When I was twelve I had a terrible crush on Angela, the eldest of three sisters who lived three houses down. We all hung out with the kids across the street, all of us church-going, nice kids. That was the age when it was a thrill just to stand around under a porch light and laugh and talk until our parents yelled at us to come inside for bed. Angela was a fair darling, and I sorely hated it when I witnessed her dad switching her on the legs as she scooted across the yard, ticked off about something or another. I hated it even more when I found out she had a crush on Davey, my friend who was too damned nice to hate, so my negativity turned inward.
I remember we were all gathered under Angela’s porch light, I was cracking jokes right and left, keeping everyone in stitches, trying to be the center of Angela’s attention. Their laughter had me fueled, but when I finally did shut up Angela said, “Say some more. Say something else funny.” It abruptly dawned on me then that I was only their clown, and I wanted Angela to love me, not laugh at me. I didn’t want to be a clown. I tried not to be funny anymore.
By the time we all got into junior high, Angela had started flirting with me some, but by then I liked nasty girls whose giggles usually meant something new was in store for me. |