Charlie’s first day in a new school. Half the academic year had already passed. Tough to jump on a moving train. He navigated unfamiliar hallways of glazed cinderblock with his stomach in knots, all too aware that the rowdy kids surrounding him knew each other, and that he knew no one. 

After reporting to the school office, he was directed to his homeroom. The door was closed. Through the wired glass he saw a heavy-set, disheveled teacher leaning against her desk, talking to the class. He entered the room cautiously, trying to create as little disruption as possible but, as he walked in, all heads turned to look at him. The teacher’s eyes narrowed, her audible exhale registered irritation with the interruption. He held out a piece of paper from the principal, feeling every bit the new guy in town. She read it and her face softened. “Take a seat.” She pointed to one in the last row. As he threaded his way past desks and judgmental stares, an attractive girl in the third row smiled at him in that fleeting, half-hearted way one does when catching a stranger’s glance. It might not have meant anything to her, but it did to him. 

Charlie learned that the girl’s name was Amanda. He thought her name as lovely as her unblemished skin, which was the color of toasted bread, and the sheen of her silky dark hair. He would have liked to talk to her, but worried about coming off too eager, too nervous, or worse. He felt awkward around girls––didn’t know what to say, or what to do with his hands. That evening, he practiced several opening lines, and a few follow-up paragraphs. They all sounded stiff and wrong. If starting a conversation was this hard while looking in the mirror, it would be impossible face-to-face. That’s when it occurred to him to write her a note. Approach her the old-fashioned way. Make his overture distinctive. Use fancy paper. Be impressive.   

The next day, after school, he rode his bike to a small shop where he bought a blank note card, the heavy, formal-looking kind, with a bright blue border. His twenty-speed bike, which he prized, was a similar blue; he hoped the color might bring him luck. 

By bedtime, he’d written several draft notes, but tossed all of them away. Too wordy. Don’t trip yourself up, he thought. Keep it simple. 

“Hi. I would like us to be friends. Can I take you to lunch on a Saturday? Maybe to the pizza place near school? Let me know. I will wait to hear from you.” 

He slipped the card into its envelope and sealed the flap. That next morning, after a restless night, he tucked the envelope into one of the textbooks beneath Amanda’s seat when she was at the teacher’s desk. Did it as fast as he could, afraid of losing his nerve, amazed and relieved that no one seemed to notice. He shook with anticipation, feeling both vulnerable and thrilled. 

All during first period, he waited for Amanda to open that book but was disappointed. He went through the rest of the day with a bad case of grinding impatience, knowing that it was Friday, and he would have to wait until Monday before seeing her again.  

Charlie spent the weekend with his thoughts riveted on Amanda. While unpacking boxes and helping his family settle into their new home, his mind refused to slow. Everyone likes pizza, right? But which toppings? Their first date had to be perfect. He imagined different moments when he might reach across the table and take hold of her hand. He would tell her that it had been her smile that first got his attention, but it was the graceful way she held herself that truly captivated him. Elegant. He’d ask if she’d been trained as a dancer? What music did she like? What were her favorite movies? Books? Was she a baseball fan? He hoped so. Which teams did she root for? Probably the Dodgers; he liked the Mets. No matter what she liked, he would make an effort to like it, too. Such a notion was new territory for him, but it seemed right.

In return, he could share stories of his life before moving here. About a few of his bicycle adventures. There was the time he’d gone exploring, riding on trails deep in the dense woods beyond his house and become lost. How he had come out on the far side of the forest, in a different section of their subdivision, in a place he had never seen before. How he wound up on a street with the same name as his, but where none of the houses were recognizable. Like being in a science-fiction movie—frightening and disorienting. 

Monday morning, he arrived at school twenty minutes early, the wait nerve-racking but worth it. Amanda entered wearing a bright blue blouse, much like the border of his note card. He took it as a good omen. She paused in the doorway, surveying her classmates. She wore eye make-up, and had pulled her hair back. Charlie smiled at her and raised his index finger as she quickly glanced past him at others. Was that shyness, or was she playing hard to get? Patience, he counseled himself, though he could barely contain his excitement.  

By the end of the day, he was firmly in the clutches of profound insecurity, fearful that Amanda had no intention of acknowledging him. He could think of no reason why she should. There was nothing exceptional about him. He had no remarkable hobbies and was lazy, having only done enough in school to get passable grades. He didn’t think of himself as particularly handsome or athletic either. He vowed that from this day on he’d try harder. Swore it to himself. 

After a few more days of being ignored, he was fed up. Maybe Amanda wasn’t the sweet, sophisticated person he’d thought she was. Maybe she was a snobby, privileged brat who considered herself too good for people like him. Self-doubt shifted to anger. Upset and confused, he decided to confide in his older sister, a resource he rarely called upon because she often teased him. Nevertheless, she was in high school and had always been popular. “I have a question,” he said, walking into her room. “You’re a girl.” 

“That better not be your question.” She laughed. 

Charlie flinched and then smirked. “If a boy wrote you a note, you’d answer him, right?” 

“It depends on what he wrote.” 

“What if he told you he wanted to be friends, and offered to take you to lunch.” 

Charlie’s sister tossed her hair back. “Sure. I’d answer you––I mean, him.” She smiled, knowingly. 

He sighed. “I can’t figure out what I did wrong.” 

“Maybe nothing. Maybe it’s her.” 

“I wondered about that, too.” 

His sister patted him on the head, a gesture he usually hated, but at that moment found comforting. “How did you sign the note?” she asked. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Did you end it with ‘Very truly yours’ or ‘All the best’ or ‘Love’?” 

Charlie paused, then slapped his hands against his thighs and groaned with exasperation. “I didn’t—” 

“You didn’t what? You just wrote your name at the end of the note, without a closing?” 

Charlie’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t write anything,” he said, on the verge of tears. “Not even my name.” 

His sister, trying not to laugh, wrapped her arms around her brother and gave him a squeeze. “Hey. It’s okay. Just tell her what happened.” 

He shook his head, deflated and dejected. “Don’t think I can.” 

“Of course you can. And, if she’s as nice as you hope, she’ll probably be flattered and think you’re cute. If not, move on. Either way, don’t stress. They’ll be other girls.” 

Charlie shook his head, feeling anything but cute, and certain that there wouldn’t be.