🎒The Desk is Mine
💔 Blaine, Part One
Part One of Three of The Story of Blaine | The Crush Chronicles
I was in denial for so long that when it finally hit me, it was irrepressible.
S O P H O M O R E
Blaine sat behind me in Spanish class—not by choice, but by the alphabetical fate of our surnames. My first year at the school, it likely took me months to warm up and speak to anyone comfortably, not just him. Despite having moved at a rate of a different school every year, it was not any easier to start over again each time my dad was stationed at a new base. My MO was to keep my head down, be quiet, and observe. This was to scope out who would be safe to make eye contact with and possibly speak to one day. Naturally shy and having had past experiences with kids who said and did mean things to me, I never wanted to open myself up to potential bullies.
Thankfully, there are more kind souls on the earth than not, and I almost never had to make the first move to meet someone new. Everyone I sat next to in Spanish was kind, and even our teacher—a young, handsome man with short, ginger hair and rectangular glasses—was sweet; he was one of those teachers who made the classroom feel safe and welcoming, just by his mere presence. For many of us, Mr. E’s class wasn’t a misfortune to have on your schedule, but rather one of the few classes you would look forward to attending.
Sitting across from Blaine and I, Chad was an especially friendly, extremely confident freshman who was exceedingly flirty with everyone, and I understood quickly that I was not special when on the receiving end of his smooth lines. Still, the first time Chad flashed a smile and a wink my way during class, I couldn’t control the somersault my stomach performed in response as I squirmed awkwardly in the old wooden desk, the kind that provided the smallest of surface space and connected to the seat, yet students are expected to balance a giant textbook and a notebook on the tiny plank.
Given my strategy when arriving at a new school, it is interesting that for my tenth-grade year, I was very involved right off the bat. I was apparently in the Spanish Club, an activity of which I have no recollection. Drama Club was a given as I carried it over from my previous high school. You can see me pictured in the 2001 yearbook at the first meeting of the year, seated behind Blaine. I signed up for journalism, a class with which I instantly fell in love. I wanted to join the yearbook staff, but as I was not present as a freshman to apply, that wasn’t an option for me yet. Another unsurprising addition to my schedule was Girls Chorus. I had been in choir every year of my life since my schools began offering it. I started singing when I was eight and never stopped.
Blaine, also a member, was nominated by the Spanish Club for Homecoming King that fall. He didn’t win the crown, but I’m not shocked that he received the nomination. I probably was one of the members to nominate him. Blaine had many charming qualities: he was cute, funny, and contagiously chipper. Needless to say, Blaine was well-liked.
Though we both sang, our paths didn’t cross in Choir, yet, as underclassmen were required to be in the chorus of their assigned sexes (ie, he was in Men’s Chorus, and I was in Girls. Why is it not Boys and Girls or Men’s and Women’s?). Besides our daily rendezvous in Spanish 101, Blaine and I frequently saw each other in Drama Club and theatre classes.
My first year at this school was also the first year for the new theatre director, Mr. P. Besides being in his theatre classes, I worked with him throughout the rest of my high school career in hours upon hours of rehearsals and tech for the multiple shows produced. We learned a lot from him, and he spearheaded positive changes to the department, including when he painted the entire theatre classroom black and dubbed it The Black Box, or The Lab Theatre, much to the delight of the punk and goth kids. With over twenty years in the industry, he treated us all as he would have his professional peers, and did so while straddling the line of teacher/student fairly well. He established the tradition of the annual Lip Synch in the fall of every year, knowing that it was the fundraiser that would provide the bulk of our budget for the rest of the productions through May.
Although Blaine and I worked together on the Lip Synch as run crew, I don’t remember myself being backstage or doing anything, with Blaine or anyone. I remember the performances, how fun they were, and how entertaining everyone was in their roles.
I can recall the handsome upperclassmen doing N’Sync’s dance to “Bye Bye Bye,” Amy, with her long beautiful hair and limbs, looking like she walked out of a 1970s fashion magazine, performing as Janis Joplin singing “Piece of My Heart,” and there was Taran, a gifted dancer and choreographer, who did both to Janet Jackson’s “Doesn’t Really Matter.”
The next show I worked on was What I Did Last Summer by A.R. Gurney. Mr. P made me the props supervisor.
I despised it.
I was not simply in charge of rummaging around the storage room, looking for props to manage and keep track of show in and show out. I also had to research the time period and try to find as accurate of a prop as possible, purchasing within the budget. Not having begun to drive yet, this made my task a lot less easy, and the luxury of ordering online wasn’t well developed yet.
Unlike with the Lip Synch, I didn’t work with Blaine on What I Did Last Summer because he wasn’t a part of the show. He was cast as Dr. Gibbs in the department’s following play, Our Town by Thornton Wilder, while I worked the costume crew with six other girls, and on the light crew during tech class.
Moving up from costumes, the big production of that year was run by the previous director of the department, Mrs. K, and I landed the job of assistant stage manager of Godspell by John-Michael Tebelak. Somehow, I could not escape props and had to handle that as well. The director decided to put the show on as if the cast was in a circus. Blaine was cast as the Strongman Disciple and had to wear a ridiculous muscle suit that made his head appear too small for his figure with only a one-shouldered leopard print short-suit to cover “his body.” Instead of being appalled by the costume, he embraced the hilarity of it. He was featured during his solo, “We Beseech Thee,” and his pragmatic smile shone brightly from the stage as he preached to his fellow disciples.
