My First Love

He just wears his tennis shoes and a pair of shorts. I watched as he did fifteen push-ups. His board of a back sank down with his arms and went back up. He turned over and forced his abs to constrict fifty times. Then he stood up, stretched out his arms, did a few fake punches, and grabbed the tape to wrap his hands. He punched the bag a couple of times, just feeling the weight. I leaned against the bleachers to watch as he hit the bag one time and then another. I want him to ask me out.

I thought myself out of his league. He ran down the football field with the ball in his hand, his cleats kicking up chunks of earth as his teammates thrust their shoulders at the opposing team. He weaves around the skirmishes for a touchdown. I sat in the bleachers with my square glasses and flat hair, holding the clarinet in my hands playing at half time. One time, he would just look over at me and see me watching him, give me a bright smile usually reserved for the cheerleaders. I, of course, returned it.

A week later, the English teacher paired the two of us up to do a scene from Hamlet. We read the scene and discussed Hamlet’s monologue. He sat across from me reading a line and creating an end stop where no punctuation dictated such action. I smiled at his focus on each word, sounding hollow, yet masculine with his deep voice. When he stopped abruptly and told me he did not understand Shakespeare, I offered to explain it to him later that afternoon if he had the time. He said he had football practice, and I said I could wait.

My butt began to fall asleep as I waited for him. I sat in the gym, my back resting against the wall shared between the gym and the lunchroom. I watched him exit the locker room his hair still damp from the post-shower The others exited the gym to the north parking lot letting in the brisk air of the early snowfall. He flashed me a smile as I stood up. He wore a coat over a sweatshirt with just his shorts and tennis shoes. He held his gym bag with him. He apologized for taking so long, and I just stumbled along with a no problem.

We walked together out to his car, and he drove me home. He smelled clean like body wash and deodorant. We talked about college next year and how we would be going to the same school. He wanted to study history and coach football. I wanted to study English and history, but I explained that writing remained my true passion. He said I must have a vivid imagination. I just nodded.

My parents worked until seven, so we had the house to ourselves. I broke Hamlet down as one of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I got out my notes and the two of us went over the deaths starting with Ophelia and then the others. I reached out for a piece of paper, and like a movie, he did the same. He stopped my sentence about the poisoned sword. Silence blanketed the room. I looked over at him and our eyes met. He made the move slowly towards me. I blushed slightly but tilted my head slightly to meet his lips.

“What the hell are you looking at faggot?” My eyes snapped away from the half-naked frame at the punching bag to another footballer player glaring at me. A cold gust came from the door that led outside of the gymnasium slamming shut as the man stomped his foot in my direction, warding me off like a dog. I jumped as his shoe slammed against the ground. I took the couple of steps backwards needed to make my way into the lunchroom. Turning, I rushed past the janitor who pulled the two sides of the table, obtuse triangles rising to acute, saving space. I give him a wave with a forced smile.

“Nothing, I was looking at nothing.” I muttered the words to myself as I opened the glass doors and let the cold chill of a midwestern winter frost my spirit. I looked back into the gym, only for a second, hoping to catch a longing glance.