Charlie was his name.
The love bug bit him hard. But I couldn't say the same for me.
The kid bombarded me daily with flowery weeds and a ton of love notes. They usually read: I love you. Do you love me? Yes or No. Or, will you be my girlfriend? Yes or No. He even drew me a picture of his idea of a dream house for us and what our children would look like.
He lived in the trailer park I lived in. Everyday after school and on weekends, he would ride his bike over to my house and pop a few wheelies. "You sure look purdy today," he would say, giving me a toothless smile. I wonder to this day if he grew his teeth in.
The poor kid was clumsy-looking and always barefoot, except when he was in school. Dirty feet grossed me out back then. And they still do today.
No matter what Charlie did, I wasn't impressed. The poor kid didn't get it. For a whole year he tried. He even carried my books home from the bus stop. EVERYDAY!
A year later, tragedy struck his family. Rumor had it, he ended up in foster care. Poor Charlie. I never saw him again after that. I felt horrible because I never said thank you for carrying my books.
Charlie, I'm thanking you now. And hope that you're happily married, in your dream house with your three kids and a nice set of teeth. Hope you're keeping your feet clean, too.
Hugs and chocolate, all!
Shelly
