I remember specifically I was landing marbles in small dug-out holes during recess, hunched over the grass screaming with two childhood friends. From across the jungle-gym I could see the slender smoocher eying at me with a goofy, congenial smile, and long, straight hair reaching to her knees like a halloween-edition rapunzel. I smiled to myself, as girls never really bothered me in my earlier years, and seeing this, Ms. Scott fervently starting marching my way.

It was a few minutes too late, as the calling bell summoned the whole mess of us into rag-tag lines facing the school, where we then processed uniformly into the classroom, Ms. Scott two seats back and to the left. I could feel the heat of her steamy thoughts as I looked back to confirm that yes.... she was still staring at me with that clownish smirk. She was very obviously sitting with an intent that began to gnaw at my back (I used to get really itchy when I was nervous and young).

Then snacktime came, and we were all free to walk around for the alloted 15 minutes, where juvenile bartering and wild children ran amuck from desk to desk. I was still too nervous to move, planting my face into my workbook pretending to be uncharacteristically studious.

And then she came. From her seat two rows back and to the left, she flanked me from behind, without warning grappling my shirt cuff and literally hoisting me out of the seat (just as a side note, these chairs seriously fit into a standard backpack). And like a crane, she practically carried me out of the room like a screaming, undisciplined brat, all along the way silencing the rest of the class as they gaucked on in amazement, so unexperienced in the world of love I was immersed in.

I practically floated across the hall to the library; not a single stirring except for the humming librarian and the sound of the pages of her book turning. We exchanged glances, the librarian sending back a startled one as if she was witnessing a beating as we moved around the corner behind the foreign language shelves, where Ms. Scott plopped me down on the stale, starchy carpeting.

And there we sat for what seemed like days. We stared into eachothers eyes, my face very confused and hers literally boiling with intent. I remember thinking, 'I should pick out a book, she likes books right? I wonder what books she likes. Oh here's one, it's greek...'.

And slam, our faces were locked, and blood rushed to my head, and I was dizzy trying to hold back the force of her skull ramming into mine. It was an open-eye kiss that catches you unexpectedly, but her eyes were closed tight in the moment. She had darker brown skin than I, so I couldn't sense any hesitation or rash of embarassment, making me all the more anxious. I also remember scratching furiously, as now I was covered in the tense itching sensation from in the classroom and from all the embarassing situations I'd ever been in. She clasped my hands and held them to the floor, and with this restraint I relinquished my efforts and gave in to the passion.

Like waking to a wailing alarm clock I snapped back into reality as we parted our lips, and for about a minute we sat together behind the bookshelf reveling in the feeling of the moment, the aftershock of the fireworks blazing in our pre-pubescent eyes. My face was still fire-engine red as she took me by the hand and we stood, turned, and faced almost the entirety of the class compressing to the inside of the classroom door, meeting glances with the clownish taunts of the rest of the children. I heard all the obligatory jeerings; loverboy, sissy, sissy-boy/man, but I met it all with an uncontrollable smile as we both marched back into the room, hand in hand. The teacher, so impressed by our boldness, welcomed us back into the class in the most affirming way, recognizing exactly what happened.

Ms. Scott and I returned to our seats, glazed in all the extra attention, which for me included wadded paper and further bittersweet cheering from my peers. I was still red as the dusk sunlight, and as Ms. Scott sat in her chair, two rows back and to the left, her loving gaze never left me. I noticed then I had stopped itching, and then relaxed and slid into this intoxication of gender-specific attention, when I felt an unfamiliar crumpling of paper in my pocket. Had she somehow slipped something into my pocket?

The class had calmed at this point, and the teacher had resumed the class as best she could, moving on to fractions for the day. I slid under the desk (in case it was a note from a girl!) and pulled the renegade note from my pocket.

Written in the curly-q signature that was Ms. Scott's style, a question was posed to me: two boxes, one with 'Yes' and one with 'No' scribed next to them hovered under the question, 'Will you Be My Boyfriend'?