🙅🏻‍♀️ I Friend-Zoned Myself

💔 The Crush Chronicles: Blaine, Part Two

Part Two of Three of The Story of Blaine | The Crush Chronicles

Note: It’s highly suggested that you read Part One of Blaine first.

🎒The Desk is Mine

But do what you want; you’re your own person.

This is memoir. It reflects the author’s present recollections of experiences over time. Some names and characteristics have been changed, some events have been compressed, and some dialogue has been recreated. Image generated by Wix

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J U N I O R

I’ve occasionally done this really cringey thing. This really weird, totally cringey thing. I’ve already revealed an embarrassing part of my past, so I’ll just let it spiral.

Let me backstory.

In 1993, when I was in third grade, a Disney flop came out called Hocus Pocus. I didn’t know it was a flop because I absolutely fell in love with that movie. Three sister witches who are funny and sing, two very strong, young female characters, and a talking black cat with a hot-boy soul. Yes, please.

I was in the Max Denison is Hot Fan Club, but what really captivated me was the sibling relationship between Dani and Max. An only child, lonely from the constant moving, relocating, and starting over, I hankered for that companionship. I wanted a Max to look out for me, protect me, and make me feel safe when I didn’t. My longing for such a relationship was so deep that I asked my parents to adopt me an older brother. I was eight, and I didn’t understand why this was such a big ask. There were orphans in the world that needed a home; why couldn’t we provide one of them?

Over the years, when I confided the desire of wanting an older brother to close friends that actually had one, their response was always the same: “No, you don’t.” I didn’t realize that many movies romanticize sibling relationships as some magical bond, which may be the case for some, but definitely not all.

Mix this wish for brotherly camaraderie with a sizable lack of self confidence, and the product is me telling some of the boys that I had feelings for that they were the “big brother I never had.” I know this is twisted, but please don’t give up on me.

The mean kids previously mentioned: most of them were boys. Boys who called me fat, stupid, beat me up on the playground daily, and made me believe no one would ever like me. They told me so.

Of course, this was not true, and there are many accounts in which boys did reciprocate my feelings, or even liked me first. Because I was so damaged, I truly thought it was not possible for a guy to be interested in me, and if he actually admitted that he was, it had to have been a prank, a cruel practical joke. It’s a wonder I ever did get a boyfriend, let alone more than one, but trust that those poor exes of mine had to jump through a lot of hoops of faith for me to give them a chance.

Pushing guys that I fancied into the “big brother” category, though weird and, let’s face it, gross, was a defense mechanism. It allowed me to let them know that I cared for them sincerely without the danger of heartbreak or making myself vulnerable. I still was able to keep them close and enjoy their company without jeopardizing my esteem or expressing my true emotions. I was removing the risk.

Tragically, this is so much worse than even basic friend-zoning. It not only automatically friend-zoned the love interest, but automatically made me friend zone myself for the love interest. Friends have the potential of becoming something more, but by adding the familial label to it, I made any chances of “something more” unachievable and, frankly, undesirable.

I don’t recall doing this with Blaine, but the evidence can be found in his brief (no full page this time) signature in the back of my junior yearbook. It reads:

Dear Sis,

I’m glad I’ve been reunited with my other sister. My original sister just wasn’t cutting it. Now that we’ve realized our filial devotion, our senior year will be great. C-ya then.

Your Brother,

Blaine

I don’t remember doing this with Blaine because I don’t remember much of my junior year. As busy as I was in tenth grade, I was even more so the following year. Applying for and getting accepted onto the yearbook staff as a writer added to my workload, although I did drop Spanish Club. Blaine and I were now in the same choir, A Capella (or ACAP for short), he a bass and I an alto, but didn’t really interact there.

Most of what I remember about that year of my life has little to do with school. I finally found my main group of friends (that didn’t reside in another state), and one of them introduced the rest of us to the Mac Stack, a local venue that had bands perform in the back of its store each week. When I wasn’t doing homework, working on the yearbook or at choir or theatre rehearsals, this was where I hung out. Yes, sometimes we would go to the mall like the standard millennial, but at the Mac Stack there were hot guys who knew how to play their instruments. (In short, I was very distracted.)

Blaine was still in my peripheral, though. In September, we both worked on a production of Sylvia; me as head of wardrobe, him as the light board operator. I honestly don’t even remember him being there, because during the production I developed a quick crush on the male lead, Jerome.

Jerome was a dazzlingly adorable senior and talented actor. He had the kind of smile that always reached his serene, brown eyes, dark, curly hair that invited you to run your fingers through it, and a laugh that was invariably real—a laugh that came not just from the diaphragm, but from the heart. He was also the bass guitarist of a band named The Concords. Totally swoonable.

What made my infatuation with Jerome particularly difficult during the show was that as head of wardrobe, I had to dress Jerome through several quick changes, which included him having to undress all the way down to his boxers, with me having to help him fasten his pants and button his shirts in a very close space. Sylvia was presented in the The Lab Theatre, not on the main stage, so the dressing area was incredibly tight.

The first time he stripped, I died a little inside, believing this was the closest I was ever going to get to an intimate situation with a boy, let alone one I was attracted to.

Holy shit. I drank in the tall figure before me. There, at sixteen, standing in the shadows behind the black curtain that separated us from the stage and audience, that is where I thought I had intimately peaked, helping Jerome into—and out of—his pants and zooming through the buttons of his shirt, standing so close I could feel his breath tickle my skin.

As we do, though, I learned to get over it and moved on. I was always professional, and soon enough, helping Jerome button his shirt over the smooth, olive texture of his bare chest was second nature, like background noise for your eyes. Jerome, of course, had been oblivious the entire time to the thoughts running around behind my quiet demeanor.

In October, it was the 3rd Annual Lip Synch, “Extravaganza,” which was broken up into four categories of songs: One Hit Wonders, British Invasion, Number One Hits, and Soundtracks, each with four songs from a different decade, the ‘60’s through the ‘90’s. Even though I reprised my position on the run crew, I actually appeared on stage that year as a background performer. Blaine was directing the one hit wonder “Bad to the Bone” and blocking it during rehearsal one day.

Dressed in his normal attire of some screen T-shirt, a pair of straight-leg jeans, and sneakers, he had just decided that Kent, another backup ensemble performer, was going to be a plant in the audience at the beginning of the show. “Bad to the Bone” was the second song being performed, so Kent only had to sit through the introduction and the first song, “Sugar, Sugar,” before he was revealed.

The concept was that the star of the number, Graham, was so bad to the bone that he would come down into the audience and steal Kent’s date.

“How about…Rachel!” Blaine announced, standing down center of the main stage with a grin, after his eyes swept the room and landed on me. I smiled and moved to sit next to Kent in the audience, my fingers brushing the course upholstery of the 1970’s golden seat as I plopped next to him before looking up and awaited my next direction.

Inside I was screaming.

I’d only performed a handful of times previously, but this was going to be the hardest bit of acting I had to do. The girls that were already onstage portraying Graham’s collection of chicks were pretty, skinny, and actually knew how to act sexy, which is what Blaine was directing: all of the females in Graham’s presence were supposed to be seductively fawning over him…except for one senior who slapped him in the middle of the number when she figured out his game.

Why? Of all the girls, why did Blaine pick me for this part?

I didn’t have complete faith that I could be believable as a girl that would catch the main character’s eye—someone so attractive that she could be stolen away. Did Blaine?

On opening night, I sat next to Kent in the fourth row of the house. I was nervous but excited, chatting with him and exchanging greetings with unsuspecting friends and acquaintances who had no inkling we were a part of the show. Then I heard my mom’s voice.

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