March 26, 1996
"We're the same, you and me," you say as I walk you home Tuesday. It felt good to have you back at school today. Despite the fact that my crew seemed oddly happy to have me back, I missed our lunchtime chats yesterday and Friday.
I snort. "Yeah, sure."
"No, I mean it. Like…people assume something about you because you want them to. You're like…like…an Airhead."
"I'm an airhead?" I repeat incredulously.
"Yeah. I mean with a capital A. Like the candy. The sour kind."
"Oh." I laugh, but I fail to see the sense in your comparison. "How am I like an Airhead?"
"Well, you say you want to blend in. You want people to think you're like your friends. That's the sour part. But if you savor the Airhead, if you suck on it long enough, it's sweet. It's the same with you."
I almost choke on my gum. A sly look out of the corner of your eye says you're not even sorry for the double entendre. Are you trying to kill me? "I don't think we're the same, then."
"Well, it's sort of the same in that we're opposites."
"Isn't that an oxymoron?" I say with a chuckle.
"What I mean is that people regard me as this shy, benign little girl. I'm not."
"No, you're not." Never would I ever put that label on you. You're strong, funny, independent, sarcastic.
"But I guess I seem that way if you don't know me well. So the opposite of an Airhead. Sweet, then sour."
"I think you're an Atomic Fireball."
You pause in your steps and cock your head to the side. Damn it, you're cute.
"The kind with layers. The ones that are spicy at first, then sweet, then spicy again. That's what I think."
With your head still cocked to the side, you stand on your tiptoes and grab the front of my favorite flannel shirt. Before I know what's happening, you plant a kiss right on my lips. You kissed me. You kissed me. You're spicy, all right. But your kisses are sweet.
"Yeah," I murmur when you let go and take a step back. "Atomic Fireball."