I’ve known you since I was tiny, back in the days of mud pies and cooties, back when I know you got teased for having a girl for your best friend. I was the new girl, the smallest one in my class, and scared to death on my first day of third grade. I vaguely remember walking shakily through those huge intimidating doors, seeing ill-defined blurs of laughing classmates through my teary eyes, and then I remember you. Your cocky swagger, your little smirk, the king of elementary school, the fourth grader that even the older kids didn’t mess with. Somehow you picked me out of the crowd and appointed yourself my guardian. You haven’t abandoned that role since.

And here we are, eight years later, strolling down the halls of our high school. You’re a senior, and still king of the school. I’m still the smallest girl in my class. You still have your swagger and I still have my shakes when I’m nervous. But you’re good for me; you bring me out of my shell, make me feel ten feet tall when you smile at me, and never fail to tell me how far you think I’m going to go. Why you, the stunning, popular, talented lacrosse star, are walking down the hall with your arm slung around the shoulders of the short, slightly geeky, average Jane is beyond me.

I realize I’ve been a little too quiet, so I speak up. “Hey, ya know what?” I ask.

“What?” you question, cracking one of those gorgeous smiles.

“My birthday’s in a week!”

“6 days,” you correct me. I do a quick tally in my head, and it turns out you’re right. I shouldn’t be surprised; you always keep better track of these things than I do. For the love of Pete, you remember the anniversary of the day we decided to be best friends forever (the December after we met, incidentally). And here I thought guys were supposed to be bad keeping track of dates.

“That’s right,” I tell you. “So, did you get me a present?” I grin, already knowing the answer. You always get me a present.

“Nah,” you smirk at me. “I forgot.” We both know that’s ridiculous- you never pass up a chance to buy me a gift- but I hit your arm anyway, feigning annoyance. I do this often: pretend to be mad and hit you. Really it’s just a chance for me to touch you, but you don’t need to know that. I’ve been pulling that trick for three years, and if you haven’t called me on it yet, you’re never going to.

I wish you would.

I wish you’d pull me aside and let me know one way or another how you really feel about me. Don’t you know I’m going crazy over here not knowing? I’m head over heels, totally sprung over you, but how do you feel about me? There are days I think you return my feelings, days where I catch you staring at me, days when you seem softer around me and I get the impression that you just want to pull me into your arms and hold me forever. But that could be wishful thinking. I’ve seen too many friends totally misread a guy, and get completely shot down when he gives her the “just friends” speech. If I were the kind of girl to take the initiative and tell you how I feel, would I get that same speech?

And here we are at my classroom- physics, ugh- and you slide your arm off my shoulder.

“Bye,” I say, smiling up at that gorgeous face of yours.

“What, no goodbye kiss?” you ask. My heart leaps into my throat, a shiver runs down my spine, and I feel my whole body tingling for a moment before I hit the ground again, the grim realization that you must have been kidding resounding in my mind.

“You wish,” I shoot back, struggling to keep my voice light and teasing. I don’t turn around to look at you again. I don’t want you to see the tears suddenly in my eyes, and I don’t want you to see the hope there either.

It’s not you that wishes for that kiss. It’s me.