Seventh Grade: I am a romantic, albeit a hunchbacked, shy, scrawny,
bespectacled, and unconfident one. I step with one eye down on the
floor, petrified at making eye contact with anyone. The other eye,
daring to be bold, looks up hesitantly, searching not for anything in
particular, but someone in particular. The one who is the Juliet to my
Romeo, or in my case, the Princess Leia to my Han Solo. The apish
athlete in front of me heaves himself to the left, clearing my otherwise
obstructed vision. It was then that I saw her: beautiful, luminescent,
and… totally uninterested in me.

Alas, nothing, not even my one hundred percent chance of failure, would
stop me. My heart speeds up as if following the lead of an invisible
conductor. The orchestra’s once placid music becomes a frenzied piece
with no melody. I try to gather myself as the distance between us
decreases. Feet turn to inches turn to centimeters and I am now beside
her. With the speed of a supercomputer, I assess my options, of which there are only two: say something or forever hold my peace. But what to say?

My repertoire of pickup lines was a null-set, a recess of my mind filled
with empty space and cobwebs. If anything, my pickup lines were
pickdown lines, incantations guaranteed to make all girls within a 12
mile radius vacate the area. To hell with pickup lines. I had a way with
words anyway, didn’t I? I’ll just improvise it. After all, aren’t some
of the best film scenes improvised?

Deep breath. I’ve got the eye of the tiger. Deeper breath. My mouth
opens and the first thing that comes to my head escapes my lips:

“I like mayonnaise.”

My pale white skin turns a strawberry red and I run away quickly as I came, arms flailing.