In eighth grade, it was all about Scott Dambaugh. I was IN LOVE WITH HIM, you guys. His carrot-spiked hair. His Jnco jeans. Fuck, I loved him.
He sat in front of me in science class and my heart would beat like the wings of a pterodactyl. Everyone knew I liked him. My homeroom/Algebra teacher Mr. Rubinsak knew I liked him. SCOTT knew I liked him.
Two of my friends took a picture of him rounding the corner of the hallway one time and had it blown up to an 8×10. They weren’t very covert, he was looking straight at the camera. And they presented me with the print in front of our entire home room. They would write notes pretending to be from him and slip them into my locker.
One day after school, he was walking home down the fire lane, which was parallel to Mr. Rubinsak’s room. Mr. Rubinsak opened the window and called out, “Scott! Someone in here wants to ask you to the dance!” and two of my classmates, Jared and Damien, tried to drag me over to the window. One of them dropped my head and it bounced a few times off the the floor. I didn’t sue, because I was already damaged.
I was paired up with Scott for an assignment one day in science and I couldn’t even breathe. My hands were clammy. I developed a stutter. I kept the notes we took because I was a fucking love sick stalker bitch.
Today, I was looking for something else to put in here, and I found a piece of notebook paper with Scott’s penciled handwriting. I’ve been saving it since 1992. While I was scanning it, I was doing this deep-throated laugh that comes out when I’m particularly pleased with something. Behind me, Alisha mumbled, “God, I hate when you laugh like that. It’s so fucking creepy.”
And yes, I used to make my mom drive me past his house.