The Men and the Boys: Sandy

Here in my hand, on a slip of paper, was a boy's phone number. A smart, older, seriously cute boy. And he had given me the number himself. Coercion free.

I'll never forget the first time I called him. I waited a few days on Georgia's advice; didn't want to come across as needy. When the time finally came, I sat cross-legged on the floor and had a staring contest with my dad's green Batman style phone. We got to know each other very well over the next half-hour, me and that phone. I didn't so much have butterflies in my stomach, as a twister of gigantic proportions. My hands were clammy, and I felt sick.

Convincing myself for the millionth time that I was being a reject, I finally picked up and dialed. He answered on the second ring and, to my surprise, recognized me right away. I could hear him smiling on the other end when he said, "I was hoping you'd call sometime soon."

I smiled back, and we spent a long while getting to know each other. Our likes, dislikes, friends, school, hopes, dreams. Several times I even made him laugh. What a laugh.

Be still, my beating heart. She's a simple one, and works like this: Yes or No. Right off. One phone conversation, that's all I needed with this boy. Oh, Sandy. Did you have any idea I'd fallen so hard?

Maybe he did have a clue. The next time we saw each other was at Georgia's house, my haven for meeting boys and having any form of a normal, high school social life. Matt was going to be there too, and so Georgia and I had spent the better part of the evening experimenting with tops and eye shadow. When the doorbell rang, we squealed with excitement and ran to answer the door, she through the kitchen and me through the living room.

Georgia got to the door first. I might have beaten her if at that moment, her 1972, gigantic 300lb wooden television set hadn't decided to take me on. It was positioned on an angle and I barreled right into it as she was opening the door, so the first thing Matt and Sandy saw was gorgeous, dolled up Georgia, and me behind her, flying through the air and falling flat on my face.

I laughed, so did he, and when he helped me up I noticed his sparkling eyes. Maybe, just maybe, this one liked me a little bit too.

We didn't see a lot of each other over the next few months, but we talked almost every night. I miss those conversations. It seemed that most of the time I called him, he was doing his calculus homework and welcomed the break. A few months later, he confessed there'd been times where he wanted me to call, and had flipped through his calculus book in hopes that the magic would work.

When he wasn't writing formulas or doing other homework, he would sit on the couch, phone on his shoulder, and play guitar. He had a Gibson and sometimes, I even got him to sing. Sandy knew I played piano, and suggested we team up and play "Imagine" one day.

When we were together, he was always the gentleman. Our progression was slow, snail's pace. He never tried anything and neither did I, though I badly wanted to. Once, he held my hand. For six seconds. Another time, he put his arm around me. I could feel him shaking slightly. Yet another time at a school dance, we spent a very long time by ourselves, outside, in a quiet corner near the baseball field. Never was there a better makeout time or location, but all he did was talk. Fast. He even paced slightly.

Part of me assumed he was shy with girls. Another part of me knew something was wrong.

I got my answer soon after Christmas. I'd spent the break vacationing in Cuba with my family, and had brought Sandy back a genuine Partagas cigar. We met, again, in Georgia's basement and even though he said he wanted to hear everything about my trip, he seemed distant. I asked what was wrong, and his reply was, "I need to tell you something."

Over two hours later, he still hadn't told me. I couldn't understand why, and was practically at breaking point. "You're going to hate me," he kept saying, "I don't want you to hate me." I assured him I wouldn't, could never hate him, and to please tell me what the matter was. He still couldn't do it.

Five minutes before my curfew, I asked Sandy if writing it down would be easier. He nodded, I flipped through my binder, tore out a half-written page and thrust it at him with a pen. He wrote something in it, but made me swear to not look until I got home.

I'd barely shut the bedroom door when I tore open my bag and unfolded that paper. One line was written on it, and here's what it said: "I think I like you."

Think? You think you like me? I was as head over heels in love as my 16-year old heart would permit, and he was still thinking? I didn't understand what I'd done wrong, or what I was doing wrong, or that if he was feeling even slightly what I was, why it hadn't gone further then just, "I think I like you"?

True to teenage girl form, I waited until my parents were asleep and then called Georgia to tell her what had happened. We had to analyze this to death. Instead, she gave me the second half of Sandy's message.

He had a girlfriend.