Everyone remembers his or her first day. Not their first day in existence, of course; that would be silly. Their first day of memory. Their first smell. Their first physical pain.
I remember all of mine. It was moth balls. It's a very distinctive smell, one that tends to stick with you, hang out in your nose for an unpleasant amount of time. I was toddling through my grandma's house, trying to avoid the furniture, because she wrapped it to prevent me from staining it. I was always a wily one. Coincidentally, the first physical pain I remember also happened right around this time. My curiosity had gotten the better of me and I discovered the pain you can feel from a stray cup of hot coffee. I'm talking right out of the pot fresh. It didn't scar, thankfully, but the mental imprint it left was obviously unforgettable.
Of course these were the first series of incidents in my life I remember. There are other firsts you remember, too; some of them come much later than others. For instance, you'll probably always remember where you were or what you were doing when you met the love of your life. Even if it seems insignificant at the time, it will stick with you, I promise.
I was walking down the hallway, on my way to geometry. Geometry was largely forgettable until this particular day. I had no interest in math whatsoever; whoever decided to mix numbers into letters probably also crafted satanic worship, but that's neither here nor there.
Anyway, it came like a dream. There must have been a beam of light around her, like a really short angel. I remember the smell. It was meatloaf surprise day in the cafeteria, and it was always a bit…pungent. Suddenly, all of these sensations hit me at once. I had to talk to her.
And then came the physical pain. See, pain is a bit of a weird thing. Almost everyone can smell, unless they were just born without a nose. Almost everyone has some type of memory, unless they were like, born with half a brain or something. But pain is different. It's completely subjective. What hurts someone else might not hurt me. But this did. It was the pain in remembering that I had a girlfriend. It hit me right in the stomach, worse than meatloaf surprise after a few hours of baking in the oven.
That pain sharpened when I felt her hand on my shoulder. "What are you looking at?" she teased. See, Quinn Fabray was just that. A huge tease. We dated for four months before we even made out. Being a teenage boy, there were other, more specific pains that went along with that, but we'll leave those out for now.
"I just…uh…" I looked up and the mystery girl was gone. "R-remembered I forgot to do my homework last night," I said quickly. It was a shitty lie but it was believable. I never did homework.
Quinn was incredulous. "I don't remember having homework," she said in a tone that let me know she knew I wasn't being truthful, at least not completely.
"I had to make some up," I said, now bored of this conversation. Lying was exhausting, and I did it a lot, but it was never usually bad. At least, it never usually involved another girl. She leaned up and kissed my cheek, almost as if she sensed I was looking at someone else. She was marking her territory like they did on the discovery channel. "You can tell me about it later. I have to get to AP English." There it was, a chance to redeem myself. But I wouldn't take it.
The rest of that day wasn't necessarily a haze in the sense that I didn't know where I was or what I was doing, but I hadn't seen this girl before. I was one of – if not the most – popular guys in school. People knew me because I was me. It didn't matter to me that I didn't know everyone even if they knew who I was, at least not up until that point. I felt another pain that day…guilt. How could I have gone along for nearly two years without even seeing this girl? She couldn't have been new. No one moved to Lima, Ohio unless they had a death wish.
Later that night, after dinner, that pain from the meatloaf surprise started to hit me. I always used that time to surf on my laptop. Facebook was more my thing; everyone had a Facebook, unless they didn't want people to know who they were. Or, unless they were a little socially awkward. Those cases were coming few and far between.
No luck. I would have to go out, incognito, of course, and find out more about her myself.
My thoughts were interrupted by a series of messages.
"Finn Hudson."
Ding!
"We never talked about what you were looking at earlier."
Ding!
"And I suggest if you ever want to kiss me again, you'll speak up."
Ding!
"I might even let you see my bra strap."
Admittedly, it was a tempting offer. Quinn did have nice boobs, at least from what I could see with her shirt on. Even with that, admitting that I was checking out another girl was probably not the brightest idea.
"I forgot my homework," I said simply. "In fact, I'm trying to do it right now."
"You're trying to do your homework but you're logged on to Facebook?"
Damn. She's good. "Mike was helping me on Facebook."
"Why don't you let me help you? I'm one of the top students. Surely it can't be that complicated."
"I just don't get this stuff. I don't think you could help. Sorry." I quickly closed my computer and got up. Was there a secret camera in my room or something? I checked under a plant my mom put in my room that would help me with my oxygen balance or something. She was always trying to look out for me.
Nope, no cameras there. Don't ask me why I did what I did next…I still couldn't tell you. Slowly, almost like I still worried about a camera in the room, I opened my laptop back up. Of course there were about five hundred messages.
"Finn!"
"Get back here!"
"Don't make me call there and tell your mom."
"I'm coming over."
Like I said, she was good. "Do you know any girls in our class that like cat sweaters?"
There were a few moments of silence. Asking in person would have guaranteed a stay in the ICU.
"Cat sweaters?"
"Yeah, you know. Like…cute little fluffy ones."
"What are you talking about, Finn?"
"Never mind."
"No, tell me. Who was wearing a cat sweater?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
"Let me understand this. You're one of the most popular guys in school and you're worried about some loser in an animal sweater? Are you feeling okay?"
"So you do know her?"
"What makes you say that?"
"You said she was a loser."
"She was wearing an animal sweater…"
"So she's a loser?"
"Why do you care so much? What has gotten into you?"
I had to lie again. "She dropped her book and I was wanting to return it, okay?"
For a few minutes, there wasn't a response.
"Quinn?"
"I don't know anyone who wears cat sweaters, and if you want to continue talking to me, I suggest you don't get to know anyone who wears cat sweaters."
It probably sounds petty now, but that sort of thing always mattered to her. She always compared our status to money, like the more we had of it the more important we were. I guess I never really bought into it, mostly because I didn't see the connection there.
See, my mom was a single mom. She worked a lot and I never got to see her much. Her idea of splurging was painting our lawn to match the other lawns. Ours was usually dead. …Like I said, she was a single parent. My dad wasn't around; he died when I was a baby. Apparently, he was some type of war hero. It was pretty cool, I always thought; at least I came from someone great. I never looked at money the way Quinn did. Status was another thing.
