The Avoidance of Teenage Romantic Attachments: A Cautionary Instruction

Initially, these warnings will be completely unnecessary. After all, fourteen year old girls are potentially the most obnoxiously self-absorbed and giggly creatures with a claim to sentience. A certain appreciation of one's freshly graduated English teacher—that lip-glossed, earnestly concerned smile combined with a complete disregard for the fastening of those two top buttons of her sharply tailored blouse—is entirely a better thing at this point, particularly when combined with the usual outlets of Japanese porn and Buffy the Vampire Slayer (seriously, if high school really were full of girls like Anya...well, at least there would be some use for sex education class). There is no real danger of noticing that long-boned, brace-toothed creature with ridiculously unruly hair who conveniently provides you with a hazing-exempt seat amidst the sea of frosh football players every morning, aside from the normal courtesies. It may be interesting to note, however, with the most complete detachment and scientific interest, the frequency with which she glances at you nervously throughout the thirty minutes it takes to arrive at school. It is possible that she may be a paranoid schizophrenic.

But then, the next year, she will be placed in the desk diagonal to yours in second-period History, and you will be required to awkwardly shove past her random assortment of belongings. There is a slight chance your characteristically overstuffed backpack will shove an unassigned paperback off said girl's desktop, and upon abashedly handing it back to her with perhaps too gruff an apology, you will notice that it is a collection of Tolstoy's short stories, including The Death of Ivan Illyich. Now, note here the first warning: do not, under any circumstances, pause to read the title aloud and comment (while feeling your cheeks start to flush unmanageably) that it is one of your favorites; an dark exploration of life's futility that the most emo wrist-jabber could never appreciate. The over-glittered grin that will break out, revealing teeth now straight and nonmetallic, will be so disconcerting that you will find it hard to concentrate on the following hour's lesson concerning the economies of the Middle and Southern Colonies; a lesson which you would usually find of the greatest interest and import.

Furthermore, it must be added as a purely cautionary note (such foolhardy daring is unlikely enough) that it would be a completely absurd, embarrassingly senseless thing to linger just an extra five seconds at the classroom door after class has ended. A sudden interest in the grades posted there would be permissible if there were any danger whatsoever of yours being any less than just short of perfect, but you've been accused of perfectionism before. You can convince yourself, though you really shouldn't, that this is a perfectly sensible excuse for dawdling as she haphazardly piles about a dozen books into thin arms already bearing about twice the number of brightly-beaded bracelets.

She will, either out of modesty or some more nefarious form of coyness, give you another of those painfully brief grins, and attempt to duck just past you; long legs striding perhaps a little too quickly to her next class, alone. This is, you must understand, the perfect opportunity to let her do so.

Let her walk alone. She will, eventually, anyway.

But such a moment as this will, regrettably, be far too tempting. And despite that aura of self-righteousness (and of course, disinterest) which has so far kept so many young women at bay, you are something of a longtime friend to temptation.

The conversation at this point will be unimportant, as it is merely an indication to her that you are, indeed, accompanying her to her next class, or locker, or wherever she happens to be going. The fact that she slows to your gait almost immediately is a sign that she accepts this fact, perhaps a little too eagerly. This will throw you off momentarily, and instead of making some impressively profound statement on the best author of your home country, you will comment inanely on the weather which is gray and damp today, as is generally the case in the Pacific Northwest.

For better or worse, however, she will smile radiantly as if you have just uttered forth the secret of eternal youth, wealth and happiness. She will say, “I've got Spanish now, the bus—I mean, the book, Russia and—I guess....well, see you later?” This makes absolutely no sense, but the look in her eyes, very much the color of the fogged-over sky (strangely unnoticed before today) will be entirely logical in its way. At very least, it will make sense to you, which indicates either a sudden and complete failure of your own logical faculties or something far more disturbing. This will be ruminated over further as you go to suffer the indignities of Third Period PE and the high school locker room experience in general. Its easy to get fixated on random thoughts at such times though, one must understand, and one must not think anything significant of dwelling on a passably attractive young human female when surrounded by sweaty jock straps and hairy-legged instructors with far too much enthusiasm for their eardrum-splitting whistles.

Afterward, in the comparative haven of Physics class, when your physical constants are getting constantly tangled in the memory of unruly reddish tendrils and the shyly smiling face they framed, you will realize, hopefully with complete dismay, that the morning's fixation was not the product of some escapist fantasy but something far more nefarious indeed.

This slightly terrifying realization may linger for some time and will likely follow a pattern of exposure to and avoidance of its root cause.