Dear *Ricky,

It was your dark spiky hair. And those stylish acid-wash jeans.

Plus, your blueberry Mr. Freeze Pop eyes.

My heart pounded as you were introduced to our grade six class. The new kid. What was it about the new kid? I stared at you like a hungry animal. You became my next victim … I mean crush.

Wherever you went, I trailed behind you like a lost puppy. Then, the chance. Our desks were moved into groups of four. Imagine my disappointment when you weren’t in my quad. I expressed my disappointment to my future ex-boyfriend, *Joshua, who sat across from me.

Joshua rolled his eyes. “What’s the big deal?”

“Like you wouldn’t want to sit across Nadine if she were in our class?”

“Whatever,” he said. “I play hockey with the guy. He sucks.”

“Yeah,” as my eyes fluttered. “I know he plays hockey.”

What was it about guys that played hockey that made a girl’s stomach flitter with unabashed glee?

Your team played after my skating practices. I’d whip off a couple of waltz jumps and single Salchows, then I’d race to the changing rooms to rip off my skates and dash into the gallery. I’d casually pass you. Saying, “Hi Wicky,” in my Elmer Fudd-style way.

But you weren’t into me. You wanted *Stella.

Stella: Tall. Blonde. Beautiful. Two eyebrows. So Stella didn’t sport a unibrow. Or have an overbite, girl-stach or speech impediment. But I had thick brown hair? And I made really good brownies and prize winning dioramas. And I was an “A” student. I can really nerd it up, can’t I?

I remember the last day of school before Christmas break. Stella was wearing a emerald green short skirt and standing on a chair taking down the decorations. I was dressed in a dorky yellow jogging suit, watching you help her remove the red and green construction paper rings from the walls.

I suppressed my urge to push Stella from that chair, only because she and I were best friends.

Remember the Christmas concert? The Nutcracker? I wanted to be Clara, but I couldn’t tryout because – at the time – I was a Jehovah’s Witness. You won the part of the Mouse King, and the part of Clara? Went to *Jocelynn.

Jocelynn: Short. Blonde. Cute. Two eyebrows. Rumours flew that you liked her – and Stella. Choices, choices. But I didn’t set up a bucket of pig’s blood over Jocelynn ala Carrie the night of the concert.

Because Jocelynn was also my best friend, and we studied and skating together.

I just wanted you to notice me. I thought, maybe I should call? When the new phone books came out? I looked up your number. I wrote it in my diary. In purple.

I’d pick up the phone, dial and hangup. This went on for months. I worried you’d never like me. I was beginning to feel below average. Awkward. Uglier than I felt before. I even bought bleach for my stach.

Then my *Uncle Jacob gave me advice. “Tell him how you feel. Or you’ll never know, and you’ll wonder forever.” Those words still stick with me.

I finally told you … okay, a friend told you how I felt before the September dance in grade seven. Just so you’d dance with me. I though it’d be a magical moment, and you’d realize we made the perfect couple.

We did dance. And a friend snapped a photo. At first, I was thrilled. But you put your hands up. Shielding your face. As though you didn’t want proof of our moment.

After the next day, I confessed my feelings. And you said, “Maybe we’ll go out.”

Ricky, saying that to a pre-pubescent girl whose had a mad, raging crush on you raises unimaginable hopes and dreams. For months, I pined for you. I asked friends, “Have you heard anything? Does Wicky want me?”

Then you told me – on the last day before Christmas break – you couldn’t date me. You said people were bugging you because you wanted to date me.

I was crushed. I poured my heart out to Joshua as he sat on my desk. He said you lost out. As we spoke, we were caught off guard by a friend’s camera. Joshua practically fell into my lap as he wrapped his arm around me, and the moment was captured.

I still have those two photos. One reflects embarrassment. The other – giggles and playfulness.

That’s the difference, Ricky. Even though we’re now friends, at the time you didn’t want me because of my unibrow. Which I painfully plucked. My overbite, corrected by braces. My grade seven bleached hairy lip. And slightly improved speech impediment. All eradicated.

Sure, Joshua and I didn’t last. But he showed me the difference between wanting someone for their personality verses appearance. Interior against exterior.

The irony is I fell for you based on looks. In hindsight – whether he knows it or not – that Christmas Joshua taught us both a valuable lesson.

When we receive a gift, we toss the paper. No matter how nicely wrapped.

And we tend to treasure what’s inside.

Even if it’s short-term.