This production was where I really began to feel comfortable and settle in with everyone. Anne, a blonde girl in our year with glasses and curly hair as buoyant as her personality, was my stage manager, and we did a great job as two female underclass-women in commanding the stage.
Four productions in one year—with the already crammed schedule I had with rehearsals, I was also attending every single performance and practice I had for choir. Despite the fact that I was so engaged for how introverted I was, I was actually socially lonely and miserable. I was constantly in touch with my friends from my previous high school in South Carolina: making plans to visit (which never came to fruition), talking on the phone, emailing, writing letters, and—bless the timing of technology—online instant messaging via MSN Messenger and AIM (America Online Instant Messenger). Cell phones weren’t quite common yet, so my contact was limited.
To be honest, a lot of what I participated in during this year of school I had forgotten until I reread what Blaine signed in my sophomore yearbook, a small sliver of him that was preserved for me, pressed between the pages of the thick volume like a dried flower: a pleasure to observe though no longer thriving. I had nothing in my memory that left me to believe we were so conversational, and possibly quite flirty, in my first year there. An entire page was set aside for Blaine to fill. From the context, this was some sort of deal that we made with each other. His page reads:
Listen to the corresponding podcast episode:
Blaine’s Page
Stinky,
It’s been great in Spanish, even though you keep stealing MY desk. I told you, it loves me more. I want my bat, and it better be good enough to help me cope with the loss of my desk. I had a lot of fun with you in the Lip Synch and Godspell, even if Ms. K was occasionally the anti-Christ. I’m glad I’ll never be dead to you, since I set all my props that one night. I’m going to miss copying your vocab and bumming gum. You’re a very generous and tolerant person to sit in front of me the whole year! I’d strangle myself if I had to do that. But enough about me, let’s talk about that bat you owe me. Just kidding. I hope you’ll be in a lot more plays next year and I should see you a lot in International Thespians. Geez, a page is a lot. Maybe I should ramble. Nah, that would just take up room. Yearbook is for memory, not rambling. So, I’ll try my hardest not to ramble on and on and on about something stupid just to take up space. No sir, not me. Nothing but memories and deep personal meaning here. Well, my hand is starting to hurt, so have a great summer and C-ya next year.
Blaine “Your Hero”
Next to this long passage was a sketch of a desk that is saying, “I love Blaine.” You know, since it loved him more. Why did I owe him a bat?
Silly notes aside, I only had one solid memory of Blaine from sophomore year that stayed with me to this day, and it still twists my stomach that triggers my face-palming reflex.
Our school was big on dances—almost a dance every month. There was not just Homecoming and Prom, but also Christmas, Valentine’s, Roundup, Celebration... As a new kid, I didn’t go to any dances that year. It took me a long time to make any close friends, the kind of friends who hang out outside of school, not just the friendly acquaintances that I’ve mentioned above. It was a struggle for me, and part of the reason why I held on to my long distance friends in South Carolina for so long. No one even attended my Sweet Sixteen. I only invited a handful of girls, but none of them came, probably because they didn’t know me well enough, and probably some of them legit couldn’t. That was a low point for me. I was devastated that birthday. What was supposed to be this fond American milestone ended up instead being a reminder of how forlorn I was during one of the primes of my youth.
One day in Spanish, the subject of one of these dances came up between me, Blaine, and Chad. I was twisted sideways in my seat, my left elbow resting on the front of Blaine’s desk, so I could speak to both boys comfortably. My bangs, carefully straightened and curled that morning so they landed right at my brow-line, hid what I had long thought an awful, oversized forehead. My curls were still long, an obsidian-black security blanket I de-frizzed with fluffy mousse every morning post-shower and let fall on either side of my face to hide my self-proclaimed “chipmunk cheeks.” Chad’s freckled face animated with jovial grace; Blaine leaned back in his seat with his feet rested on the back of my (or his) desk’s chair. He ran his hand absent-mindedly through his brunette curls as he listened and contributed. As teens do, we began to discuss who was going with whom:
Chad: *spoken coyly and with cunning* Rachel, why don’t you go to the dance with Blaine?
Me: *laughs* Yeah, right! *turns around and faces the front of the class*
What the actual fuuuuck? My response was a form of panic. I instinctually assumed that Blaine had no desire to go with me, even as a friend, and that Chad was embarrassing him by asking me in front of him. Although I would have loved to go with him, I was scared. Of rejection. I didn’t want to get shut down by Blaine, so I did it for him.
“Yeah, right!” was intended to mean, “Yeah, right! As if Blaine would want to go with me!” But it was probably interpreted as, “Yeah, right! As if I would want to go with Blaine!” And about-facing in my seat crowned the moment; it was me hiding from the potential declining of the situation, and it completely killed the conversation.
In hindsight, it’s possible that Blaine may have wanted to ask me, but was too nervous to do it, so Chad was acting as his wingman. Or Chad could have just been playing matchmaker, seeing something that Blaine and I didn’t.
Either way, my reply likely hurt Blaine’s feelings and pride, not mine, and neither of them attempted to continue talking after my ill-made statement.
Absolutely m o r t i f y i n g .
