My Top 5 Rejections. Number 1.

Here it is…the final one. I bet you can’t wait to roll around in the humiliation. Enjoy.

Some back-story is helpful in fully relishing in my pain, so it is probably better to read Numbers 5 through 2 first. 5 4 3 2

Number 1

As you’ll recall from Number 4, my interactions with the fairer sex went off the rails sometime before junior high school. Rejection Number 1 precipitated the decline.

Elementary school. There were 21 kids in my sixth grade class, and one of them was Becky R. On the tallish side, she was a brown haired cutie with a penchant for hoodie sweatshirts. To this day, I still think of Becky in her red Ohio State sweatshirt whenever I pull on a hoodie.

I had known Becky since the first grade and we had ascended all the elementary school grades together in the same classes. She lived a couple of streets over from me with her brothers, one of whom, Scott, was a grade older than us. For a 6th grader, she had a casual air about her, and she never “went” with anyone in our class but was often rumored to go with older boys. But, this was 6th grade. We were finally the oldest class in elementary school. There was no older class present from which she could choose her boy to “Go” with. It was clear she would choose someone from my grade, and it was going to be me.

And why wouldn’t she? I mean, to date, I was the kingpin of my sixth grade class. Oh, I mean, I had some competition. But really, my buddy TP didn’t have the smooth sixth grades words that I did, and Greg P, frankly, his teeth were all jacked-up, pre-braces style.

I had the fortune of sitting next to Becky that year. It was in the back of the class on the right side of the room, mostly out of ear-shot from the teacher. I started making my play for the brunette with the casual attitude. Over a couple of conversations, I gleaned that she had a crush on – of all people – my brother! DAMMIT. This guy was out of sight (at least to her) in junior high. He shoulda been out of mind! I didn’t even calculate him into being the competition.

I contemplated my next move. How could I win her heart? I mean, I had tried to win it through witty banter in the back of the classroom, but that didn’t work. The logical next step, to my sixth grade mind, was to put words down on paper to more effectively conveying my feelings. It was brilliant. She could take my words, and by proxy a little piece of me, with her wherever she went. How could I go wrong?

Remember my advice in Number 2 about never, ever writing love letters? Well, the writing is on the wall, isn’t it?

One evening at home, I wrote my heart out on 3 hole punched, blue lined paper which I drew from my Trapper Keeper. I spoke of my devotion to her, and how I would be there, and despite that fact I thought she liked my brother, I was the better man. Poetic license allowed my 12 year old self to call me a man.

I took the letter to school and put it in my desk, waiting for the perfect time to hand it to her. Since lunch in elementary school consisted of dividing into gender tribes, I would hand the note to her, then allow her to be wowed by my prose over lunch and the immediately following recess period. So, I did just that. Right before we lined up to head to the lunchroom, I opened the top of my desk, pulled out the letter, which was neatly folded down into a small square, naturally, and handed it to her. All the pieces would align, and by the end of recess Becky and I would be going together.

What happened next was atypically uneventful. She let me down easy. It seems she did have a crush on my older brother. It was sixth grade, and I was riding high on my previous relationships. I was able to recover quickly and I moved on to Vanessa, a small blond. But that’s another story and this story is about get a lot more interesting.

I had forgotten about the letter. I graduated from sixth grade and had the summer off. Started the new world of Junior High – small fish in a big pond. The 8th and 9th graders seemed so much bigger, having started puberty and all.

Along with a lot of kids in my neighborhood, I rode the bus to junior high. They boys typically sat in the back, and I made uneasy peace with the older kids, protected somewhat by my brother, a 9th grader at the time (and probably still is mentally).

After picking us up, the bus would swing by Becky’s street and pick her up, along with her brother Scott amongst others. One bright, warm autumn morning as we were on the way to school, Scott stood up, standing against the very back of the bus, and loudly proclaimed he had something to read. He drew a folded piece of paper from his dirty jeans and started to read from it. “Dear Becky…” So much had I forgotten about the letter that it took a couple of sentences to hit home that it was my letter. I came to that realization about 10 seconds before the rest of the bus did. Kids – from my neighborhood, including my own brother – were howling with laughter. Cackling. Here, my heartfelt words were being pried open by some grungy, mullet-haired bully. It was excruciating and I stewed in embarrassment until we got to school. It felt like an eternity for the kids to empty from the bus. My hopes of ever dating Becky were over. I couldn’t recover from this humiliation.

Becky hit puberty earlier than me, and hung with a different crowd. She and I drifted apart for the remainder of junior high and high school. I don’t know what part, if any, she had in her brother’s performance on the bus. I’d like to think she didn’t have any involvement, as I still see her soul as being pure and her brother’s as being blacked by evil.

Becky and I graduated the same year and I heard she’s living….happily near the area where we grew up. As for her brother Scott, he is living in a trailer park in some rural area with his 7 cats, a busted-down pickup truck and a no-good deadbeat of a husband. What a dick, that guy.