From "The Many Loves of Lyttle Poe"

The story you are about to read is guaranteed 100% true. Only the names have been changed...

I thought turning sixteen meant I’d be like the teens on TV: happy, popular, riding around in cars with boys, having the time of my life. Instead, sixteen wasn’t much different from fifteen, or twelve for that matter. I desperately wanted a boyfriend, but nobody was remotely interested in me. The reason seemed clear: popular girls had straight hair, tiny noses, and soft southern drawls. I, on the other hand, was stuck with curly hair, a fat nose, and an obnoxious Yankee accent

I would gladly have dated any boy in town, but I especially dreamed about a boy named Malcolm. All us hippie wannabees loved him. His main qualifications were that he had long hair and had once been hospitalized for an overdose. I thought if I impressed him with my cleverness and wit, he’d ask me out. But like everyone else, he studiously avoided me.

Finally I decided to find my own boyfriend--someone so desperate he’d never reject me. I noticed one boy who always hung out on the school steps with about three other guys, hands in pockets. A quick check of the yearbook told me his name: Chris Rigsby.

Here were his excellent qualifications:
1) I never saw him with a girl, so that meant he didn’t already have a girlfriend. 2) He was a sophomore, a year younger than me, which gave me some power over him.
3) He was homely, with a huge overbite, so he probably wouldn’t be too choosey.
4) He had long hair. (After all, I did have some principles!)

Thus I set out on a campaign to win him.

The problem was, how did you become girlfriends with someone? I had no opportunities to talk to him, and what would I say anyway? Newsweek magazine was reporting on something called Women’s Liberation, but every teen magazine warned over and over about the dangers of girls “chasing” boys. You were supposed to wait for him to notice you.

So my campaign consisted of me watching his every move. Conveniently my best friend set her sights on Chris’s best friend. She and I spent every available moment sighing over our “loves,” or sitting in her bedroom, singing songs like ”I’ll Get You in the End” and willing it with all our hearts.

Every day I wrote entries in my diary like:
“Saw my sweetie CR coming out of the auditorium. He had on bellbottoms. He is adorable!”
or
“Today I passed CR in the hall and broke into a grin which I couldn’t stop. I have a feeling he saw me.”

But I still hadn’t actually met him. I thought I had it made when a friend told me she was acquainted with Chris. (She incidentally had also slept with Malcolm, an act she described as “awful.”) I was awed by her sophistication and I begged her to introduce Chris and me.

So the next morning, she and I wandered over to his crowd on the school steps. But here’s all she said to him: “Oh Chris, was that your sports car I saw you getting out of? No? Well, I guess it must be your mother’s then.” I was furious with her when the bell rang and we had to go to class. “Well then, let’s go back this afternoon,” she said. But I told her no, it’d be too embarrassing.

Anyway it didn’t matter. By this time, my infatuation had grown to such astronomical proportions, I’d felt like I was standing next to one of the Beatles. My heart had pounded. I thought I’d faint. What if I made a fool of myself? Under the circumstances my only sensible option was to go back watching him from afar.

A few weeks later, one of the most popular boys in school overheard me telling jokes in the hall and laughed so hard he fell on the floor. Later he kissed my hand (twice!) and told me I looked like Barbra Streisand. After that I lost all interest in Chris--or Malcolm.