I was in ninth grade (late bloomer, me) and on a field trip to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. My friends and I attracted the attention of this guy, age sixteen or so, who had dropped out of school and spent his days hanging around the waterfront talking to people. A total loser, yes, but to fourteen-year-olds with anti-establishment leanings, he was cool. Plus he was hot. Very hot.
So, he hung out with us for a few hours, charming us with his oh-so-mature views on life. At one point he turned to me and started singing Depeche Mode’s “Somebody,” which was the song to swoon to in those days. Then he said “Can I speak with you alone for a minute?” All my friends looked at me with drooling envy as I floated off by his side. We walked a ways to a candy store, where I bought some Jelly Bellies. He started feeding them to me. Right after a peppermint one, he kissed me. Zing!!!
At the end of the afternoon, right before our group boarded the school buses, he kissed me again, in front of my entire class. For the first time in my life, I was a celebrity.
But it was all downhill after that. He called me (long distance! It was true love!) that afternoon, but he was shy on the phone and hung up after a minute or so. I never heard from him again. A week later my friend and I went back up to the Harbor to try to find him, to no avail. I was devastated.
Years later I bumped into him at a music festival. He was drunk and looked like crap. I smirked and went on my merry way.