🦋 Epiphanies and Butterflies
💔 Blaine, Part 3
The Conclusion of The Story of Blaine | The Crush Chronicles
Note: It’s highly suggested that you read Part One of Blaine first, then Part Two.
But the decision is yours.
S E N I O R
It’s conspicuous. Delving into the affairs of my median years of high school, the clarity of how I felt about Blaine seeps from the page.
I entered my final year completely ignorant of my feelings. What it took to register was a friend’s confession and a surge of territorial jealousy, like Cher realizing she loved Josh1.
The summer proceeding our senior year, there was a program called Theatre Fest that put on The Matchmaker2. All of this took place at a local college campus where Reece and I, as well as Anne, Blaine, Jerome, Kent, Caren and quite a few others from our school dedicated over half of our vacation to the show, combined with students from two other high schools in town. As much as it could be, the play was entirely designed and put on by the students, from set design, light design, stage management, props, to costumes. It was the most immersive professional theatre experience high school students could gain.
I can barely remember any of it.
I have vague glimpses of memories from the college theatre: what the house and stage looked like, with the sophisticated scarlet-cushioned rows, a small mezzanine, and the entrance to the vast workshop where the students constructing the sets and curating costumes would work, the scent of sawdust and the hum of sewing machines enveloping you upon entrance.
True to form, I was the assistant stage manager, this time with Reece (Anne worked the light board for this one, as well as built sets). I somehow got stuck with props yet again, but Reece worked them with me, along with three other crew members, making it a more tolerable burden.
Blaine was cast as Cornelius Hackl, an early-thirties chief clerk for a rich old man that promotes Cornelius to a position he is already occupying. Cornelius therefore decides to go on an adventure, gets in some trouble, meets a woman, falls in love, yada yada yada. At least I was so unaware of my feelings that it didn’t occur to me to be bothered by Blaine pretending to dote over another girl, getting intimately close and likely sharing an on-stage kiss.
The only thing that helps jog my memory of this experience is a keepsake photo that was gifted to the cast and crew upon the show’s closing. Among the body of students, it captures Blaine as Cornelius dressed in a dapper boater hat, waistcoat and bow tie, standing stage right, confident and jovial. I’m sitting next to Reece on the opposite side of the stage, kneeling down in the front row, sporting a black necktie a la Avril Lavigne3 and one of the cast member’s black top hats.
When I comb the pages of my teenage diaries, Blaine rarely appears. It’s as if our relationship was merely professional; the groups of people we hung out with outside of school-related activities, though adjacent, didn’t converge often. It was as if he and I danced around the edges of the center of a Vin diagram.
He’s so adorable and such a good guy. He’s a teddy bear, my pen would whisper upon the pages. We’re so different. If I could only go back to those Matchmaker days. I should have relished in them better.
A packrat of keepsakes, with the cast photo I also found a copy of the program that some of the cast and crew signed, printed on cheap blue paper with a very word processory clip-art logo marking the front. Next to Blaine’s name is scrawled, “You’re my hero, Rachel. -Blaine.” When I read his sloppy scrawl, I cannot help but to smile, whether it was then or now—as if I was admired, despite his joking nature.
Once, I was alone with him in his car, which wasn’t anything scandalous. All of the theatre kids would hop in each others cars to run errands, grab lunch, or shop for supplies, but this was the one and only time I ever climbed into the car with Blaine.
“American Pie”4 was on the radio as I folded myself into the front seat. The interior looked like it was from the 1980’s, and maybe it was. Everything inside was boxy, black and gray, not rounded and smooth like vehicles of the new millennium. Blaine obviously wasn’t the tidy type, homework and other random papers littering the backseat and floor. I already knew this about him, from the years of crumpled papers he would pull from his backpack, notebooks with torn covers and squiggly spirals, and broken pencils, or just a lack of writing utensil in general. The interior of his car was not a surprise, it was an expectation.
As we rode off, Blaine made the comment about how “American Pie” was rife with religious references. Though I was raised in a Christian household, I was very loosely so, and distinctly illiterate when it came to the Christian faith, so I had no idea what Blaine was talking about. Living in the Bible Belt5 of Texas, most kids assumed we all were religiously literate, and it always made me uncomfortable, like I was being a bad human or something.
