My Greatest Regret: Act I

She is not the only one who has loved me; there have been many others, but none quite like her. Sure, she was smart and cute – but those qualities go without saying. Why did I love her? She, quite frankly, was not a bitch.

--------------------

It was the first day of eighth grade. We all found our unassigned seats in Mr. Coghlan’s English class. I remember how Mr. Coghlan would always comment on the boy-girl polarity that our class endured through in the beginning of the year: each side of the class was divided by a combination of lack of understanding and deep mistrust of the opposite sex. From time to time, there would be that daring one who would bravely cross those two feet of withered carpet to converse with someone on the other side. I was never too daring in that facet of life; no, I was more interested in observing the failures of those who were.

I guess I was initially turned off from those particular girls. Yes, they fit the standard of “intelligent.” And yes, some even qualified as attractive. However, to that point, I had not discovered a girl with the highly desirable quality of not being a jerk. But what else could I expect? This was Ponte Vedra - a world-class breeding ground for douche bags. Those girls were just a pack of preppy child-sluts waiting to happen.

“Mr. Beaudreau!” Mr. Coghlan said, savagely eying me. “We are participating in a class discussion.”

I suppose I exhibited a rather dull and complacent face, for my teacher followed up with, “Why don’t you answer the question on the board?” His face had turned an angry shade of red, matching his hair. How amusing.

The question was as follows: “In two words, can you explain what one has to do to be successful in life?”

Any other kid in the class would have squirmed in their seat, and given a half-ass answer unworthy of an honors class. At this point, I was developing a new method of getting away with not knowing the answer. It involved a sort of extension of time, taking longer than needed by philosophically rambling about nothing, then coming to a meaningless conclusion with the extra time, which, through elongated explanation, I allotted to myself. It was time to exercise it.

I stood up. Confused eyes fell upon me. I strolled up to the front, and once I was facing the class, leaned forward on the podium, pretentiously skimming over the faces in front of me.

For a moment, I just stood there, waiting. Mr. Coghlan, by far, was the most intimidating teacher in the school. I was turning the tide. It was my turn to dominate the class, even if only for a few minutes.

“Life,” I began, “cannot be defined in two words.” I paused. I gazed toward the wide-eyed classroom. Nothing new, I thought –

That is, until she gracefully ripped my attention away from me. She halted my focus and expression entirely. “Life,” I attempted to continue, “Is…”

She was flawless. Absolutely flawless. Beautiful in every way. “What I meant to say,” I continued, still entrenched in her gaze, “is that to be successful, we have to be nice.”

There were a few, faint chuckles. (utterly stunning!)

I still haven’t a clue where that answer came from. I sure didn’t believe it by any means, nor did I really consider it. All I remember is how she was the only one who wasn’t wearing a dumb, mystified face.

Yet she was mystifying. Her shape was unblemished, perfect contour, and her face – her face was simply celestial, as if an artist had symmetrically harmonized her features into an incomparable bundle of charm.

“Well, Mr. Beaudreau,” replied Mr. Coghlan, “awkward as that unnecessary presentation was, you are 100% correct.” The class broke into a light laughter, with a few claps here and there. I shot a quick glance back at the girl as I walked toward my seat. She gave me a subtle smile, not of the bewildered style, but of promise. She made a promise to me through that smile, and I to her.

We shared that moment, human to human, and that was the first time that I could view the sphere of women from my own. Neither she nor I could enter the life of the other, but I was just fine for this moment, as she skated on delicate blades over the thin ice which had covered my heart for my entire existence. This game was enticing, and I was willing to jump in – but in the back of every diver’s mind lives that tiny voice which inspires uncertainty.