2009-10-02 - 3:14 p.m.
I'm working on tenth grade now. Remembering my friends. There was short, tough Andy, a wrestler. And taller, kind of mean, Ryan, the back-up quarterback. But they weren't mean to me. They liked me. I made them laugh, I suppose. Sixteen years old.
I'd be lying if tenth grade was, for me, anything other than the following: Girls agitating me in the most fundamental way that they are able. I didn't really kiss a girl until a little while after that year of school, and as I remember it, it was all tension, inside and out. There were other boys in my classes besides Andy and Ryan but all I really saw were the girls. I was beginning to like reading novels but as soon as I finished To Kill A Mockingbird, it was right back to the girls. They were eveywhere and they knew it--or didn't maybe but must have been aware they were the recipients of so much attention--breathing the same air as me but floating somewhere just above my head, far enough up in those low clouds that even if I jumped, or climbed up on the hightest table, they'd still be just out of reach.
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