Page 53 of Adorkable

It was like traveling back in time. Pictures of me and Becks on our first day of high school, the two of us dressed up at Halloween, a prince and princess one year, Trekkies the next, complete with pointy ears and Spock eyebrows. The next page showed us at a Valentine’s Day dance in middle school, me cheering in the stands at one of Becks’s soccer games, a candid of Becks giving me a noogie. Becks pushing me on the swings. Me hugging Becks at the amusement park where he got sick after eating a bad corndog. The two of us at the aquarium, a parade, the movies. There were enough memories in this one little book to make me want to forget about Goldie and forgive Becks for being a jerk. But it wasn’t until the last page that my anger changed to something else entirely.

“Oh,” I said, reaching out to touch the final picture.

“Yes,” Mrs. Kent said, “that’s my favorite, too.”

There we were, Becks at seven years old, me just barely turned. It was taken on the playground by the monkey bars where Becks had gotten stuck and I’d talked him down. My arm was already in a bright pink cast, so it must’ve been at least a week or two afterward, but Becks looked just as he had that first day. Wavy black hair hanging low into his eyes, same boyish grin he wore to this day. We were both looking at each other, but I was laughing, tears streaming from my eyes as I gazed back at Becks.

I loved him even then.

“Oh, I’ve got to have that one, Carole,” Mom said. “Just look at how he’s looking at her.”

Mrs. Kent nodded in agreement, but I couldn’t see that Becks was looking at me in any particular way. Sure, his eyes were smiling like they did sometimes. But he always looked at me like that.

“And here’s the best part,” Mrs. Kent smiled, slipping something from behind the photo and holding it up. “It’s to Sally, from Becks, but he never got around to giving it to her.”

“Mom,” Becks exclaimed. He made a grab for the paper but was too slow. Clayton had it in his hands, unfolded, and was clearing his throat to read aloud as Becks sank back into his chair, face red. I’d never seen him look so embarrassed.

“To Sal, from Becks,” Clayton read aloud. “Listen up, Sally, you’re not going to want to miss this.”

Becks closed his eyes.

Okay, so now I was really curious—and confused. What could possibly make Becks act this way?

Clayton cleared his throat a second time then repeated, “To Sal, From Becks. There is a girl I like. She rides a yellow bike. Her hair is long. Her eyes are round. Her voice is nice. I like the sound.”

Thad leaned toward Becks and said, “That’s good, man, real good.”

I saw Becks wave him off out of my peripheral but couldn’t take my eyes away from Clayton.

“I broke her arm when we met. She was nice; I signed her cast.” Clayton took a time-out to say, “You could’ve done better than that. ‘Met’ and ‘cast’ don’t exactly rhyme, but I guess you were young.”

“Here’s where it gets good,” Leo said to me.

With that Clayton read the last three lines. “She is my friend. Her name is Sal. I hope one day she’ll be my gal.” A lot of oohing and aahing followed. Clayton refolded the paper and handed it back to his mother. “Guess you got your wish, didn’t you brother?”

It was just a poem, but it meant so much more. I wasn’t alone. At one time, even if we’d only been kids, Becks had loved me back.

Turning to him, I could feel tears filling my eyes.

“You wrote that?” I asked.

Becks wouldn’t look at me. “Yep.”

“For me?”

He nodded, but still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Leaning in, I kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” I murmured.

Becks looked at me then, surprised. “What’s that for?”

“It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.” Catching myself, I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “Plus, our parents are watching, remember?”

“Sure,” he said, lifting my hand for a kiss, but there was something strange in his tone. “You coming to the game? It’s the last one before sectionals.”

“Of course,” I smiled. “I want to see you kick Boulder High’s butt as much as anyone.” Raising my voice again, I added, “Besides, what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

His face seemed to close off, but I put that down to embarrassment. Before I left, I pulled Mrs. Kent aside and asked for the poem. She said it was mine anyway and gave it up without question. By the time I went to sleep that night, I’d read it thirteen times.

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