It was 7 pm, and the beer poured down my throat as I sat in the nearly empty middle school lunch room, attempting to drown my sorrows like the way adults do on TV after getting fired or dealing with nagging wives or something. The bubbles tickled my tongue; I imagined a similar but completely different (and untested) sensation of French Kissing a girl. This thought made the beer taste more bitter than I had already imagined it to be. Good. Although this beer was of the root variety, what the drink lacked in alcohol was gained in the spirit of the act. And what drove me to commit this ridiculous act? A failed attempt at a ridiculous and equally necessary act, especially for a 13 year old boy: slow dancing with the girl of my dreams.

It started with my first crush— scratch that. My first legal crush. My first crush of any sort came in second grade, and looking back I realize that I could never have actually married this woman—she had another man. This thought was solidified as I sat in the church pew, watching some other man three times my size kiss the woman of my dreams, legally binding them in the eyes of God as husband and not-my-wife. I was forced to get over that very quickly, though it wasn’t easy; I had to see her every day, being that she was my first, and later, second grade teacher. As a God-fearing child and someone who somewhat understood the concept of adultery, I didn’t want to upset the Man upstairs. I had already promised to be a better person after he gave me the power to beat my neighbor Josh in a close match of Ping Pong. After the excitement of that match faded away, I’d realized what a horrible deal I had struck. I didn’t even put any money on the match. I learned from my mistake.

So. My first legal crush. I distinctly remember when the seed of attraction was planted, probably like the way people say they distinctly remember where they were when JFK was shot. The seed took root on the fertile playground asphalt where, previous to this moment, my biggest cares and worries were being picked not-quite-last for kickball and not tearing my snow pants while sliding into second base. In my right hand I held between my fingers a mini-stick pretzel, in the other a plastic baggy full of said pretzels. I had recently discovered that pretending to smoke a pretzel like a cigarette made me look cool; proceeding to ask others “Yo, want a pretz?” after taking a moment to exhale and watch my breath in the frigid air made me look even cooler. Naturally, I did this for weeks in order to capitalize on my new found ability to gain respect or attention or something.

My best friend Elliot accepted my request, grabbed a pretzel and shoved it in his mouth, forgoing the whole appeal of the act. He obviously didn’t need the help, being much higher on the social hierarchy than me as someone who was actually noticed and respected. Still chewing, he unknowingly blindsided me with a question that would plant the seed of love and forever change the course of my life: “Do you like any girls?” For a moment I just stood there, my eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly ajar, having given less thought to this idea than in hiding my affinity for The Power Rangers. My thoughts focused as my brain was being tuned like a radio dial: the thought had been there for a while, but it was always covered in static or incoherence like a Nirvana song. I had realized, for the first time, that yes, of course! Of course I liked someone– why didn’t I realize this sooner? The innocent and good intentions of the seed grew into a mess of weeds infecting all aspects of my life, nourished by frequent watering’s from saccharine Hollywood clichés and my own naiveté.

Her name was as simple and sweet as she was: Mia. It was a blessing she was in my class, and a privilege just to look at her. Her eyes were my favorite color, a shade darker than sky blue Crayola. Her golden, shining hair framed her face magnificently, bringing attention to her infectious smile and her lips. Those soft, teasing, wonderful lips begged to meet mine. I knew God made her body for me to hold. Every night I imagined doing just that, falling to sleep clutching a pillow and slipping hopelessly into dreams which tormented me every time I opened my eyes, feeling the cool touch of my pillow rather than the inviting touch of her warm body. Hugging her was about as far as I got, even in my dreams. My want for her was surpassed only by my fear of rejection, and not even in the comfort of my own mind could I coyly ask her the time.

My secret admiration and nightly rendezvous continued for years unchecked, progressing to the point where, during one glorious slumber, she kissed me on the cheek. I never woke up feeling so warm, and seconds later so alone. My worn out pillow no longer sufficed and the perfect opportunity was approaching: the sixth grade dance. It’s at this point that I should note that I had absolutely zero self confidence. I wasn’t the fattest kid in the class, but I also didn’t earn the nickname “Nipples” for nothing. I had never even hugged a girl that was my age before. I was seriously deprived of experience.

The dance wasn’t just a big deal, it was the deal in which all other deals would arise from. It was my first opportunity to show my feelings for Mia by asking her to slow dance with me. Although I had a better grasp of world politics than dancing, I wasn’t fazed. All that mattered was getting to slow dance with her, and any idiot knew how to slow dance. The only obstacles were getting the courage to ask her (easier said than done) and then, once I placed my hands on her waist , deciding the distance between the two of us as we swayed back and forth, hoping…

I sat on the wooden bleachers of the gym and watched my arrogant, skinny locker buddy Dan hold hands with Julia and lead her to the dance floor, giggling as they went. I don’t think I’d ever been so jealous in my life, not even when my neighbor got an N64 for his birthday. While I surveyed the rest of the dance floor, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small package of Listerine Mint Strips and delicately placed it on my tongue. As I inhaled a burning cool filled my lungs, and this intense sensation gave me courage to make my move, mimicking the man on the commercials. I jumped off the bleachers and with an incredibly deliberate swagger wriggled through the maze of bodies, some of which were twisting their shirts around their head to “Spin it like a helicopter,” as the man on the song had instructed.

I found her by the punch bowl and cookies, wearing a plain blue dress, perfectly fit to her body that was anything but; the fabric looked soft and welcoming and was the color of her eyes. She was wearing that infectious smile that remained intact from my dreams, engaged in a conversation with one of her friends. I could tell it was something interesting. I stood moving my hips and bobbing my head awkwardly as I attempted to not look as petrified as I felt, weighing the incredible possibility of dancing with her against the horrible probability of public rejection. She turned toward me, we made eye contact and I think I experienced heart palpitations. My impulse was to turn and run, yet her eyes pulled me closer to her, towards the unknown depths of my desire.

