💔 Robby, Part Two
The second half of the first chapter of The Crush Chronicles (a book in progress).
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.
To read Robby, Part One, go here.
Most kids in my senior class were planning on attending college in Texas. Still an Air Force Brat with no desire to move away from my parents, I followed my mom and dad to South Dakota when my dad received his orders. I had researched other schools in areas that we had previously lived and deemed desirable, including schools in Utah and Hawaii, but not Texas. Ultimately, the need to stay close to home with my parents and two cats won out.
I had a gap semester, but not on purpose. My uncle was struggling with stage four malignant melanoma, and my mom and I were planning on visiting him and his family in Honolulu that fall, so I postponed school. For reasons I cannot recall, the trip was cancelled. I was left with a semester knowing that all of my fellow alumni had started their college adventures, yet I was left behind, isolated in this new state, having to start over socially once again, except this time it was made more difficult because I didn’t have school to thrust me amongst my peers.
I filled the time instead by getting my first job as a cashier at Kmart, trying to put any jealousy I felt aside as I imagined what new lives all the college freshman were creating for themselves in the cozy autumn of their campuses. Maybe my fellow staffers were joining the college newspaper. Perhaps my old theatre buds were auditioning for plays and studying Shakespeare. Robby was probably already slaying his double major.
By spring semester, though, I was officially a college student myself, taking remote classes at the Air Force base where my father was stationed.
Eventually yearning for a “traditional” college experience, I stopped enrolling in remote classes and began attending school at the state university, enduring a 45-minute daily drive to and from campus because I did not want to live in the dorms, and probably couldn’t afford to even if I did. I didn’t mind the commute, as long as I had a mixed CD to keep me company.
With the distance and the normal coping methods needed when plucked away from everything you’ve grown to know and love, Robby became the mist of a memory, preserved only in the pages of my diary and that 287-page book that was worked so tirelessly on by myself and the staff.
Turning the pages of that volume and rereading the thoughtful notes that classmates addressed to me, I stumble across Robby’s message. I run my fingers over his signature, and I can feel where his pen pressed into the page, forever leaving his mark. The passage tickles my lips into a grin as space and time spin me backwards to the last days in May of 2003.
Many signers referenced my then upcoming move to South Dakota, but he didn’t. He may not have even known. His messy yet legible scrawl reads:
“Hey there Rachel-I didn’t really know you that well before this year, but I really think you are a cool person (even for a punk kid). Actually, I’ve realized that punk music isn’t all horrible. I hope you have wonderful years to come in college. This yearbook is really great by the way. You guys really did good. Best quote all year, “Robby! You ruin everything!”
It’s amusing that Robby considered me a punk kid, labeling me so because I frequented a place called the Mac Stack, a small business in town that sold music and had a decent sized venue in the back of the store. My besties and I would attend punk shows nearly every week, watching the performances of local high school bands and gawking at hot guys strumming hot guitars. As if to honor my sacred time at the place at which I ritually gathered with my friends, the Mac Stack closed in 2004, shortly after I moved away.
This was also the height of Avril Lavigne’s musical reign, and I more than once went to school attired in a T-shirt and loose, black neck tie. On top of that, my favorite store was Hot Topic, because they were one of the first retailers to sell so many great nostalgia items. Most of my purchases there consisted of screen tees of TV shows and movies from my childhood, ranging from Jim Henson’s Labyrinth to the infamous still of The Breakfast Club.
I did indulge in what some people may consider “edgier” clothing, my favorite being a burgundy fishnet long sleeve top, as well as flared military green pants that had more zippers than necessary. Though these pieces were a regular part of my wardrobe’s rotation, most of my clothing was what could be considered “preppy.”
Robby appeared to be a Zac Morris level prep. For him, it must have been simpler to categorize me elsewhere because of this difference in interests between us—although I could very much be doing the same to him.
