She sat next to me in the second grade. That was the first time I met her. Her pencil always seemed to be sharp, her books were always seemed to be stacked, and she smiled at me when she told me her name was Beth Anne. We went to elementary school together.
One year she gave me an invitation to her birthday party. It was the first co-ed party I had ever been to. What I remember most about the party was how silky Beth Anne’s hair looked and how deep and mysterious her eyes were. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was when I loved her.
During the rest of my sojourn in elementary school I was never able to put the fervor I felt for Beth Anne into words, neither was I able to explore the adventure of that love in my own thoughts. Every time I considered it I would find myself lost in a ball of nerves and confusion.
As I was finishing the sixth grade my family made plans to move to another town. On the last day of school I walked into the library where Beth Anne was working as a volunteer librarian. I was determined after living the twelve years that I had to make the depth of the passion and the love that I felt for her known. I approached the desk where she was writing on a library card and said, “Beth Anne…”
“Yes, Andrew,” she purred as she looked at me. Our eyes met, and her magic consumed me. My speech was gone, my thoughts were empty. She had hypnotized me.
I stuttered and stammered and finally said, “One minute,” as I escaped to the refuge of a row of books. “I can’t look at her eyes!” I convinced myself. I mustered my moral fortitude and approached her desk again. “Beth Anne,” I said, this time strategically fixing my gaze on her forehead.
“Yes, Andrew,” she said as she raised her face to me. I hastily , kept my eyes focused on her forehead but was still shaken to the innermost core as the light sparkled off her hair. I was bewitched by her beauty. Her hair had snared my attention and refused to let go. Once more words failed to leave my lips, and I was forced to retreat to the stack of books.
School would be ending in the next few minutes, and I would have to catch my bus home. I needed to muster the strength from somewhere. One last time I approached Beth Anne, this time I would do it; I would declare my love for her. I hadn’t thought about what to say beyond that. For example, what would I do if she said, “Okay,” or “How nice.” Was I really thinking she would say, “Oh, Andrew!” and fall into my arms? At least I hoped that would happen. We would be married that afternoon and then I would go off to live with my parents in our new home, and she would go to hers. We would never see each other again, but our love would endure.
“Beth Anne,” I said.
“Yes, Andrew,” she replied.
I fought for strength. “Beth Anne…”
“Yes, Andrew.”
“Beth Anne…”
“Yes, Andrew.”
And with that, I ran out of the library, into my bus, and moved from New Jersey to Texas. I did eventually learn to talk to women, even exceptionally beautiful ones, like my wife who has given me five children, four of whom happen to be beautiful girls, and no, I do not sympathize with the boys who lack the nerve to talk to them.
Beth Anne, if you ever happen to read this, tell me your side of the story, I’m interested.
