In the seventh grade, I fell in love with a cute blonde, nerdy girl. Can’t even remember her name; that’s just evidence of how fickle my heart was in adolescence. How fickle it remains today. Never spoke so much as a word to her during those days. Nothing that wasn’t classroom related. Science and English, if memory serves me. And it often doesn’t. Though, if I close my eyes I can picture her behind the lids. Plain, natural face. A gentle Jackson Pollock painting of freckles that starts at her nose and spreads out towards her cheeks. Her blonde hair, usually worn loose, falling just past her shoulders. A sense of style pulled out of a Pentecostal wardrobe, something akin to Mennonite-lite.  Long, unflattering…