FIRSTS Stories: The Boys Tell All

Bobby Lewis

Daisy,

We both know you'll never see this letter. I mean, I know because I'm the one writing it, and the second I'm done, I'm ripping it up like confetti and flushing it down the toilet. Same as I did with the last two letters I wrote you. I don't even trust my shredder to do a good enough job of getting rid of the evidence. I can just imagine my dad picking the lock on my bedroom door, emptying my shredder, lining up the strips of paper on the carpet, and figuring out the truth about his son.

You know I'm crappy with words. I'm just as bad at trying to write them down as I was when I tried to say them to you. You always used to tell me to speak my mind, but you would have been horrified at what I was thinking about. Who I was thinking about. Remember the time we watched that movie where the girl could hear people's thoughts? Well, I went to bed that night really freaked out that something like that could happen and you'd be able to read mine. I know that sounds ridiculous. Everyone thinks I'm such an open book, a guy who wears his life on his sleeve. But my thoughts, they're under lock and key for a reason. Every word that comes out of my mouth gets rolled around in my head a hundred times before seeing the light of day.

I wish I had another superpower, though. The power to tell you the truth, then erase your memory. Because you stuck with me for long enough to deserve the truth. You put up with enough of my crap that you earned it, more than any other person ever has.

The truth is? You were onto me. The truth is, you were getting way too close to my truth. That's why I broke up with you. And you were so freaking nice the whole time I was dumping you, like you wanted to make sure I was okay. That almost killed me.

Sorry. I don't want to think about that any more than you do.

I guess I should start from the beginning. You'd be pissed, because things even started with a lie. Good thing you're really, truly, never reading this letter.

The day we met, when you were at the gym watching our floor routines? When you came up to me after and told me I could talk to you instead of just staring? I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I wasn't even staring at you, but there was no way I was going to correct you.

I didn't know how you could be so bold to just go up to a guy you'd never met and introduce yourself like that. A bomb went off in my head. I knew who you were from school—you sat in the front row in my English class. The guys who sat in the back with me thought you got significantly less hot when you cut your hair off, but I liked your short hair.

You put your hand right on my sweaty shoulder. "I'm Daisy," you said. "Why don't we go grab dessert somewhere?"

I lost the ability to speak. You kind of giggled, probably because you thought I was shy, that I didn't talk to a lot of girls. It's not like male gymnasts are the hottest commodity. Girls love basketball players, football players, baseball players. Girls don't usually like guys like me, guys who are only five-foot-four and wear leotards. And that's fine by me.

"I had no idea you were even a gymnast," you said. "We've been in classes together for like, three years. Why don't you ever talk about it?"

Because I like being overlooked. Because I like being invisible. That's another superpower I want. Invisibility.

I shrugged instead. You laughed. "You're so modest," you said. "I'd be telling everyone if I were as talented as you. Don't tell Jason, but you're even better than him."

You waited for my reaction. I did my best to not have one, even though that bomb in my head detonated and turned into a full-on explosion. I could practically feel all the damage it left in its wake, all the rot that was about to creep in with the lies.