Schoolyard Grudges, Amnesia, and Dead Fish.

Baseball Players, Blind Fishermen, and the Scarlet Handprint

The best place to start would be on the 5th of May, 79 days prior to the event.

Nothing was terribly out of the ordinary that day, aside from the fact that that's the day that a boy named James Sanchez asked me out, kissed me, and then slapped me in the face. Which is really a lovely metaphor for a lot adolescent relationships, I think.

The significance of this event was not that he slapped me, as such actions were and are frequently taken against me, but that he kissed me beforehand.

You see, until the 5th of May, I'd never been kissed, aside from the standard loving pecks from my parents and the infrequent doting smack (I honestly can't think of a better term. Slobber? Drool?) on my cheek from a relative (like my Uncle Rachel, but that's an entirely different story).

James Sanchez was (and is, I suppose) a year above me in school and generally considered to be quite handsome, although such things are not shared with me on a regular basis, as most of my colleagues have a special hatred (alright, perhaps a better term would be "profound dislike") for me. Sanchez plays baseball, drinks beer, and has wavy brown hair that frames his face. Apparently, these attributes are all one needs to garner the affections of teenage girls and boys alike.

I can see (from a purely objective view, you understand) where one might find him attractive, but I really couldn't care less about him, "cherubic" curls and all.

Captain Armstrong is clearing his throat at me in a fashion that suggests that he's reading over me shoulder and would really like me to hurry along with my story.

Well, Captain Armstrong, that's too bad. I'll take my sweet time, thank you very much. Besides, it's hard to take him seriously when his beard is full of donut remnants. Powdered, I think.

I digress. At any rate, Sanchez approached me at lunch. I'd wager that it was the first time he'd voluntarily set foot in a library since elementary school. He looked quite baffled by the sight of books that were not, in fact, centered around baseball.

Anyway, he came (sauntered. Nay, swaggered) over and promptly informed me that I should be his girlfriend. As any inquisitive mind would, I asked him why. He proceeded to enumerate reasons, which, put frankly, sucked.

So, I refused him. However, "no" apparently means "kiss me so I'll be sure" in the language of James Sanchez. So he proceeded to kiss me. A more apt description of the kiss would be to say that a blind fisherman grabbed me, accidentally shoved a seaslug down my throat, jiggled it around a bit, and then realized his mistake.

He stepped back. "So?" he asked.

"Having your tongue jammed into my tonsils did not change my mind," I said.

As one might (or might not) expect, he slapped me.

And thus, with a red handprint on my cheek and a copy of the Scarlet Letter on the ground, my story can truly begin.