Some words were said. I laughed. She laughed. The pleasant sounds that escaped her, eyes smiling and glossy lips glimmering, had an exhilarating effect on me, as if the air leaving her body was some wonderful and intoxicating drug. As she walked away, I felt like something important had happened for the first time in my life. The only thing I remember her saying during the exchange of words were “sure” in reply to The Question. I’m still not sure how I got the courage. Maybe it was the trace amounts of alcohol in the Listerine Breath Strip.

She had agreed to dance with me during the next song. Being such a pivotal moment in my life, one would think I would remember the details of the conversation better. Unfortunately, my memory of this fateful night is more akin to my First Communion many years ago; I don’t quite remember the preparation or details of the service for my First Communion, but I do remember the unwelcome sour taste of the wine on my tongue that invaded my taste buds as I walked back to my seat.

A shallow and horribly effective song that spoke of attraction and desire and wanting and love had just begun, conveying emotions I thought I understood all too well while its soothing melody gave the opposite effect of heating my body and freezing my nerves. The body of bodies started shifting in an intricate pattern that resulted in a mass pairing. I looked to join the ritual by way of my wonderful Mia. And looked. And looked.

The song had already reached it’s bridge, and I felt like I was about ready to jump off of one myself. I started to experience something that I had read about but didn’t think actually existed outside of metaphor: a sinking feeling of doubt, despair, and dread which was growing larger with every passing moment in the pit of my stomach. The growing emptiness in my stomach gave me a hunger that could only be satisfied by holding Mia in my arms, swaying back and forth, and finally realizing an affection that had only existed in dreams. The fact that the object that would satiate my hunger was somewhere near only made my hunger that much more piercing.

At this moment in time there were only two types of people: Mia, and everyone else. As a girl from the latter category approached me, my feelings of doubt and despair quickly combined and transformed into an incredible sense of dread. “Zak? Are you Zak?” I answered with “Yes?” The intonation reflected my lack of knowledge and fear about who this person was and what she was about to say, respectively, and not a lack of knowledge of my own name.

(Coincidentally, if it had been Mia who was approaching me, stepping out of the comfort of my dreams and the exciting possibilities of reality, remembering my name would have been at the absolutely lowest of importance. Hell, she could have called me Zeke or Xavior or even a name like Barney that didn’t start with the “Z” sound and the amount I cared would have been indirectly proportionate to the absolute ecstasy of holding her in my arms. Well, more like holding her in my hands, as there would likely be enough space for Jesus and any other “unwelcome guests” between us. Let a hopeless romantic dream, it was my night for fantasy.)

Being that this person was not Mia, I do not remember anything about her other than the sentence she was about to speak. One does not need to understand a force to feel its pull (see: magnets or God), but I knew that the words which so eagerly escaped her mouth had culminated in a changing the course of my life in ways which are hardly possible to begin to comprehend. It was a simple sentence, and for the first time in my life I fully understood the awesome and devastating power of words: “Mia thinks that dancing together could harm your friendship.” Variations on this theme would haunt me for years to come. As I stood there, I felt like I was waiting to be picked for the kickball team, and instead of being picked late or even last, I wasn’t picked at all. The game started without me, and no one was worse off for it.

Given little choice, I wandered towards the cafeteria, where all young hopeful souls go to die during school dances. At least none of the cute girls would be there to witness this sad state given that they were busy dancing and flirting with The Worthy. I couldn’t reach my depressing destination without first catching a glimpse of Mia dancing with someone who wasn’t a waste of flesh and blood and hopes and dreams; rather, it was my best friend, Elliot. If, dear reader, you think that anger and resentment would be the proper response in this most unfortunate of circumstances, I would agree with you. However, much like how I can’t control objects with my mind no matter how hard I try (so far), I also can’t control my emotions, and, for once, my emotions pleasantly surprised me.

Acceptance, not anger, is what I felt. Acceptance of defeat, of disappointment, of shame, and most of all acceptance of reality. I had been spending so much time dreaming and fantasizing about Mia that I had failed to see who she was in the real world. Outside of her perfect beauty, “niceness”, and affinity for gel pens (hardly a distinguishing feature for sixth grade girls) there wasn’t much else I knew about her. What’s worse was that I felt the same way about myself, minus the beauty. What did I really offer this perfection of the female form? Certainly nothing that Elliot didn’t offer–or any other guy with any sense of self confidence. He was more athletic, cool, confident, funny, a football player and someone who sat at the cool table during lunch. I was among the first cuts of the basketball team, and although I also sat at the cool table, my role was quite different; I was there to laugh at their jokes and fill space at the end. All I had going for me was desire. In dreams, desire is the only requisite to success; not so in reality. I had to fill this void in my heart with something, and, given the choices, Root Beer seemed like a pretty dammed good choice.

And so there I sat, guzzling the root beer, trying to fill the emptiness of my heart with empty calories. In an odd way, I relished this feeling of complete rejection and despair; I had never been faced with having to re-evaluate my worldview since I learned the truth of Cousin Jack (who did not, in fact, turn into a raisin for sitting too long in the bath tub and subsequently eaten by the unsuspecting Smith family). At 13 years old, being completely rejected, I felt that much closer to being a man, having participated in some horrible rite of passage. As I tried my hardest not to think of her, focusing instead on doing my best “Cheers” impression, Elliot walked in with a special bounce in his step. My face communicated what my voice could not. Without saying a word, he ordered himself a root beer, cracked it open, and we drank.