FEATURE — Johnny Record sent me daily notes in the fifth grade asking me to “rate” his quality as my boyfriend. I consistently gave him a five-star rating.
Even though our relationship basically amounted to those daily notes and his occasional calls to my parent’s landline to play me “Little Surfer Girl” by the Beach Boys. Oh, and we stared at each other a bit across the school field at recess. But only if no one else was looking.
It wasn’t until the following year, as sixth graders, we went on our first official date.
This particular date was a triple one done on the sly one half-day after school; all six of us walked nearly two miles to Carl’s Junior where the girls were too shy to order more than French fries and one of boys paid with money he borrowed from his mother’s wallet.
It may have been without permission.
In fact, now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure it was without permission. Because that’s what blew the top off the whole date and what got me in trouble with my parents. 1) for going on a date in the sixth grade in the first place; and 2) for eating contraband French fries on said illicit date.
Oh, young love.
My older and wiser sister told me later that the real crime in all of it was that I hadn’t ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. That is, after all, what you are supposed to do on a date. (For the record, she now says that is terrible advice.)
Good thing my boys aren’t walking themselves and their young loves to Carl’s Junior with “borrowed” money from my wallet these days. But that’s probably mostly because there is no longer a Carl’s Junior within walking distance of our house – or their schools. And, quite frankly, I couldn’t take the added drama.
Already, the sixth-grade love drama game is pretty strong at my house. My boy has been in love with the same girl all year. She is cute and smart and sparkly and she likes to bake at night while they FaceTime each other.
Sometimes after school, they take the long way home and get Mexican Cokes at the local market before making their way to my house to do homework.
I got an email from my son’s teacher two days ago saying the (apparently failing) romance was starting to spill over into the classroom: “I guess there is some relationship drama with some of the 6th-grade girls,” she wrote. “They say (your boy) is being mean lately. (Your boy) told me (the girls) are being mean to him.”
Oh, painful young love.
She continued by saying, “I just wanted to let you know so that he does not feel alone or isolated in the process. I know that relationship and break-ups at any age are hard.”
As it was almost lunch time when her email hit my inbox, I made a quick decision to run over to the school and pick up my boy for a little lunch date – with his mom – to talk it all out.
He was sad and hurt and confused. And yes, he admitted he was being mean.
It turns out several other boys think that same girl is cute and smart and sparkly, too. And he’s pretty sure she’s baking at night while they FaceTime each other, too. Even though she says she’s not.
I tried to tell him the hurt would heal. I tried to tell him that loves come and go, until one finally sticks. I tried to tell him that he is the captain of his own ship. No matter the seas.
But he wasn’t really in the head space to hear me. “I just want to know the truth,” he blurted out. “It’s the lying that’s driving me crazy.”
About that time, my older son (who was out of school early that day and had joined us for lunch) got a text from a friend reporting that Post Malone, a prominent rapper who’s hugely popular with all three of my boys, was at a tea bar nearby.
It was the perfect distraction.
We peeled out of the parking lot and sped to the tea bar. They verbally affirmed my high-performance driving and giggled nervously at the prospect of meeting their favorite artist. “I’m 99.9% sure he won’t be here,” I told my boys. “But it’s still fun to try.”
Post Malone wasn’t at the tea bar. As I suspected. But, minutes later, his tricked out white Rolls-Royce was pulling out of a nearby parking lot.
I flipped my car around (don’t tell anyone from my hometown, where celebrity stalking is VERY frowned upon) and gave light chase.
Two-minutes later, we successfully pulled up next to the tinted Rolls at a long red light. “The windows are too dark – we’ll never see him,” lamented my boys. Not on my watch: I rolled down our windows, honked and waved enthusiastically.
Until Post Malone rolled down his window.
I gave the face-tattooed rapper a very short version of my sixth-grader’s bad day. He smiled. Looked kindly into the eyes of my boy in the backseat and said, “Hey, little man. Don’t worry about it. Just stay kick-ass.”
Then, we both drove away. And my boy smiled for the first time in days.
So, Post Malone — wherever you are now — thanks for being sweet enough to know when a boy needs advice other than his mother’s. And for giving it to him.
Kat Dayton is a columnist for St. George News, any opinions given are her own and not representative of St. George News.
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