Page 7 of Old Acquaintances

“No. Johnny and I are friends. Tucker and Johnny are friends. Tucker and I…have mothers who are friends.”

She didn’t get it.

It would seem more logical that Tucker and I would be closer, considering our mothers were best friends and we spent every holiday and most weekends together during our childhood. But the dynamic between the three of us couldn’t be explained. It had to be witnessed.

I finish my coffee, smelling cinnamon rolls across the terminal, and I head toward the nearest trash can. I toss my cup and return to my seat.

It’s 10:30 now. In just a few hours, I will be in South Florida, in some fancy waterfront Airbnb, looking up at the sun. The warmest item I’ve packed is this one sweater. I’ve been waxed and spray-tanned. You’d need a jackhammer to make a dent in my nails. My carry-on is loaded with sunscreen and a bathing suit just in case something happens to my luggage -

What is this?

A paper airplane has just flown into my lap.

I flinch, hands up, staring at it with a little bit of panic. I look up, casting my eyes around the airport for anyone making eye contact with me, finding only a few curious looks.

The piece of paper is from a magazine. In the middle of an article about a soccer team, scribbled in black ink, are the words:Well, well, well, if it isn’t the love of my life.

Chapter Four

The Game

I was so excited to move up to sixth grade. At the time, Pine Place had only one elementary, one middle and one high school so our grade levels bonded easily. We couldn’t escape each other. I didn’t have to worry about making new friends or how I’d fit in, so going to middle school felt exciting and new. That summer, my mom and I bought every mirror, magnetic photo frame, and cute sticker we could find at Target for my locker. I set it up on curriculum night.

On the first day of sixth grade, I wore a cute denim skirt and striped polo. I had a new purple JanSport backpack and Birkenstock clogs. I didn’t have classroom books yet, but after the bell rang from homeroom and the class was transitioning to science, I decided to stop by my locker, just because it felt cool. I spun the dial. I had already memorized the combination.

When I opened the door, I noticed a yellow sticky note had fallen into the empty box.

I love you Ella.

Someone snickered behind me. I turned around to see Johnny and another kid, looking at me and laughing. Tucker stood in the center of them. Taller than the rest, his dark hair swooped to the side, his green eyes pinched and focused. I felt my whole body burn.

If we hadn’t been at school, on the very first day, I wouldhave charged over there and knocked him flat on his ass. But this school didn’t know me yet. As my mother has pointedly put it, “Make a good first impression, honey.Please.”

I only had a bad reputation in elementary school for getting into arguments with Tucker. Brawls might be the better word.Andanyone else who joined into the fight. I was not about to let him get me in trouble anymore.

I didn’t get any more notes for the rest of the week, nor did I speak to him, so I thought it was a one-off joke, something mean to start the year with a bang. Then, another one came the following Monday.

Love you.

The next week:To the love of my life.

On Wednesdays:ILU

Every Friday, at least, he’d leave me hearts and love notes, sometimes actual roses, and I’d feel so angry that my blood would boil.

Who was buying him these flowers? Where was he getting all of this paper?

I told our parents about it, and they brushed it off, thinking he was trying to make me feel special. They thought it was cute, but Tucker knew what it was. At Christmas that year, I slapped him clear across the face, but he still didn’t stop.

It wasn’t enough that Tucker had to taunt me, but he told his friends about it, and they made fun of me. In the lunch line, they’d walk past me making kissing faces. They’d taunt, “There’s Tucker’s girlfriend.” Or “Hey Ella, don’t you want to sit next to yourboyfriend?” Even Johnny joined in. He thought it was no big deal and found it more important to make new, male friends.

Tucker wasn’t trying to make me feel special. He wasmaking funof me. No one flirted with me in middle school, no boy wanted to talk to me, because he did this. He had made me a joke. A virus no one wanted to catch. He poked fun at the ideathat I was loveable, thatIwould get a love note because I was so clearly stupid and beneath him.

I kept my cool through most of sixth and seventh grade, but I only had so much willpower. By the beginning of eighth grade, I’d had enough. He had somehow gotten a hold of my locker number and, on the first day of school, I opened the door to a flood of love notes. An absolute confetti of multicolored pieces of paper with hearts and stickers and professions of love. It must have taken him days to write them all. A day, at least, to stuff the locker.

By thirteen years old, the immediate reaction of girls around me was to touch their hearts and swoon. An unknown observer might think I had the cutest, most romantic little boyfriend with way too much time on his hands.

Then, they heard the laughing. Tucker and his clan, the best-looking, most popular boys in the grade, standing at the end of the hallway cackling to themselves.

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