“Go on without me,” he said.
My hand hesitated, pressed against the cold silver gate. Could I leave him? A part of me thought I could help; I could save him like Ariel saved Prince Eric.
As my eyes met his blue, magnetic orbs, he called out again, “Go!”
Of all the moments I shared with my first boyfriend, I remember this one the most. The one time his friends made fun of us at recess, and across the grass yard we tried to escape, and when we couldn’t avoid their clutching hands, my boyfriend had sacrificed himself for me. My first boyfriend became my prince.
As much as I try, outside of this memory, I can only remember three things about my first boyfriend: his name was TJ. His grandma gave me piano lessons. He had brown hair and, possibly, blue eyes.
I’m not sure of much, but I am sure of this: we were recess royalty. TJ had the adventurous spirit and the good looks needed to rise to the top of the first grader hierarchy. I had toe blonde hair and the adventurous spirit, but adventures made me hyperactive, and sometimes I acted a little too wild. If it weren’t for my inventive games, who knew if I would have ever qualified to date Prince TJ.
What inventive games did I make? Only ones that stirred the pot. My most controversial game was called “kiss tag.” I, as an overachieving entrepreneur, invented it in kindergarten. It sounds like what it is—but all kisses were aimed for a cheek bone. The targets: first grader boys—because as a kindergartener, I liked a challenge.
I’m not sure that I ever caught anyone, and if I did, I’m not sure I actually kissed them on the cheek. The thrill came from the chase.
I don’t know what caught my teacher’s attention first: my hysterical giggles as I ran, or the yells of frustration from the boys as they ran. Either way, my parents were called in, and the group of adults explained to me why kiss tag could not exist.
Later, one girl attempted to claim that she invented the game. Although, as an adult, I know how many versions of this game must have existed or been “invented,” as a kid, I stood up for myself. I reclaimed my rights and brought out my verbal patent. “No, you didn’t! I invented it!”
She said no more, and I still had the single ounce of fame that made me feel more qualified, one year later, to date a prince.
So, what stopped such an energetic, innocent relationship? It started with the day he saved me. I had not realized the danger he would face when captured: peer pressure.
The next day at recess, I stood on the sidewalk. The recently abandoned swings moved back and forth. Each creak beckoned me to them. I would go. I would enter the park area of the school grounds. Before I stepped onto the wood chips, one of our Royal Highness’ comrades approached me.
The lambasting from the day before meant nothing to me. Each recess period belonged to itself; the past could be forgotten. The future could be hopeful. When I saw this boy approach me, I saw a friend.
I didn’t know it, but he saw an enemy.
Or just another girl to receive the worst news royalty could send to you.
“TJ wanted me to tell you that he’s breaking up with you.” No tears shed as he delivered this proclamation. He had as neutral a look as a kid might have when telling their mom they wanted a grilled cheese. Maybe even more neutral than that.
His eyes flicked toward a group of boys, far away on the grass.
“Okay,” I said. How could I fight it?
That day ended my taste of the finer things in life. Did I understand why he chose to leave me? No. Years later, I suspected that the friend might have lied and done this of his own accord, but the time for resparking a romance had passed. I had moved schools and found another love—one with light sabers and Yu-Gi-Oh! cards. And that had me as satisfied as the time I dated a prince.
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