When Blaine commented on the biblical allusions, I simply replied, “There are?” with an inquisitive look on my face.
“Are you kidding?” he responded. “There are so many. The thorny crown…” and he proceeded to list them out.
Having nothing to contribute to the conversation, I smiled and nodded, and also intently listened to the lyrics in a way I never had before. Now every time I hear “American Pie,” I am transported back to this sliver of time, sitting in the passenger seat of Blaine’s car, admiring his passion while he spoke, noticing the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled, and how the wind rustled the curls of his hair when the window was down.
Once school started back up, another girl in our year named Brenda slipped into my group of friends. Brenda was a girl with a thin build, but carried a weight of confidence around with her. She had a distinct style, her short, almost pixie-length bob of auburn brown, highlight-streaked hair stopping at her ears, except for two long strands in the front that came to her chin, like antennae. She wore wiry, round-rimmed glasses over a thin layer of make-up, except for her eyeliner, which was always black and winged at the ends. She almost always wore baggy jeans that fit her well at the waist and hips, then flared out into legs that doubly swallowed her own, paired with a tight, cute baby doll tee.
Brenda moved to the town and crept into the high school punk scene when she was a junior, also joining Drama Club and Theatre. By senior year, we were hanging out consistently, and she became one of the many friends that I would drive home after rehearsals.
One such evening, shortly after closing the Lip Synch together, Brenda was in the backseat of my car, my bestie, Erin, was in the front, and I was driving them home as we talked about how everything went with the show and exchanged gossip.
“I think I kind of like Blaine,” Brenda divulged with an embarrassed smile, leaning forward between the two front seats.
Besides my nose and tan complexion, my mother handed down a trait that I will never shake: the inability to conceal emotion, especially when caught off guard like I was with this confession, and especially when I didn’t understand my emotions myself.
As his name left Brenda’s thin lips, my face reflexively contorted into an expression of dismay. All the aching that you don’t want a friend to read on you when they are confessing their interest in a person coursed through my body: jealousy, embarrassment, sadness, as well as confusion and awareness, because that was the exact second I comprehended all of the jesting over the past two years, and it all clicked: I liked Blaine.
Erin, being my best friend, already had her suspicions about this, so she wasn’t surprised at my reaction, though she did find it amusing. She said nothing, but sat quietly in the front seat, grinning to herself.
Brenda, recognizing what my expression meant, decided to back-pedal.
“Oh my god, do you like him, too?” she asked with concern. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know,” as if she had done something wrong.
“Oh no no no no no no,” I expelled, trying unnecessarily to save face. “It’s just a little thing—no big deal!” I tried to explain away. “If you want to, go for it!”
“Really?” she asked, wanting to confirm. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” I stated, pulling up to her house.
“Okay,” she replied, smiling and gathering her things. “Not that I’m going to. This is all new to me.”
It was to me, too. Although years of flirtations and inside jokes had woven a history that stitched up to that moment in my black Honda Accord, the realization crashed over me like an ocean wave, catching me completely by surprise. I needed to make my way up to the surface, to steady myself and the sudden splash of emotions that were rocking to and fro in my mind.
By the time I got home that night, finished all of my domestic responsibilities, and crawled into bed with my journal, I had talked myself down from the overwhelm that had consumed me hours before. I minimized it by naming the discovery a “small thing” I had for Blaine, then refused to elaborate anything more. My ego was shutting down, reverting back into the defensive state that it took when I halted the prospect of going to that sophomore dance. I didn’t explore these newly discovered feelings, but repressed them.
Blaine would probably find Brenda more attractive, anyway, I told myself as I prepared to go to sleep. Blaine was a guy, and no guy was capable of reciprocating my attraction. I knew because so many before had told me so.
The next day, despite my hyper-awareness of his presence, the electrifying jolt I experienced every time he entered the room, and the compulsory need I felt to run my fingers over my hair and smooth my shirt while we conversed, I continued on as if nothing had changed. Even though it had, for me.
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