I had a “girlfriend” briefly in first grade, whatever that meant. I think she gave me her animal shaped eraser as a symbol of our deepening relationship. I liked her enough that I lied to the teacher about how bad my vision (or hearing) was, so I could move up to the front row of the class, next to L. Her house was so far away it was on a different bus route, which to a six year old might as well be a different country. How were two six-year olds supposed to get some quality time together?

Well, my brother was in cub scouts, and for at least one scout season (I don’t know the terms; even at that age I found the uniforms and ritual a little off-putting) I would take a different bus to the den mother’s (I know that’s correct) house after school and hang out there with her son J, while Jim and his hive made lanyards, or whatever. I didn’t pay attention unless it was wooden race-car week. 

My “girlfriend” lived on the same bus route as J and his mom. One week, while we were an item, we hatched a plan to be together after school. The route went down Dott Ave, until a cross-street, stopped to let kids off, then turned back up Arcadia past her house/stop, and then moved on to other neighborhoods. She and I sat together on the bus: I had the window, she had the isle. Maybe she was granting me the gift of the window view for this strange new adventure, but probably so she was on the side of my good ear. 

In my experience modern six year olds don’t demonstrate good communication or planning skills, and I don’t suppose that’s a recent phenomenon. I thought I would get off at the turn as usual, drop off my stuff at J’s and walk down the street to her house. She must have thought the plan was for me to get off the bus with her at her house, because when we reached “my” stop, I stood up, and she just sat there, looking up at me, her knees blocking my progress out. I can’t recall if I said anything, or just gawked at her dumbfounded, but it wasn’t long before the driver closed the door and restarted the bus.

I don’t remember anything but the emotion of abject terror as the bus started moving; maybe some vague sense of betrayal. What I definitely remember is jog-weeping down the street towards J’s, the white nylon straps of my backpack cutting into my shoulders after getting off the bus at “her” stop up the next street. 

I am pretty sure that was the end of our relationship. I know we’re not still together.

(Names have been redacted to protect the innocent)