Father Asked Me for Poetry - What Else Could I Do?
He doesn't even know me. we only talked a few times, but he doesn't even really remember. There was one summer I talked to him, it was the summer I went with my father to work every day, I thought it was such fun. He went with his father to work too. There were plenty of kids there, but we sometimes talked, I am ashamed to say it was his face that attracted me first. He had such a pretty face, I was jealous. I was a frumpy little girl with freckles, and he was a refined boy, who on the outside looking in, acted like an adult; but he wasn't. He was smart though, he was arrogant too, but he was witty and smart, and so very pretty. But our acquaintance didn't last too long, my father found out who I spent my time with, and I never went with him back to work. I almost cried in bed that night, and I bet he didn't even notice I wasn't there the next day.
He was everything to me, except he wasn't really, but he was my thoughts. Through him I could spin fantasies in my head of things that could never happen. He was rich and pretty, and life was so simple for him; so much more simple then mine. I would lie in bed at night and think, that someday, he would like a girl like me, a nice girl, a quite girl, a girl that wasn't spectacular but would always be there. Lying in bed hoping, you can make anything possible, not reasonable, but possible.
It was almost strange how much I thought of him even after I stopped seeing him. He wasn't even really nice, I think he had talked to me for the sake of talking. He'd given me his hot chocolate once though, so it must have meant that he thought and thinks of me always.
Now I see him in the halls, and he's just like I remember, before he opens his mouth he's this beautiful boy, a thing to behold, and then he speaks, and he's arrogant, and rude. I go to bed at night and lie there, and I know that he would want a plain girl like me, and that I could change him into something better with my plainness, and with my plainness and his beauty, we would be spectacular.
I never really talked to him before, sometimes he would say something mean to me in the halls, it wasn't really that bad that he was mean; it's only that, I don't think he said those things to be mean to me, I don't think he even knew it was me he was saying it to. He just said something mean for the sake of being mean. Every once in a while though, he'd see me and remember me, he'd give me a half smile, and say 'hey.' I lived for that 'hey.' He never said anything after that, but I lived for it anyways, and then I would go to bed those night and think, that if he could he would give me a thousand hot chocolates, and he would stare at me and think, how much he loved me because I was plain.
Sometimes I think he was thinking about me, really thinking about me, not just because I wanted him to. Like when he would sometimes make eye contact with me across the hall. even when he did that, I never really talked to him. All I could do was sit there and know, no matter how different we were, no matter what society stood in the way, I was the one for him.
I was delusional; he was the one for me, that doesn't make it automatically the same as me being for him. I was content thinking that though, it made my small and insignificant existence seem a little significant; because no one wanted to talk to the gawky girl, she might not be frumpy and little anymore, but she was odd, and plain. Nobody wanted to kiss the plain girl. Nobody wanted to befriend the quiet one.
I knew it was him though, it was him that would draw me out. if only he would come and talk to me, he could make me into someone that wasn't gawky, something that wasn't plain, or quiet. He would talk to me and I would be sucked into the amazing world of upper class society, I could be where I never and even glimpsed before, I could be at the top of the social hierarchy, and I could change him, and he would love me. I was so idealistic.
While I watched and waited, the girl that sat next to me got him, the girl I never bothered to try to befriend, because she was more plain then me, but she wasn't quite. I saw them walking together one day, and I could tell she liked him; and I felt sorry for her, because he loved me; and I saw her laughing with him the next day, and I felt sorry for him, because I knew he'd rather be with me. Then I heard they were and item—and I felt sorry for me, because I was delusional.