When I was in fifth grade, I had a wicked crush on Pierce Leves. Pierce was “it” for me. And Rebekah Rabinowitz knew it.
She also knew that I was too shy to do anything but love him from afar (oh no, I was not the fleurt I am today). Deciding to play matchmaker, Rebekah bandied back and forth between Pierce and me, asking questions like, “Would you go with Flew-er if she’d go with you?” And, “Would you go with Pierce if he’d go with you?”
After several days of negotiations, Rebekah darted up to my desk: “Oh my God, you are going with Pierce! He totally wants to go with you. Will you?”
I swallowed. “Yeah, okay.”
“Oh my God,” she squealed, again. “You’re going with him now! You’re going with Pierce! Pierce, you’re going with Flew-er now. You’re going with each other!”
I didn’t let on, but I was psyched. I was also terrified.
From that moment on, Pierce and I did not say one word to each other. Come to think of it, we hadn’t really said one word to each other up to that point, anyway. But now, we were actively not saying one word to each other.
Still, though I didn’t know what to do with him, I had a boyfriend. My boyfriend, Pierce. Pierce, with whom I never spoke. Pierce, with whom I never glanced. Pierce, with whom I never… anything.
One day, I did find myself standing next to him. He turned to me, and for the first time, we made eye contact: