This was written when I was 14. Background: For us teenagers in my church then, the parish canteen was the hub of interaction on Sundays. The perfect place to ogle at the opposite sex and check out our crushes. I had a long-standing crush on the choir pianist at the time. He was rather geeky and had very short hair that wouldn't smooth down. ;) So this essay was sort of a little fantasy I had about how we would someday meet and sparks would fly. Obviously, I didn't know him at all, and never really did even after more than 20 years in the same parish. No, my crush on him didn't last anywhere that long!
This piece is nostalgic for me to re-read, also considering it was written how my teen mind thought back then - rather juvenile language used, I'd say. Hence, I've done a bit of editing here and there in this version to amend the cheesy parts.
First Encounter
Neither of them was especially attractive or popular. But it happened. Neither of them knew how or why, but it did.
Catechism had ended. She was at her usual table with her friends. The usual cliques of youths were there, just hanging out at the canteen like every other week. Celine was boy-watching as usual. She liked looking at the boy with the long, floppy fringe. She also liked looking at the boy who always wore black shirts. She saw them every week, but there was no infatuation, no real chemistry. She looked away. Heck, who cared? She caught sight of another boy. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. He had a pleasant face and broad shoulders, but he was rather thin and had very short hair that would not smooth down. Ugly shirt, too. She looked at his face. Nice eyes, though.
She was intrigued by the way he stared at her. He rolled his eyes from her face down to her feet and rested his eyes on the book she was holding. His eyes were wide and curious, filled with apparent fascination. When his eyes rose and caught hers, he swung them away. Celine shrugged and turned back to the book in her hands.
He was intrigued by the way she had stared at him. Her eyes, wide and curious, looked him up and down in fascination. They rolled from his hair to his shirt and stared hard before rolling up to his face. She had a pleasant face, with wide brown eyes and small, cute lips. She was not all that attractive though, at least not like the other girls in church. Another difference – she was reading a book with the other nerdy girls. One of them was his friend’s sister. They were so super square. Other girls would be talking to boys or chatting away. She was reading a book. But she kept staring! Oh gosh, so embarrassing! She had caught him staring, or was it the other way round?
A passing girl caught his attention. Marilyn was possibly the prettiest girl in church. Fancy clothes, good make-up. Many boys liked her. Maybe he should get that bookish girl’s number from his friend’s sister. Why was he thinking of that girl again? Maybe Marilyn would talk to him if he said hi. But would the girl with the book want to know him? He stole another glance at her.
He was staring again. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She stole another glance at him. She then remembered him as the pianist for the choir that her friend’s brother was in. What was his name? Jon? Yes, it was. Oh, why was she thinking of him? He was not even as good looking as the guy in the black shirts. She turned back to her book. She stared at page forty-one, as she had been for the past fifteen minutes. Maybe she’d ask her friend’s brother about the pianist.
He stood up. He straightened his shirt. He decided to talk to her. Yes, he’d do it. He took a deep breath. He was calm, cool, confident. He took four steps. His hands grew hot.
He stood up! He was coming towards her! She raised her hand and patted her hair. She glued her eyes to her page. Her breathing quickened.
Oh no! Maybe she did not like him! Maybe she was staring at him because she thought he looked silly. Maybe she would tell him to mind his own business and go away. As the distance between them grew shorter, his hands grew hotter and hotter. He quickened his pace. She grew nearer, nearer, nearer, until she was in front of him…and he brushed past her. His left hand grazed her arm. It burned where they touched.
Her skin sizzled where they touched. The soft grazing of the fabric of his pants and the touch of his hand lingered on her skin. She shut her eyes and the world around her disappeared.
Her name was Celine. He’d noted the neat way she wrote her name on her pencil case. He thought about the smoothness of her skin. His left hand grabbed the side of his pants and squeezed hard, creasing the fabric.
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