“Who is this?” she asks, finding a photo in an old notebook, a journal I used years ago.
“I can’t remember her name.”
“She’s very pretty.”
I always thought she appeared plain, unnoticeable. What I liked most about her, no other boy saw. I imagined that she would have grown very pretty from the awkward stage where we intersected as children. It raised in me a bit of pride to hear her say those words. She’s very pretty. It validates those feelings you have when you’re young and insecure. You can’t just find someone pretty. You have to find someone that everyone else agrees is pretty, too.
“None of the other boys thought so,” I laugh. But guilt creeps into the conversation now, the soft, dull guilt that’s not so hard to live with, since you can attribute it to youth and inexperience. No one expects a 12-year-old to exhibit integrity.
She turns her head a little, examines the picture, turning it in the light, as though it were a hologram, and simply seeing it at a different angle might change the subject completely.
“No, I don’t guess the boys did find her pretty.”
I’ve had this discussion with her before. That women find other women attractive in ways unappreciated by men. I always thought we were talking about the nameless parade of faces passing by our table at the outdoor café. I thought we were talking about someone else, this girl whose name I can no longer remember, tucked into a notebook like a pressed and forgotten flower. I never imagined we were talking about us.
“So you’re saying I’m not like other boys?”
It’s a selfish joke. It’s pride. And memories. I’m a 12-year-old boy unintentionally hurting a 12-year-old girl.
She smiles. Then she looks at me the same way she does the photo. Frowns a little. Tilts her head. Changes the light. She squints. It’s uncomfortable.
“Her name’s Lisa.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“She is.”
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