The Note
By CB Celwriter
Weary from a full night’s work at the restaurant, a flour-covered youth
left through the back kitchen door. He enjoyed working for his mother and aunts,
making spaghetti, Ravioli, breadsticks, and other such Italian side courses and
pastas. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows to keep the
ends from dipping in the food, but also allowing them to be rolled down and
block the cool fall wind. His mother made him wear black pants, although he
never ventured out into the dining hall, and an apron prevented most stains.
The youth stood about five foot eight and had the deepest brown eyes I had
ever seen. An Italian complexion gave testimony to his ancestry and my fingers
longed to run through his course hair. It was a dark brown, almost black, and he
kept it cropped very short. Sometimes in grade school, I caught him staring at
nothing in particular, his mouth drawn straight in a thoughtful, though serious
look.
The most remarkable thing to my standards, however, was his boyish grin. It
was the kind from story books and captured my attention every time. I, a
meticulous studier of boyish grins, recognized it as a true one. He would lean
back in his chair, arms folded across his chest or behind his head, and a large
grin would spread across his face. A sparkle in his eyes seemed to say "I
know something you don’t know." How I longed to know what it was he knew,
what he thought about as he stared at nothing in particular.
And now, as I stood there watching from the bushes, I wondered what he’d
think of the note on the windshield of his forest green minivan. The folded
piece of paper, anonymously signed, gave testimony to my lack of bravery to say
it outright. I loved him, and had loved him, since the day he pointed out the
ketchup on my cheek in second grade. The feeling did not come and go like the
other crushes I had had over the years in grade school, but remained steady,
untold and unrevealed. It was a secret, my secret, and I longed to tell.
Now I had told, but I wished I could take it back. The weeks of planning, the
wastebasket of discarded notes, I wanted it all back. It was a stupid idea, he
couldn’t love me back, could he? Why had I been so stupid to reveal all my
feelings on a sheet of looseleaf?
Ah, now I remember. It was the curiosity, the wondering if he ever thought of
me, could think of me. That’s why the note was anonymous. I watched him
approach the car, wearing a navy blue jacket with white stripes down the
sleeves, and my breath caught in my chest. He read it over, looked up, and then
read it again in disbelief. His face was straight, as if frozen in astonishment.
I waited breathlessly for minutes, waiting for him to move to tear up the note
or stash it in his pocket and drive away. But he did not move, did not shred my
feelings into pieces, did not even shake his head and call it a prank.
I could not bear it any longer, could no longer watch him stand as a statue
unmoving. I turned to run away, snapping branches as I untangled myself from my
hiding place. Footsteps alerted me that he was no longer a statue, and I had
been discovered. My brain was split in two, should I turn around and face the
consequences of my actions, or should I run from the possibility of
confrontation? My pace was quick, but not yet a run, and he followed after. Why
couldn’t he turn back, forget my note, and forget that there had ever been a
confession left under his windshield wiper?
But his footsteps did not stop, and my pace did not falter. It would not
matter if I did not turn, for he could not recognize me from the back. My hair
was cropped at the nape of my neck, eleven inches shorter than it was the last
time he had seen me, and a summer of camp had turned it auburn. I pulled my jean
jacket close, an item of clothing I never would have worn in grade school. I had
changed in every facet of my life, developed good study habits, found my own
style, and made the best friends a girl could have, but it did not matter. There
was one thing that had not changed, I still loved him, still wondered if he
loved me back.
But I could not love him, I was sixteen, too young to be in love. It was
merely infatuation, I repeated to myself each time I pictured him in my mind. He
can not love me back, and if he does not, I do not really love him. I recalled
this resolution, and did not turn around. I could not bear to run, but only
walked quickly away. Why did he follow? Within a few more steps, he had caught
up with me, and I felt his hand on my right arm.
"Rachel?" I turned slowly at the sound of my name. I could not meet
his eyes, those gorgeous eyes that I wished I could just fall into. My face had
gone numb from shock and sadness, but no doubt there were tears running down my
cheeks. There was silence for along time, and I felt as though I was locked in a
segment of time void of sound. I would have broken the uneasiness, but I did not
know what to say.
"Do you need a ride home?" he inquired in a hushed tone. I nodded
and wiped away the wetness I knew was there. I must have been shivering because
he removed his jacket without a word and placed it around my shoulders. He didn’t
take back his arm, but left it over the jacket. I unwittingly set my head on his
shoulder, thoughts racing in all directions. My mind would pick an idea, but
cast it away before I even knew what it was. Before I noticed it, we had
strolled to his van and he had opened the front passenger door. He helped me in,
then closed the door behind. Walking around, he got into the driver’s seat and
nothing was said between the two of us the whole ride to my house.
But my mind kept screaming "Why couldn’t he just let me go?"
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