that it was cracked up to be. The acne is embarrassing, but the big feelings make me want to melt deep into my bean bag chair, never to resurface. 

I worry about so many things now; like being popular! It gives me horrible tummy aches, picturing myself eating lunch alone in a bathroom stall. The secrecy of having my period is dizzying—I’m pretty sure some of my friends have it too?—and now that I’m apparently a woman, I’m especially fidgety because, deep down, all I want to do is play with my Polly Pockets. 

The worst part of being thirteen, though, has been Kyle. He was my first true love (sometimes I lay in bed staring at my ceiling, worrying he will be my last). Loving him was like laughing my head off while going through the turnstiles after a rollercoaster ride. But it was also like a spin on the Tilt-A-Whirl; nauseating, scary, and embarrassing, because I’m the one who said yes to going on the stupid thing in the first place.

Kyle is in my home room, and we became best friends the minute we met. I fell in love with him even faster, and well, it’s so true: You don’t climb in love. You fall. 

First walking through the hallways in grade eight was the clang of locker doors and shoes squeaking against tile floors. Students hooted and hollered, while the smell of Clinique Happy and cafeteria food overpowered the air.

When I walked by a glass trophy case, my throat tensed up. 

I’ll never win any of those. 

My shoulders bumped into those of a few others until I eventually found the door that read, “Mrs. Clarkson: Room 801”. I walked in. 

My head was low as I made my way to a desk by the windows. I sat down. It was nice and toasty in the sunshine. Minding my business as I unpacked my stuff, a voice grabbed my attention. 

“I like your Koosh ball.”

I looked up, and there he was: Kyle. 

The freckles on his cheekbones were like confetti. His hair was scruffy. His eyes were as blue as the swimming pool in Kelsey Sweeney’s backyard. He smelled musky, like he’d splashed himself in his grandpa’s cologne. 

Gah! That’s adorable. 

I bit down on my tongue. I’d heard the expression “butterflies in your stomach”, but it felt like a bald eagle was flapping in there. 

I physically jolted out of whatever wonderland I’d just floated off to when Kyle spoke again.

“On your pencil. I like it. Your Koosh ball.”

His smile was dreamy—Barf! Who am I!?—even through his braces. 

“Oh! Thank you. I… I’ve always liked Koosh balls. I have others if.... Do you want one?!” 

He nodded, “Sure!”

I dug into my bag and grabbed another Koosh and tossed it over.

“Cool,” he said, throwing it from his left hand to his right. 

My face felt like I’d just bitten into a lemon.

Jenny! You’re thirteen! You shouldn’t be playing with Koosh balls. 

“You’re welcome," I said, "There’s lots more where that came from!”

Oh my God. 

Kyle gave me a crooked look, and from that moment on, we were inseparable.

We’d trade Bits & Bites at recess. He liked the Cheerios. I liked the Shreddies. We’d meet up at Clydesdale Park on our bikes to kick the soccer ball. We’d play Mario Kart on my N64. He was Toad. I was Bowzer. We’d talk on the phone about a whole lot of glorious nothing. 

That is, whenever that screeching sound wasn’t blaring from the phone. 

“Dad!!! Get off the internet!!! I need to call Kyle!!!” 

Kyle made my palms sweat and my heart race, and that was just the start of my problems. 

My real problem was that he had a girlfriend: Ashley. 

We were sitting cross legged on a pile of blue gymnastics mats when he told me about her. I could have puked my Dunkaroos. 

“She goes to Pine Ridge. Eighth grade,” he started, “She’s been my girlfriend since sixth grade.”

Sixth grade!?

I was one second away from fleeing to the equipment room and burying myself in the mountain of dodgeballs.

“That’s a long time,” my voice was shaking, “Do you two… kiss and stuff?”

My jaw clenched. 

“That’s gross. But…,” he scratched his head, “Maybe I’d wanna try sometime.”

I was about to blurt out, “You can practice on me,” but instead, I let out a huge hiccup. Thank goodness we both laughed.

“You’re weird,” he said. 

Biting my lower lip, I forced a smile, “You’re weird!”

I was in a chaotic place. Like in school! How we learned about tidal bores. My jealousy was the ocean pushing against my river of guilt, and I’m telling you, those were dangerous waters. 