Knowing these traits about me, and that I occasionally was asked by the journalism advisor to contribute stories to the newspaper, Robby once recommended that I write a review of Avril Lavigne’s album, Let Go, when the editors were trying to figure out who to assign the task.
I was working on the sofa; Robby and the rest of the newspaper editors were sitting in a semi-circle on the floor in front of me.
He looked up at me from where he was seated, legs criss-crossed in front of him, head tilted to the side so his blonde hair fell handsomely across the front of his face.
His eyes were clearly made of crystal, and they gleamed at me as he said to his co-editors, “Rachel can write it.”
He never took his eyes off of me as he said it, and his mouth was curved into a sultry half-smile.
I shrugged off his recommendation and declined the opportunity to write the review, but I still appreciated his consideration of me all the same, not only because he was trying to offer me space in the paper, but because he had thought about me. Robby knew enough about me to suggest me for an article that was actually relevant to my interests, and he thought I’d be good for the job. It was a small moment, but it made my day, boosting my confidence ever so slightly.
The summer before senior year, the newspaper and yearbook staffs attended a journalism camp in Austin. I was very reluctant to attend, regardless of my love for the subject. I wasn’t very close to anyone on either staff, and I was going to miss my core group of friends.
This was 2002, and although we all were equipped with our own cell phones, they weren’t smart. There was no Wi-Fi or streaming. Texting cost extra on our plans, so most of us didn’t do it unless we were prepared for our parents to yell at us when the bill arrived. If we did text, we had to do so via T9. If we were lucky, we had one game on our phones: Snake. Social media did not exist.
We entertained ourselves for the long drive by carrying our Walkmans, wired headphones, and CD cases. Those who didn’t get motion sickness would read, and those who were fancy had portable DVD players. No tablets, and laptops were rare.
Browsing a person’s CD collection was a good way to learn more about them. It was also a convenient means to mix up your own playlist by swapping CD’s with the person next to you.
I sat near Robby on the bus, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I did it on purpose, sliding into the window seat of the ugly black cushioned row adorned with a purple, blue and red confetti design, right across the aisle from that cute blonde guy I’d started to notice. Despite knowing that we did not have the same taste in music, we swapped cases. His was a large, clean black fabric case. Mine was also a black fabric case, but it was small and adorned with buttons and a patch of Animal playing the drums from the Weezer music video safety-pinned to the front. Turning the weighted pages of the book that housed his collection, I paused as I ran my fingers over the smooth pockets that contained every album of Led Zeppelin’s.
That’s hot.
I had never listened to the band with intention, only recognizing their hits when played in the media, but I always had an openness and respect for all genres, and I appreciated the band’s contribution to the musical world.
When the euphonious sound of Led Zeppelin stokes my ears, I am still reminded of Robby.
The irony of Robby’s actual senior quote by Robert Burns is not lost on me. I’m divulging one of life’s most anguishing experiences: the crush. Having kept my affection for Robby to myself and not taking any action, I may as well have been the mouse, enduring torment despite my best laid plans, when I could have been experiencing joy.
Rediscovering Robby’s signature and his reference to our shared moment did momentarily make me feel as if that magical connection I was hoping for had been sparked. Yet, I have absolutely no memory of what I signed in Robby’s yearbook. For the sake of Fuck, I hope it doesn’t say anything dull, but something reciprocally as sweet as what he wrote to me, while also reminding him that he “ruined everything,” to bind it.
Why Robby left such an impression from such a short segment of my life is an enigma, the effect so lasting that this random moment we shared slips into my head well into adult-, wife-, and motherhood, woven into my womanhood like a single white thread amongst a knit of black. My infatuation with him was fleeting, but it exemplifies how a person never knows how much of an impact one being will have on another.
I will never receive the gratification of knowing if Robby remembers me, but I hope he does, even if the recollections are brief, vague and rare. I hope if he does, the memories make his heart beam, just as mine does when I hear Robert Plant serenade my senses with the classic lyrics we all know.
Because Robby didn’t ruin everything; he made everything better.