Crush

by Patti

I had my first crush in fifth grade. His name was Gary, and he had red hair and freckles and made everybody laugh. I remember that feeling so clearly - that tingly, nervous, new feeling that made me excited to go to school every day; that feeling that made me love rust and mustard striped shirts; that feeling that made me stare at the back of a kid's wavy-haired head like it was a work of art. That feeling.

Now, as if fifth grade is the "benchmark", S has that feeling. According to her, he has dark hair, he's funny, they both like the same shows on television, he laughs at her jokes. The other day, I was in the kitchen when S frantically called me from the living room. I ran in to find her standing at our large picture window - the one that looks out onto the park across the street - with binoculars in her hands, her eyes planted into them. "He's there! He's playing basketball! LOOK!" She shoved the binoculars into my hands, guiding them up to my eyes lest I miss this Golden Opportunity. I peered into the binoculars, feeling slightly stalkerish. "He's wearing red shorts, mom!" I immediately saw him - the dark-haired boy in red shorts, his arm blocking his opponents as his other arm maneuvered the ball. I knew it was him, not by his shorts, but by the way he moved. He had a confidence, a command. I knew just why she might like him. I smiled into the binoculars, then took them off my eyes and handed them back to her.
"He's cute!"
"I KNOW, MOM!"

A little later, we were sitting around the dinner table celebrating my in-laws' last night with us, when S excused herself from the table and came back a minute later with the makeup box she uses for her recitals. As we sipped our wine and had "grown-up" talk, S bent into my old M.A.C. compact and rubbed some blush into her cheeks. Then she smoothed some shimmery shadow onto her eyelids, dabbed her lips with gloss, and finally, whipped out the mascara and stroked her ridiculously long lashes into illegal lengths. For the grand finale, she brushed her long, golden curls out and smoothed them down, and when I looked at her, all shimmery and sparkly and glossy, I was afraid at just how lovely she looked.
"Mom? Can I go to the park?" It was obvious just why my daughter, in the middle of dinner, now all made-up, suddenly "needed" to go the park. I looked across the table at M, his eyes boring his disapproval into me.
"Honey, we're eating."
"But mom, IT'S IMPORTANT!"
I bent over and whispered into her ear. "I'm sure he's gone by now, honey."

She spent the rest of dinner getting up to go the window under the ruse of having to "use the bathroom", or "get something from her room", or needing to "stretch." But I knew what was driving her, and I thought of Gary, his baby face sprinkled with freckles, his red waves falling onto his forehead, and I understood.

I also thought of M, the first real love of S's life, and I knew that this new development had to scare the crap out of him. After all, when S was little, all she wanted to do was marry her papi. And now? He has to start letting go, little by little. Because one day, he will no longer be that man in her life. One day, it won't be just a crush; it'll be something important and serious - something that will, indeed, steal away his little girl.  I see that future loss in his eyes, and I understand.

I looked at S and noticed the lip gloss sneaking its way outside the lines of her mouth - and I still saw that little girl; the one who, despite the boy in red shorts outside the window, for now, is right here with us.