I had asked you out on that Thursday in tenth grade after Spanish class as we walked to third period in the California winter. I had zipped up my track jacket and forced the words out of my mouth, being careful not to actually say "do you want to go out with me" because I was either too embarrassed or thought I might save face if I never explicitly stated my intentions. You said that we didn't know each other that well, but I know now you were just trying to be nice.
The very next day in Spanish class, the teacher paired us together for a project and I asked my friend to stay close so he could break up the awkward tension. He did a great job but I think you caught me staring at your lips.
We made up and independently decided to pretend like none of that ever happened. But every time I talked to you all I could think of was the time when, in ninth grade biology, the teacher had to separate us because we were talking too much. That was my first reprimand in high school, and it was for you.
In twelfth grade some common friends were going for a movie and since we were both invited and we lived near each other I offered to give you a ride. I spent an hour cleaning out my dad's car for you, trying my best to get the smell of his lab coat, stethoscope and hospital out. I loved that smell but I remembered you telling me that you hated hospitals, a remnant of a gruesome childhood visit.
A week later my best friend told me that you two had made a pact to have friend-sex as your first legal sexual encounter on the day you both turned eighteen. He asked if I was still in love with you and I said no, I wasn't. And I wasn't except for the fact that part of me still was. I cursed myself that night for being young and convinced myself that if I had come of age sooner I would have been the one having friend-sex with you.
Months later, I started dating a girl who said that she didn't think she had a shot with me because I was interested in girls like you. I told her she was stupid for thinking so and that my taste in girls wasn't pigeonholed, and I meant it.
A year later I broke up with that girl and that night I dreamt of you. We hadn't spoken since we left for college but I had a dream that we were both sitting in a Ferris wheel hovering over a chasm while discussing the merits of cotton candy and carnival rides.
Two years later you sent me a tweet and I spent the better part of my day thinking of a good response even though we were in separate and rapidly diverging worlds. I just wanted to make you laugh like I did in ninth grade biology.
Every so often you pop into my dreams again and you always look as pretty and graceful as the last time I saw you at our high school graduation. But in those dreams I am still the pudgy little tenth grader who zipped up his track jacket so you wouldn't see the un-manly Snoopy t-shirt underneath.