First
love is a delicious feeling. It’s a new sensation to the body. The body doesn’t know how to react. It feels
light, giddy. You can’t eat. You have met a boy in school. He is the quiet,
dazzling, good-looking type all girls want to go to the prom with. You are
in the same class. He sits at the back of the room, and whenever you turn your
head he is looking at you. You can’t concentrate on what the teacher is saying.
You have no interest at that moment in mathematics or science. You know this
boy likes you, and you like him too. You think about him in a way you can’t
discuss with your friends. What would a first kiss be like? Will he ask you
out? Will you go steady like Judy who already has a boyfriend with a motorbike
who takes her home every afternoon after school?
The
deliciousness of first love
These
were the kind of things that bounced around in my head when I met Colin my
first year at high school. Colin was one of the teacher’s sons and came to school
in a car. He was cute and looked smart in his grey pants and blazer with his
dark hair combed back Elvis Presley style. The sixties was the best time to be
in love. The
nicest thing about his face was his eyes; they were curious. His right brow was
always raised slightly higher than the left brow. When he looked at you it
seemed as if he was pondering something about you but wasn’t going to ask. He
was well behaved in class. After all, he was the teacher’s son. And he was
clever.
Happy
Days
I discovered very soon my first weeks in high
school that most of the children in Standard Six were cleverer than I. I would
not be coming first or second in class like I had in primary school. The pupils
in my class had teachers and principals for fathers. I didn’t have a father
living in the house. After regular school, I had to go to Moslem school. I
didn’t read the newspaper. I read books and magazines. I didn’t know what was
going on in the world except for the politics in my own country and what came on
the news on the radio.
Did Colin really like me or was I imagining it?
One afternoon during English class, a note was passed up all the way from the
back of the classroom until it landed on my desk.
“It’s from Colin,” Valda whispered. Valda was
my best friend. She knew what a crush I had on Colin.
I looked at the folded note with Zuraida
written in beautiful handwriting on the top. I blushed. Even though Miss Haggis
was talking about prepositions and not starting a sentence with but, I felt
that all the pupils were watching me. I opened the note. I thought I would pass
out with delight. I like you the
note stated. I folded it, turned to look at him, and put the note in my
pocket.
The
fickleness of the early days
I was the centre of attention during the lunch
recess. Everybody wanted to know what the note said. I told them. We giggled
like dizzy school girls, which we were. A few days later my friend Valda turned
to me with a guilty expression. “I’ve got something to tell you, Zuraida. The
note isn’t real. I was the one who told Colin to write you the note. It was
just a joke. I’m so sorry.” I forgave her, of course. And years later when
we had both moved from South Africa
to Canada,
Colin and I would reflect on our school days and remember the note. First love
is delicious, but it can also be deliciously painful. It’s an experience you
never forget as a young girl and something you would never have traded in for
something safe.
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