My First Idol

“Stop daydreaming Mr. Delano.”

In a fleeting moment, Mrs. Frampton, casting the delicate wallflower of my adoration into the grotesque limelight of her own indifference, abruptly terminated my contemplation of the paramount subject of my existence: Andrea Taylor.

The setting is the spring of 2005; I find myself in the seventh grade at Fort Sumter Middle School, the domicile of the Trojans. Positioned one row ahead and three columns to my right reigns Andrea, a source of both elation and vexation. While it grants me nearly uninterrupted observations of her during our second and fifth periods, it also thrusts her into close

proximity to Kyle Schwimmer, another seventh grader whose bicep peaks seem immeasurable, thereby compelling me to conclude that he has been intravenously injecting steroids since infancy. His hair, defying the laws of thermodynamics, inexplicably retains a glossy sheen long after we expect it to have dried. I hold an intense aversion for Kyle Schwimmer.

Now, let us turn our attention to Andrea herself. Ah, Andrea! She adorns herself with cascading brown tresses, meticulously layered and reminiscent of Kevlar, adorned in Abercrombie and Hollister tank tops, gracefully floating on all-white Etnies, and tastefully draped in tattered and acid-washed denim. If Helen, Esther, Cleopatra, or even Megan Fox herself were to stand before me, their collective allure would pale in comparison to the blazing furnace of affection I harbor for Andrea Taylor.

She has the extraordinary ability to elevate everything she touches. Even the idea of braces, once unthinkable, became an inevitable conclusion after months of ardent debate between my mother and me. She, advocating for the merits of deferred gratification through orthodontics; I, reluctant to endure two long years of public humiliation before my muse. That is, until Andrea graced us one Monday morning, her teeth adorned with alternating pink and key-lime green squares - her two favorite colors, and now mine as well. Either she willingly embraced this adornment, or her parents imposed it upon her. Either way, my solidarity with her was unwavering.

"I implore you to cease your daydreaming, Mr. Delano! You are not even on the correct page. You must snap out of it before this evening. Just imagine, you in front of the entire school!"

As the solitary member of my seventh-grade class to have earned a place on the Principal's List for four consecutive quarters, I had been chosen by the esteemed Student Council to deliver the customary student speech at the Spring awards banquet. My entire family would be in attendance, along with a significant portion of the student body and their families. My

speech had been meticulously prepared weeks in advance, but the grandeur of the occasion, the donning of garishly mismatched ties and dress shirts, a peculiar talent possessed by adolescent boys, and the prospect of performing in the evening all demanded more than a mere recitation of facts or a timid acknowledgment of my fellow students and faculty. It beckoned for an infusion of romance.

Everything in my life had seemingly conspired for this very moment, thanks in no small part to Disney Channel movies, which had shaped my perceptions. This was my opportunity to declare my intentions, to confess my love for Andrea. I began to craft my momentous address.

Let it be understood that the narrative I recount is not an exercise in fiction. I am firmly convinced that if the same sequence of events does not unfold hourly in middle schools across the nation, it can be attributed less to a lack of imagination or romantic inclination among adolescent boys and more to their hesitance in revealing such sentiments. My case may be unique in that I did indeed declare my love, but then again, my love for Andrea was far from ordinary.

The fateful night arrived. I hastily exited my mother's van, situated just in time to witness Kyle Schwimmer emerging from the passenger seat of his older brother's Mazda Miata, a convertible. A curse upon his abode! I was adorned in a light-blue button-down shirt, hurriedly ironed khaki pants, and, in defiance of my mother's protests, a striped tie consisting of shades of green and pink. Kyle, on the other hand, was attired entirely in black. Initially, I found this to be utterly absurd, but upon closer inspection, it seemed less ludicrous. I pondered why I had not chosen an all-black ensemble. My resentment towards Kyle Schwimmer intensified.

We proceeded to walk past familiar landmarks, although in the darkness and given the significance of the evening, I struggled to recognize anything. That is, until I heard her voice. Andrea, accompanied by her parents, followed closely behind us. My younger brother stumbled over a step, and my disdain for him was boundless. Remarkably, Andrea seemed oblivious to his mishap and did not attribute his clumsiness to me, despite our close relation.

I held the door open for her and my mother expressed her gratitude with a tone of mild surprise, inadvertently exposing my feigned gallantry. I could not escape the nagging suspicion that during the brief transition from the van to the school, I had plummeted from the depths of Andrea's esteem, much like one of Milton's angels falling into the deepest recesses of Hell. As she entered through the door, an entrance of unparalleled force, she greeted me with a casual,

"Hi John!" In an instant, I ascended from Inferno to Purgatory to Paradise. My responses were limited to monosyllables, but they seemed to have some effect, as she graced me with a smile before proceeding to the cafeteria-turned-banquet-hall.

Andrea was resplendent in a strapless white dress adorned with black polka dots, a sight that made me slightly uneasy, given her bare shoulders and the possibility of Kyle Schwimmer's prying eyes. She complimented her outfit with black flats, a crimson handbag, and a bewildering combination of blush and eye-shadow. To me, it appeared as the embodiment of beauty, though it might have struck an older member of her gender as comical.

Thirty minutes passed, during which I was escorted to a seat on stage by Mrs. Frampton. The cafeteria grew increasingly crowded, and my stomach transformed into a sanctuary of butterflies. Finally, it was my moment to speak. I addressed my peers, their parents, the faculty, and the administration, making general observations about the year's progress. In

essence, I delivered the entirety of my two-minute speech, which had undergone rigorous scrutiny from my father, Mrs. Frampton, and the assistant principal. However, I was not done. Retrieving another sheet of college-ruled paper from my shirt pocket, a composition that had been scrutinized by no one but myself, I began anew.

I found myself in a state of catatonia. The scattered applause that followed served only to accentuate the emptiness that had overtaken the middle school cafeteria. Mrs. Frampton quietly guided me down the steps to the vacant seat between my father and younger brother. The assistant principal cleared his throat and resumed as though I had never uttered a word.