Call It What You Want...

It was eighth grade. It's a bad enough time to be alive without a ninth-grade brother to complicate things.

I walked into rehearsal for the current play I was in, and one of my friends, a Mr. R____, was behaving in a strange manner. After some time of awkward avoidance, he finally told me, "Your brother says you like someone in this cast." What? I was taken aback. How would my brother know such things? I would certainly never have told him anything of the sort, even if I had happened to have spoken to him (entirely by accident, I am sure). I wouldn't have mentioned to anyone else any interest in any young man of our acquaintance. And to whom would he be referring?

Hmm, looking about, the options were endless. It was a rather large cast, and, indeed, I had a rather large list to choose from. There might have been one or two who would land higher on my list (and those of every other eighth-grade girl in the cast), and there were certainly those who weren't even in the running (even for me, hard to believe but true).

Mr. R____ finally came out with it. The person my brother had told him that I liked was... him. My brother, discretion personified, had, apparently (and so it was found to be true) read my diary, and had harvested juicy tidbits for future use. What a dear boy he was, and so insightful to find the book stashed in such a secret spot. (Knowing me, I'd probably left myself a note of where to find it.) But back to the revelation.

How does one answer such a thing????? You can't admit it, for heaven's sake. Even if he had occupied one of those higher spots on the list (which I don't think he did, though time and knowledge of future events might shape my recollections here), it would be beyond the humiliation facing me to admit any particular feelings toward this individual. Let it be known here and now, though, that my attentions and interests at the time were neither highly focused nor selective (those who know might remember "Herman" and other notables who shall remain unnamed for the sake of this writer and any innocent bystanders). So to say that R_____ may have garnered a mention in my personal literature would not be surprising as the list included a great many young men of my acquaintance -- and not a few with whom I was not acquainted. If admitting it would be humiliating for me, what does denial do for the party who has broached the subject? "Gee, R_____, he must be mistaken, for I find you repugnant. Good heavens, how could I like you? I would sooner like (fill in the name of a more repulsive cast member here)!"

I don't remember how I answered the comment, but I think it was some hot denial of even keeping a diary. I doubt it flew. The next day he was "going with" A___, a girl in my grade who I did not know well, but to whom he introduced me. She was a very nice girl. I did make a point of noting that in my non-existent diary for peeping eyes to read. In the years to follow, though, R____ remained my friend, and never again did the issue of the diary rear its ugly head. At least in that circle. I am sure said brother read it for the rest of its life, but I didn't hear about it after he outgrew that ninth-grade stage. I also did not become much more discreet, though I did start using code names. Which I then decoded in the back of the very same book. Boy was I a smart one. At any rate, the diary no longer is a part of my memoribilia. Whew. I'm glad I destroyed it. There are journals worth reading after the person is gone. Mine was not.