The Newspaper Clipping

Rick was the human embodiment of "meh.” I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why I found him so dismissible. Was it his quirkiness? Or his inane comments that made everyone (except me) laugh? Was it his nervous leg-thumping like a jackhammer under his desk during English class? I’m not saying he was the worst human ever, but he was not the first guy I’d invite to a party. Or a family dinner. Or a Tuesday.

One chilly October night, I arrived at school to take my post as ticket seller for the annual charity dance, where my nostrils were immediately assaulted with the muddled scent of dirty gym socks, the janitor’s lethal floor wax, and teenage angst wafting through the building. But how hard could it be to hand out tickets, lock the cash box in my locker, and poof—quickly disappear?

Apparently, harder than I thought.

Once the dance was in full swing, and the cash was safely stashed away, I suddenly found myself with two hours to kill in what could only be described as social warfare. This wasn’t just a high school dance; it was a combat zone. I tiptoed in, trying to blend into the shadows, ready to observe the popular kids in their native environment. Survival mode activated. I could do this. I would survive.

And then it happened.

Rick appeared out of nowhere—a bundle of nervous energy ready to detonate at any moment. He asked me to dance. I stood there, caught between laughing out loud or dying inside from embarrassment. I didn’t realize it was even an option to say no, so I trudged over to the dance floor with him as the next song, thankfully not a slow one, began to play.

We danced. Awkwardly. One song. That was it. He was polite, sure, but I was mortified. My heart and head were somewhere between a panic attack and the desire to activate invisibility mode. The second the song ended, I hightailed it out of there, collapsing on the curb outside. Seriously? Rick? Really?

But then came the twist.

Rick, who seemed to have an unholy determination to haunt my existence, started showing up at my house. Uninvited. Just “popping by to talk to my brother,” who, for the record, didn’t even know Rick all that well. Every time I saw Rick’s car pull into the driveway, I darted into my bedroom like a ninja on steroids. His knocks on the door were the soundtrack to my personal nightmare.

And then came that fateful afternoon, when I had stayed home from school with a terrible cold and looked as glamorous as...well, let’s be real, I was hideous. Rick showed up with a heaping plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies. He smiled and handed them to me saying he hoped they made me feel better, without adding any unnecessary commentary about my drippy eyes or raw, bright red nose.

Now, if you had told me that a plate of cookies could change the course of my emotional life, I would have laughed in your face. But somehow, those cookies—warm, gooey, and delicious—made everything feel a little less terrible. My cold didn’t seem so bad. Maybe Rick wasn’t a nightmare. Maybe he was just a sweet and thoughtful guy.

And so, his visits became a more regular thing. He'd pop by with weirdly endearing stories and interesting conversations. He didn’t waste my time with the usual high school gossip about couples that had broken up or who bombed on their SAT scores. We talked about real things, like music, art, science, and things like whether time travel would make our lives better or worse…and why. He started making even me laugh.

Rick invited me to go to a rock concert with him. I had never been to one before—mostly because the idea of being surrounded by adults exhaling voluminous clouds of marijuana terrified the living daylights out of me. That, and my parents could not have been clearer that rock music was an abomination spawned by the devil. But Rick made it sound fun, so I went. It wasn’t a date. Definitely not a date. That’s what I kept telling myself.

And then there was the art museum. Me, in an art museum? I was the kid who only knew about Picasso because my teacher made me memorize the word “cubism.” But Rick made art fun. He explained things in ways that made me see the world differently. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was learning something interesting and valuable. And whenever I made him burst out laughing? It was like my whole universe tilted just a little bit to the left.

Then the moment arrived on New Year’s Eve—a party with people from school. The classic, "Hey, want to be my girlfriend?" scenario reared its head. I said no. Because I was too cool to date Rick of all people. He dropped me off at my house and I walked away like the emotional robot I aspired to be. But deep down, I wasn’t sure. Maybe. Possibly. But no, there was no way I could say yes to Rick and be judged by everyone at school for it. No way.

Then came Monday. The Monday. A classmate asked me if I was dating Rick. Oh god. They do think we’re a couple. I quickly said no. Of course, I said no. And then I walked away like the total boss that I wasn’t.

But inside? It still wasn’t a hard no. It was a “I’m confused. Give me a second. Leave me alone to figure this out, okay?” But I’d already said the words, “Thanks, but no thanks,” aloud to Rick and he quickly moved on.

Fast-forward several years to the ultimate plot twist: I was trapped in a less-than-ideal marriage and my mother handed me a newspaper clipping. There he was: Rick. It was a wedding announcement. He had just said “I do.” I continued scanning the clipping. He’s married to the very girl who had asked me if Rick and I were dating all those years ago. The girl I thought had been plotting to destroy my life. Turns out, she was just interested in him for herself.

And there it was. The realization hit hard: Rick was the guy who would have listened when I needed someone to talk to, who would’ve cared enough to always ask me if I was okay. He would have always challenged my intellect and taught me something new. And I had missed it all because I was too busy worrying about what other people might think of me if I were with him. I had totally misjudged him and far too quickly dismissed him. I’d rejected the one guy who didn’t care about being “cool.” The guy who was who he was, and who saw me for who I was. And in the process, I had let him slip through my fingers.

And now? All I had was a newspaper clipping, and the undeniable truth that I had missed my chance at the love story I didn’t even realize we had been writing at the age of seventeen.