I was 14. I was at a new school, in a new city, and my classmates had all been in middle school together before moving across the street to the high school. So, once again, I was starting over.

This time, though I was starting over and I was a teenager. And because I have always been crazy I developed a maddening crush on the smartest girl in class. She also happened to be the least-interested-in-me girl in class. I would try to get, and keep, her attention, but it never worked. She seemed genuinely contemptuous, and really just wanted me to leave her alone, I think.

But the not-secret crush was entertaining to the rest of the kids, and having even that kind of attention was attractive to the new kid; it was a way to fit in, though very dysfunctionally.

Because it was high school, and because I had been raised on television and movie versions of life (I hate you a little, Degrassi. But only a little.) I could recognize the narrative that was going on around me. The elements of a great teen romance were all in place: new kid, having a tough time cracking into the established group; smart girl, pushing the guys away because she is too mature or insecure to play the game of casual romance that the rest of the girls seemed to play; a supporting cast of watchers, and goaders-on, who could be both audience and writing staff for the drama unfolding before them.

There was the scene at the musical, where the new kid worked up the nerve to perform on stage; and the girl showed up and sat in the front row, endlessly distracting him from what he was doing.

There was the cross-country running team the new kid joined so that he might, possibly work up the nerve to talk to the girl directly.

There were the dances, and the narrative demanded that at these special times, when romance was scripted, that he walk up to her while “November Rain” was beginning because this time she would agree to dance with him, and the world would change.

There was the last chance, the brief period after the final exam of the year when he saw that he could speak to her alone, and tell her directly how he felt. He raced out to the bike rack to catch her before she left for the summer; he called out. But with one glance over her shoulder she hopped onto her bike and dashed off. The last chance wasn't.

And there was the surreal moment, after the summer break, when she approached him. Caught off guard by the reversal of roles he couldn't let the old story end amicably and maturely; afraid of trading the known discomfort of daily life for some unknown where they were friends he responded to her friendliness with disinterest and brusqueness.

Returning to normal for the rest of that semester, the momentary role reversal was just a Fourth Act twist, quickly turned tragic by his behavior; his disinterest was belied by his recidivism, his seeking out her attention once again, and once again being greeted by her disdain.

But unlike movies, this narrative didn't end with some sudden, dramatic moment of mutual appreciation and a recognition of deeper feelings. Instead, I left the school. When I looked into the future, the three and a half years that remained, I didn't like the person who I was going to become, and who I had already been to a certain extent. So, I decided to go be the new kid somewhere else, and pretend as though that first year and a half had never happened.

I rebuilt fairly successfully, I think, but I was still wounded. Disdain hurt, and to be held in contempt by someone whose opinion was so important did make me wonder, sometimes, if all of my confidence was fraudulent.

There was a show on tv briefly a few years ago called “Do Over”, in which the main character, a 34 year-old man, is transported back to his 14 year-old self, to go through high school with all of his adult knowledge. In my “wish I had a time machine” moments I've often wished for a do over of the first year and a half of high school. It was pretty scarring, and I was the perpetrator of my own insecurities as much as I was the victim of other peoples' attitudes. And there was the girl...

This girl who affected me so deeply at an age where we are built to be affected deeply and forever. She left me in tatters, and I fled.

And 15 years later I saw her on Facebook; and I worked up the nerve to send her a note, the 2008 version of “Do you remember me? Check “yes” or “no”.” We've been in contact for a while now, and because she is more mature than I am, and probably always has been, she extended an apology for her behavior as an adolescent.

I assured her that it wasn't necessary; that it was no big deal; that I was long recovered.

That was a complete and total fabrication. It actually meant a lot to me. It was as though that year and a half meant something, again; as though I needn't flinch anymore when I recalled my first days of high school. Thank you for that, smart girl.

It's like my very own “Do Over”.

Like most adolescent boys I was a more than a bit girl-crazy when I was a kid. No, that's too mild. I was obsessive, fascinated, and thrown completely off balance by girls. I was also always always always the new kid, and in each new place there was another girl to throw me for a loop.

My first, and puppiest crush was a girl in grade school. She was a year older than I, but we were in a split grades 5-6 class. It was my first year in a new town, and she was pretty, and popular, and energetic, and the leader of the girl-pack at that school. I was in whatever passes for love in a 10 year old, and surprisingly enough she managed to not ignore me. In fact, through the various pairings-off that happened in that first romanticized pre-teen year she and I were a couple at least once. Who knows how long these relationships lasted? They felt like moments and years both.

But she was in the 6th grade, and our school only went to 6, so at the end of the year she moved on to a middle school, 7-8, and I stayed behind. Partly because of her attention, and partly because it was such a small school, I got over feeling like the "new kid" by the time 6th grade began. I remember thinking about her a lot during that year, though. And by 7th grade we were again at the same school. She seemed even more popular and pretty and social, but she was also long past going out with younger guys. That was a long year, and the occasional phone call from her (or to her) was only enough to keep me enthralled, but never enough to bring us really close again.