Kyle made a loud thud when he jumped down from the mats. 

“Hey, I got one of those email things last night,” he said. “You should get one. We could talk from our computers. Ya know, since your parents won’t let you get ICQ and all…”

“Oh. Ya. Not sure if I’ll get one.”

I knew with one thousand percent certainty I would be running home after school and getting an email immediately. 

He shrugged, “Whatever.”

A few hours later, jenny_bo_benny1985@hotmail.com was born. Kyle and I emailed every day. 

Kyle: “Hey. I’m bored. Geography today was even more boring.” 

Me: “Totally. I wish recess was longer.”

My knees bounced under the computer desk. . 

After a few weeks, our innocent banter eventually turned into talking about things we’d never discuss face to face: our feelings. 

Kyle: “Sometimes, I feel like such a loser… like nobody likes me. You’re the only person I feel…okay with. I can be myself around you, ya know?” 

I had to get up and do a lap around the room.

Me: “I feel like a loser, too. But… not around you. If that makes sense. It’s ok if it doesn’t!!!!!”

Kyle: “haha.. That makes sense. Look, I’ve been wanting to tell you this. I like you. I hope that is okay for me to say. It’s ok if it’s not!!”

It was as though cupid had just struck an arrow in my chest, and accidentally killed me in the process. 

Me: “That is totally okay, because…I like you too.”

Just as I thought a metric ton of candy cinnamon hearts was about to explode out of my organs, my dad yelled, “Jenny!!! Get off the internet!! I need the phone!” 

On my way to school the next day, I was walking on air. but also….

WHAT THE HELL OH MY GOD I AM SO NERVOUS TO SEE KYLE I COULD DIE. 

I sat at my desk, as upright as an iron rod. I clasped my fingers.

Inhale. Exhale. 

When Kyle strutted in and plopped down at his desk, a gazillion pounds were lifted off my shoulders. He was nervous too. 

“Hi,” he said, “I like your butterflies. The hair thingy ma-bobbers. In your hair. The butterflies in your hair.”

“Oh. Thanks. My mom! Got them for me…..”

My puka shell necklace suddenly felt extra tight around my neck. 

“Alright students,” Mrs. Clarkson said, snapping us back to reality, “I’d like to introduce you to one of Shakespeare’s most famous works, Romeo and Juliet. It’s a story of love, but also, it’s very much a tragedy.” 

She handed me my copy. Looking at the cover, I squinted. I raised my hand.

“Jenny. Yes,” said Mrs. Clarkson.

“They look happy and in love. Why is this a tragedy?”

“Great question,” she answered, “Romeo and Juliet were very much in love, yes. But unfortunately, their love was forbidden.”

Ashley. 

I stuck my hands between my chair and my butt and tapped the heels of my Adidas against the floor. 

“Thanks,” and I left it at that. 

I felt car sick, like being in the backseat on a winding road. My love for Kyle felt like the Milky Way itself was flowing through my veins. How could something so magical ever be forbidden?

Because of Ashley, you idiot. 

I hurried home that day—with a pit stop for sour keys and gummy coke bottles—and went to my room.

“Hi, mom,” I rushed upstairs before she could respond and closed my bedroom door. 

I sat at my desk, turned on my red lava lamp, and started reading. Learning about Romeo and Juliet’s mutual love for each other was like the smell of fresh laundry drying on the clothesline.

That is, up until the parts where—just as Mrs. Clarkson had said—Romeo and Juliet’s love was revealed to be super, duper forbidden. They didn’t do anything wrong, though. Their families just didn’t want them together. Unlike me, who was like…willingly breaking the law or something for loving Kyle.

Am I going to go to jail!?

I swear, I never wanted to be a villain. I only ever wanted to be a teenager. 

The tips of my fingers trembled as I closed the book. My stomach felt as dark and as empty as the catacombs in “King’s Quest XI”. I reached in my drawer and found my old Tamagotchi. I softened as I looked at this thing I loved back in my childhood (when my main concern was “Don’t forget to feed your virtual pet!”). 

I suddenly felt a little less hollow inside, yet also, really, really missed being a kid. 

I have to email Kyle. 

I made my way to the computer, and a message from Kyle was already waiting for me. Maybe I’m a witch or something, because the way my head started tingling, I knew that it wasn’t good news. 

