Bitches (Part I)
Oh, you. It's like you were always there!
In Second Grade I tried to act cool around you. I got excited to talk to Ms. Waller about dancing on the desk because you were the one who told me to go talk to her.
In Third Grade I tried to act cool around you, but I tried by saying that I hated the Spice Girls. I didn't hate them: I bookmarked my Calvin and Hobbes comics with the SPICE liner notes just so I could get your (and every other girl's) attention. I gave you my Hostess cupcake after everybody only got one each. I heard that you liked the movie Titanic so I made a drawing of the "I'm the king of the world!" scene and gave it to you. When I ran into you outside of school my heart fluttered but you didn't see that, you just saw a nonchalant "hey".
In Fourth Grade I tried to act cool around you. We laughed so much we got in trouble for it. I lied and told your friend over the phone I didn't like you, but I didn't know you were quietly listening on the third line. I didn't think phone calls could be so deceiving.
There was jealousy in Fifth Grade, because I tried to act cool around everyone. But it all worked out because by the end of the year, we had our first couple of dances together.
Sixth Grade was a monumental; I was acting cool around you on a daily basis. I gave you an N'Sync poster, I gave you a bracelet, I gave you candy, and a poem, and lots of cool stuff. I accumulated notecards and half sheets of papers with your handwriting and your cute little questions. When my band started a site and continually updated it instead of having one single band practice, I wrote a song about you and posted it up there. I replaced your name with a _______, but filled in the blank by the end of the night. I held your hand for a few minutes as we skated in an oval, then broke away from you to wipe the sweat off my hand and onto my jeans. We may not have looked so "cute" together in our pictures, but it's not your fault, it's because I stuck a thumbs up in any photo opportunity that came to me. I danced with you even more. You had a headache so I kissed your forehead.
We were considered an item in Seventh Grade, so I was made cool, but I still tried to act even cooler around you. It was a weird year because every conversation had a different feel to it. We talked on the phone for several hours, discovering that it wasn't working, it felt too uncomfortable. Then you cried, and I did only because you did. And a week went by and nothing felt different. Item, friendship, they seemed the same to me. But I never planned on saying that to anyone. My lips reached your cheeks, and yours reached mine. We danced more. I looked through the yearbook and liked how one of the pretty popular girls was constantly crushing on a chubby, embarassing boy. The pictures did, however, turn out more cutesy.
In the Eighth Grade I tried hard to be cool around you but found my situation, whether it be hypothetical or real, awkward. The item thing, after being revived, soon faded as communication dropped for the beginning of the year. And then came the realization that we were all parting in less than a year. We talked more, and not just about how are days were. We discussed our needs, our wants. Even fantasies with each other, even on the phone. I learned that there was more than just a sweet, innocent side to it all. We talked about missing each other for a mere span of days. You told me you'd miss me while we waited in the airport. In yet another notecard, you asked me if I still liked that other girl on the plane to D.C., and even though I knew deep down I didn't, I told you otherwise. The writing to each other stopped on the plane after that answer. As we were in the D.C. airport, waiting for our ride home, I told you I'd miss you too. We danced more, hugged more. Hugged even more when graduation came and the tears were streaming down your face. I always felt more comfortable as just your friend. Yet, that's why I was more your boyfriend when I actually wasn't; that's when our lips met.
You're my sister now. I hate to see you when you're down, or lonely, or just wanting something you can't get. I've always been there for you. I'm still here for you.
I once wrote you a speech on a small, crumply piece of notepad paper. I filled it with every sweet sentence I could think of. I tried to tell you everything that made you so amazing to me. I'm sure I had said it to you in one way or another before. And then I tried to tell you what I had never done in person. Hell, I had never really done it on the phone. I said "I love you."
And the audience around us went wild with joy as we hugged in front of the flashing cameras. Hugging like two close friends should.
In Second Grade I tried to act cool around you. I got excited to talk to Ms. Waller about dancing on the desk because you were the one who told me to go talk to her.
In Third Grade I tried to act cool around you, but I tried by saying that I hated the Spice Girls. I didn't hate them: I bookmarked my Calvin and Hobbes comics with the SPICE liner notes just so I could get your (and every other girl's) attention. I gave you my Hostess cupcake after everybody only got one each. I heard that you liked the movie Titanic so I made a drawing of the "I'm the king of the world!" scene and gave it to you. When I ran into you outside of school my heart fluttered but you didn't see that, you just saw a nonchalant "hey".
In Fourth Grade I tried to act cool around you. We laughed so much we got in trouble for it. I lied and told your friend over the phone I didn't like you, but I didn't know you were quietly listening on the third line. I didn't think phone calls could be so deceiving.
There was jealousy in Fifth Grade, because I tried to act cool around everyone. But it all worked out because by the end of the year, we had our first couple of dances together.
Sixth Grade was a monumental; I was acting cool around you on a daily basis. I gave you an N'Sync poster, I gave you a bracelet, I gave you candy, and a poem, and lots of cool stuff. I accumulated notecards and half sheets of papers with your handwriting and your cute little questions. When my band started a site and continually updated it instead of having one single band practice, I wrote a song about you and posted it up there. I replaced your name with a _______, but filled in the blank by the end of the night. I held your hand for a few minutes as we skated in an oval, then broke away from you to wipe the sweat off my hand and onto my jeans. We may not have looked so "cute" together in our pictures, but it's not your fault, it's because I stuck a thumbs up in any photo opportunity that came to me. I danced with you even more. You had a headache so I kissed your forehead.
We were considered an item in Seventh Grade, so I was made cool, but I still tried to act even cooler around you. It was a weird year because every conversation had a different feel to it. We talked on the phone for several hours, discovering that it wasn't working, it felt too uncomfortable. Then you cried, and I did only because you did. And a week went by and nothing felt different. Item, friendship, they seemed the same to me. But I never planned on saying that to anyone. My lips reached your cheeks, and yours reached mine. We danced more. I looked through the yearbook and liked how one of the pretty popular girls was constantly crushing on a chubby, embarassing boy. The pictures did, however, turn out more cutesy.
In the Eighth Grade I tried hard to be cool around you but found my situation, whether it be hypothetical or real, awkward. The item thing, after being revived, soon faded as communication dropped for the beginning of the year. And then came the realization that we were all parting in less than a year. We talked more, and not just about how are days were. We discussed our needs, our wants. Even fantasies with each other, even on the phone. I learned that there was more than just a sweet, innocent side to it all. We talked about missing each other for a mere span of days. You told me you'd miss me while we waited in the airport. In yet another notecard, you asked me if I still liked that other girl on the plane to D.C., and even though I knew deep down I didn't, I told you otherwise. The writing to each other stopped on the plane after that answer. As we were in the D.C. airport, waiting for our ride home, I told you I'd miss you too. We danced more, hugged more. Hugged even more when graduation came and the tears were streaming down your face. I always felt more comfortable as just your friend. Yet, that's why I was more your boyfriend when I actually wasn't; that's when our lips met.
You're my sister now. I hate to see you when you're down, or lonely, or just wanting something you can't get. I've always been there for you. I'm still here for you.
I once wrote you a speech on a small, crumply piece of notepad paper. I filled it with every sweet sentence I could think of. I tried to tell you everything that made you so amazing to me. I'm sure I had said it to you in one way or another before. And then I tried to tell you what I had never done in person. Hell, I had never really done it on the phone. I said "I love you."
And the audience around us went wild with joy as we hugged in front of the flashing cameras. Hugging like two close friends should.