The next year she went to high school and I saw her maybe once in that time. A final teasing phone call and then we were done: I moved again.

We had lived in a small place in Eastern Ontario; I moved to a smaller to finish out 8th grade. Then I moved west and went to high school, graduating a year early and eventually going to the University of Toronto, a school with more students than our town had residents. And on my first day of university, sitting on a grassy knoll at an orientation bbq, I met her again. We lived 4 floors apart in our college residence, and we were in the same history class. Despite our proximity we didn't see each other that often. I had gained a lot of confidence since those timid days in the 5th grade, and I had plenty to keep me occupied; and she had a full life of her own, and I only saw her sporadically. But here was this girl, this woman now, whom I had known as a child and who used to hold my heart in her unknowing hands. I admit it; she made me feel shy and awkward all over again. So I never really asked her out (I don't think potatoes at Futures counts as any kind of date), and just before Christmas she left school and never came back.

In January I met Emily; by August I had moved to California to be with her, and I never went back to the University of Toronto. I always remembered her name, though.

12 years after we saw each other last, probably in that history class she would sleep through, we met again, on Facebook.

It feels a little bit, from my side, like Kevin Arnold meeting Winnie Cooper at the plane in the final episode of "The Wonder Years." And once again I feel awkward and shy: how did she ever find this guy interesting?


There is someone on Facebook who is not a member of my family whom I have known for 20 years. That's a little bit humbling.

For several years I managed car washes in San Diego County. I made enough money doing this to buy a condo and put Emily through law school. But I really hated that job; I quit six months before starting at UCSD to finish my degrees just because I couldn't face going in to that place again.

But some days I find myself feeling nostalgic about the car wash. I did have some good days, and I made some good friends. And it is in large part my experience at the car wash interacting with customers that is responsible for my current comfort with speaking in public, lecturing, and teaching.

One day in particular has been coming back to me lately. It wasn't really a good day. It was a strange day. And it was a day with a legacy that I'll never know, because in the end I did the only thing I was going to do.

At the entrance to the carwash is the vacuum line. Cars line up, customers discuss car wash packages with the service writer, and then the occupants of the car leave their vehicles to go into the store, the lounge, or the viewing area. One day I was out at the line, keeping the pace up, when a blue convertible rolled up. It wasn't an exceptional car, but as far as memorable cars for that day it was enough to stay in my memory for a few hours. Driving the car was a blonde eurotrash-looking douche. I always picture him wearing a white scarf and sunglasses, but that's pure fiction. I don't remember what cranial accessories he had, and he may not even have been blonde. But he was a douche. I remember him being snippy when I took his service order and tried to chat with him a bit (my service writer was at lunch).

He wasn't biting on either the service upgrade I pitched him or the conversation, which was surprising to me, because he had a passenger. In the passenger seat was a pretty brunette with her sunglasses up on her head. Now usually when a man is driving his girlfriend around and he brings her to the carwash he is a dead sucker for some showy service. But not this guy; he was just a prick.

I wrote up his ticket and waved them forward, opened his door and hers so they could exit. Then I went back to work for a while. I eventually ended up on the drying end of the line, and their car was being worked on. But I didn't pay much attention until they picked it up. I saw them to their car and then waved goodbye as they pulled away. Except for the guy being a dick in front of his girlfriend, it was a pretty unremarkable meeting.

That was in the morning. In the afternoon, late afternoon I think, the car was back. It pulled up to the air and water tower and parked. The top was still down, but this time the girlfriend was driving, and she was alone.

She looked around until she saw me, waved, then walked over. This time she was wearing the sugnlasses on her face instead of her head, and I figured out why as she came closer: a big red welt was noticeable around the edges of her sunglass frame. I said hi, she said hi. And there followed a conversation that I don't really remember, but it wasn't long on details and I didn't want to pry, but the end is very clear in my mind.

She wanted me to take her somewhere to talk and comfort her (or something!) And I pretended to not know what she was getting at (she was phrasing it as a solicitation for advice about where to go and what to do in her damaged emotional state). I can only imagine what was going through her mind at the time, but I had no interest in getting involved. So I disingenuously suggested she check out the Balboa Park museums. They were dark and quiet and she could be alone among people (rather than alone with me) and think about stuff.

I think she was hurt by my not-so-subtle rejection. But she smiled and went back to her car and drove away. I never saw her again.

Sometimes I wonder about her, and if she is ok, or if by rejecting her I sent her straight back into what was clearly an abusive relationship.

I don't know that I did the wrong thing. But sometimes I don't feel like I did the right thing either. I just know it was the only thing I was going to do.