Tonight's Poet Corner: High School Crush

High School Crush
by Belinda Roddie

You sidelined me - I was already far
removed from the center of combat -
and you gave me something to smile at.
You were in the middle of my vision,
dealing karate chops with gentle precision
to my heart, even though you didn't aim
directly; it wasn't your mission. I couldn't
figure out where to start. I was smitten with you.
I knew that smitten meant "strongly attracted,"
but the way I reacted, you'd think
I didn't understand the implications.
I was fifteen. I wore my grandmother's
class ring, a gift for my Catholic
confirmation. So maybe the confusion
made some sense, my thoughts clouded
like filling my nostrils with burning incense.
Everything still smelled so sweet.

We didn't officially meet until a
year later, in drama class, where
I flailed in front of an audience, a
shadow in search of a script, a poet
who didn't know how to perform
verse, and the theater blitz winded
me. Still, you laughed at my poor
attempts at comedy, clapped with
a genuine smile at the sight of me
dressed as Charlie Chaplin on Halloween,
burst open suit jacket down to a tee.
I understood you were doing it out
of basic human decency. It still meant
something; we were teens, and adolescence
usually sculpts horns onto the halos
of angels. When I had a boyfriend,

I couldn't stop thinking about you. Even
when I wore a red gown at prom after
introducing the guy to my mom, I couldn't
stop thinking about you. Over at the
bowling alley for another date, he'd shoot
pool and we'd suck at arcade games, and
a cheeseburger would be erased from my
plate, but I still couldn't stop thinking about you.
We barely strung more than a dozen sentences
to each other - what did I need from you?
What did I need in order to feel complete?
You owed me nothing. The stage deserved
more of your attention. You broke bricks
for martial arts and channeled all of
your concentration into your schoolwork.
Into college. A future. Now you're married

with a beautiful daughter who represents
the next generation as a hopeful glimmer.
The hormonal cauldron in my brain has
simmered. I see clearly now. The head rush
you gave me from your laughter. The brush
streaking the canvas with adrenaline when
I first saw you act. When I first heard you
sing - at a haunted house, of all the places.
Funny how the heart races, and I didn't
know where it was racing to for another
four to five years. But then I finally knew.
I knew that a crush like this was natural,
and love couldn't be that far away. Not
for me. And it did come one day. From
her, the woman who wears an aquamarine
ring with eyes to match. The woman who

makes me dance even when she's still
watching. The woman who didn't make
me swoon from impact, or a sudden jolt
or swipe to the chest. No black belt was
needed for this precision. My decision
was made calmly - not in the heat of it,
but when things had settled down enough
for me to know the difference between
infatuation and dedication. And she
placed me right in the middle of her
personal centrifuge, where we both still spin.