Kristine Ova
The First Time
This is the first time for me to write something of this nature. This piece is the first of a series of firsts. I am a bit apprehensive, because I am in fact cursed. It is true; I have the curse of the first. Every single thing I have done for the first time has been filled with unexplainable bad luck. Everything. In an attempt to break the evil spell put on me at birth, I shall publicly acknowledge that this piece will in fact be disastrous. By publishing this to the digitalabstract.com web site, I acknowledge that I will incur the horrific wrath of fate.
However, It is my theory (and my hope), that by talking about it, the sinister magic will be dispelled. I start, of course at the beginning- my first boyfriend, our first conversation.
The first time I talked to my first boyfriend, my first real boyfriend, was unforgettable. I’m not counting those who would walked me home from school only to have my older brother lurk behind them, waiting for the opportune time to trip them, knock them down, grab their backpack and play keep away- I’m talking about the boy that introduced me to all the sweet firsts of love. Of course, with me, each of these firsts was anything but normal.
I was scared to death.
I knew it was going to go bad. My experiences in the past did not lend any support.
I was, I guess what you would say vociferous as a child. I was the child who would, with no reservation run around naked through the neighborhood looking for sprinklers to jump through -any sprinkler jumping aficionado will tell you that the best way, the only way is naked. I was that annoying child whose mother took to the grocery store after dance class, who would tap dance and sing Wham songs up and down the aisles. "Wake me up before you go-go
Take me dancing tonight. I wanna hit that high (yeah, yeah)".
That was pretty much the only one I sang... I mean,
have you ever tried tap dancing to "Careless Whisper"?
This curse made itself known one day in my fourth year,
a day that I decided it was just about time for me to have my first kiss.
I decided the worthy recipient of my princess kiss was my brother’s best friend. That night they were to baby sit me while the parents went to a soccer game. We were all seated on the floor between the living room coffee table and the couch watching, if I remember correctly, some show with Luke Stawbuck or Roger Starbuck, whatever. I decided to just kiss this boy. The fact that I was four, he was fourteen, was inconsequential to me. I kissed him, he not expecting it to say the least, pushed me away, straight into the coffee table. Blood gushed, parents came home, we had to explain to the parents that I had a gash on my head because I kissed
Ed Ploppa ( this is his real name. Go ahead, Ed, write me hate mail, but dude, that scar you left on my forehead- still there)
The first time I admitted I had a crush on someone to a friend, this friend asked who else I thought was cute. Me being a proper Virgo, (I call it thorough, everyone else calls it neurotic), I made an itemized list of the boys I found cute, numbered one through ten in descending order based on the level of cuteness, for which I naively gave to her, in confidence. Somehow this list made it to the homeroom black board. The worst part of this was the looks of death I got from the boy ranked tenth.
The first time I called a boy I had a crush on - number one on the itemized list, I was nervous but I was still undaunted, I had to call him to at least explain why, point by point, he was placed at the number one spot. At this juncture, I couldn’t of course talk to him. What I actually decided to do was call, and play this Yaz, Upstairs at Eric’s song (you know, THAT one). Well, as I made the anonymous phone call of love, my mother comes in to my room stands right next to me and yells “Kristine Kelly Ova! What are you going?” Anonymous no more. Apparently, it was my week to do dishes.
Now daunted, now painfully aware of the explicit message the universe was sending me, I was scared to call this person who would be my first boyfriend.
We’ll call him Jake.
There was this boy we went to middle school with who one day decided to change his name from Ronald to Jake. Inexplicability, from that he went from quiet, unpopular to super stud, it was like the magic of Jake Ryan, and we all wanted to be Molly Ringwald. My guy tried to follow in Ronald-Jake-Jake Ryan footsteps, but for him, it didn’t quite work out as he planned. So, in honor, we’ll from here on out refer to my first boyfriend as Jake.
Why I had to call him – he pulled what I now know to be the classic maneuver of calling someone when you know they won’t be there, leave a message to have them call you – off the hook. It took me I think, three hours to finally dial the last digit of his number. I couldn’t even bring myself to do the call and hang up thing, even though Caller ID had yet to exist;
I knew he would somehow just know it was me.
I’m cursed, you know.
I didn’t have a clue as to what to say to him, I had to actually write out on a sheet of paper in front to me “Hi Jake, this is Kristine”, because while practicing ( yes, I actually practiced what to say) I kept saying “ Hi Kristine, this Jake”.
What would I say next?
When he answered, my mind at first went blank. Forget getting the names mixed up, I couldn’t even think of the purpose of a name. What was now going through my head was ‘What is a name? Name…I think it is something we call someone…How do you spell name?’. The room became fuzzy and the only thing I could hear was my heart beating like a butterfly.
All I can say now is thank God for white bread.
Next to me in the kitchen was a loaf of Godsend. After he said “Hello?”, I started this first conversation with my first love with “You know what is great about Mrs. Baird’s bread - the white bread ball you can make". My first coherent thought occurred next, with me telling myself, ‘Did I really just say that? Abort! Hang up right now before you cause further embarrassment; if he asks later, adamantly deny that it was you!'.
But, there it was - I knew right then and there, that was the moment - he was the one. He responded with “That’s my favorite way to eat bread!". He then went on to describe thoroughly his unique process of making the perfect white bread ball- True Love.
Next – My first date…
.....................FROMAADTOECAA.....................
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