Saltwater Sandals and Stonewashed Jeans

In first grade I was in love with a boy named Trevor. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason I liked him was because my best friend liked him, too, and she had pink saltwater sandals. I loved pink saltwater sandals. My mom bought me white. Sometimes she took them off under her desk, and sometimes she got in trouble for it. But, she was my best friend nonetheless. She liked Trevor and that was enough.

Trevor wore black stone washed jeans and a caramel-colored shirt with green paint splashes on it -- the kind of paint-splash shirt he could have made himself in one of those paint spinney-thingies. He was good at kick-ball, had a killer smile and a bowl cut. He was a nice boy and the teacher liked him. Sometimes, just by happenstance, I got to sit by him during spelling tests. I signed my name in my own "cursive" at the bottom of his paper when I got to correct it, resisting the urge to leave a heart at the end of Martha in red pencil. I was somewhat smarter than he, but I was OK with that. He never had to stay in from recess. That would have taken him out of the running most definitely.

We would exchange longing glances from across the room all throughout the day, and every night, I was convinced he snuck out of his house to come peek in my window while I was asleep. Much too young to take such lovelorn journeys on our own, I imagined his sister accompanied him. In anticipation of such visits, I would leave my bottom blind open just enough that he could see me sweetly slumbering, dreaming of him. To ensure such a dreamy state, I would fall asleep thinking, Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Turning to my right side, I pulled my hair around my ear, clasped my hands as if I was praying and tucked them under my ear. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep with a smile on my face. Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Left leg crossed over right, I was determined not to move. I imagined what I looked like through the window. I imagined I looked oh so lady-like and demure in my Lanz flannel nightgown. He was bound to take one look at me, with my endearing (and hopefully enduring) smile and fall even more helplessly and hopelessly in love with the girl who knew "cursive" in first grade. How could he not?! I slept like an angel. Or, so I thought.

I would awake each morning to my alarm clock and find my nightgown up around my waist, hair resembling some sort of bird's nest, and a bed that looked like Max from Where the Wild Things Are "let the wild rumpus start" atop my bed in the moonlit hours of the night. I was devastated and determined; determined the remedy my nighttime ritual. So, night after night, I'd climb in bed, curl my hair around my ear, press my hands in praying position and fall fast asleep to thoughts of a boy in black stone washed jeans.

Last night I slept with my hair down. When I pulled my comforter up to my chin, it was tightly wound in a black elastic as it always is. But, in a moment of nostalgia, in some sort of gesture to the past, I slipped the elastic down my straight hair and set it on my nightstand. I pulled it all to one side, turned over to face the wall to the right, tucked my hands between my cheek and my pillow and tried not to move.

I have no idea where Trevor ended up. I was madly in love with Brad by the time Leopard's Lair soccer started in the Spring. I remember the timing so well only because Brad's dog chewed through my yellow soccer socks, and, instead of being mad, I was a bit giddy his dog picked my socks over my best friend's. (She liked Brad, too.)

Isn't it true...that fashion trends come back around? The latest J. Crew catalog has girls and guys with pegged jeans. My brother has been wearing black jeans since fall. They're not quite the stone-washed variety, but they're close. I'll keep my eyes out for the next Trevor. Until then, it's blinds closed, and hair up.