Kyle: “Hey. I’m really sorry. We can’t be friends anymore. I shouldn’t have said the things I said to you. I love Ashley. I hope you understand.” 

My pulse bordered on being painful as my heartbreak pooled in my eyelids. With the last bit of strength I had in my index finger, I typed out two letters and hit send.

Me: “Ok.”

Freaking Shakespeare. He got to Kyle, too. 

The love of my life broke up with me on Hotmail, and all I can say is: I really hope this whole “talking to people on computers” thing doesn’t ever take off more than it has to. 

I gasped tears into my pillow all night and slept maybe one hour. The next morning, I snuck into my mom’s vanity and dabbed on a bit of her Mary Kay blush so I still looked like I had circulation. 

Kyle and I sat across the room from each other from that point on. We went our separate ways at recess and after school. We barely talked again. 

As much as I had dreaded the thought of eating lunch alone in a bathroom stall, crying alone in one was way worse. I think the hardest part about being that sad, was having to go through it on my own. Maybe that was my punishment for being such a horrible person. That, and the fact that the toilet paper at school felt like sandpaper against my face. 

I stayed after the bell one day to… I don’t even know. I was hitting a tennis ball against the wall. Bounce. Hit. Bounce back to me. Repeat. The air in the gym was cool on my skin. 

When I noticed the stack of blue gymnastics mats—where Kyle and I used to sit—I let the ball roll away from me. My mouth was dry. It felt like I had a pile of bricks on my chest. I went to fetch my ball, only to find Mrs. Clarkson leaning in the doorway.

“Hey Jenny,” she said.

Oh no. She’s going to ask me about Kyle. She’ll have me expelled!!

“Hey. Mrs. Clarkson. I was just,” I motioned to my racket. 

Her face was as calm as the moon. 

“How have you been doing? You haven’t been your usual… sparkly self, lately.”

My shoulders rose up to my ears hearing her use the word “sparkly”; one I often used to describe her. 

I wanted to bolt out of there and into the creepy forest behind the school, but there was something familiar in Mrs. Clarkson’s eyes that day. I sighed.

“I can’t wait to be your age, Mrs. Clarkson. When all the puzzle pieces finally fit together. I feel like…a hexagon trying to fit into a pentagon, ya know?”

Her eyes drooped as she nodded, “I do.”

“And.. This whole love thing. I hope it never happens again.”

Her head tilted.

“What do you hope never happens again?”

“Love. I never want to fall in love again,” the word vomit was coming up, like that time I chugged too much Gatorade, “Mrs. Clarkson, I fell in love with a boy. And I shouldn’t have. I’m a teenager but… I still feel like a kid, sometimes.. and… it’s like I broke the rules of growing up or something by falling in love when I did. Adults know better. They wouldn’t make the mistakes I made.… and…well…the inconvenience of falling in love at thirteen has been enough to deter me from ever wanting to do it again.”

Mrs. Clarkson’s eyes were glossy. She was quiet. She looked down, delicately twirling her wedding and engagement rings on her finger. She chuckled, looking back at me.

“Jenny, did you know… a few years ago, I was actually married to someone else?”

“You were?”

Her voice was soft. She nodded, “Yeah.”

My eyes darted left to right.

“Well… what happened?”

She breathed deep, and like all the energy in the room was sucked into a vacuum, she said, “Mr. Clarkson happened.”

I tapped my tennis racket against my thigh. 

“What do you mean?”

It’s like someone waved a wand over Mrs. Clarkson, and in an instant, she went back to teacher-mode. She adjusted her cardigan. 

“Take it easy on yourself, kiddo. Enjoy being thirteen.”

I listened to the click of her heels as she walked away, until the sound vanished completely. 

Bundled up as I walked back at dusk, I looked at all the homes in this neighborhood where I grew up. 

Who lives in all these houses?

I wondered if maybe someone, somewhere around here, also had a story as close to their heart as I did; one they will never tell. 

I arrived home. 

Up in my room, I looked at my calendar.

Forty-five days left of junior high. 

I sat on my carpet for some Mario Kart. I picked Bowzer. 

I’ll always pick Bowzer, even when I’m Mrs. Clarkson’s age.

I played for a long while. 

I wonder if Kyle will always pick Toad. 

I played for a while more.