"She is amazing, Mom."
"Every boy should be like her, she is really interesting."
"Her clothes are not like other girls'. She wears cool outfits."
"She has the longest hair and the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
Ah, yes, the love of pre-pre-sent, suffering is your name. She hadn't spoken a word in his direction yet, but he was disappointed by every syllable that parted her lips. Now, I hesitated to ask the terrible question. I didn't want to see his little heart twisted like a pretzel, but I also knew this was our ultimate fate.
"Do you like Max?" I asked.
"I don't know; I'm a little scared to talk to her. What if she doesn't want to talk to me? I would look like a fool."
I didn't mind telling him how wonderful he was. He had stopped hearing that opinion in second grade. He might not have known the word bias, but he knew what it was.
"Parents always try to make silly things into good things," he said. "Silly things happen to everyone. It's my turn now."
I was going to remind him of the hierarchy while stealing a bit of his sparkle.
"Hey, fourth grader, leave my job alone. I'm the parent, and you are a 10-year-old inspired by my wisdom."
For some reason, this always made him laugh. He would often explain how the world worked as much as he asked them. I had become a master of the deadpan face. His intuition had hidden how much he had concealed from me. I developed a hard expression that could only be defeated by Botox injections.
When he got tired of explaining everything every parent needs to know, he left the room. I finally cocked my head to the right and was able to cover my forehead with the content of my anxious mind. Who was this sandbox philosopher?
His brother could sometimes worsen, mastering adult situations with the precision of a secret profiler. For this, he was called the little empath. Much of my learning experience shines through the prism of these ankle-biting philosophers. Their unblemished perspectives cut directly to the truth of the matter. For adults who prefer to hedge difficult truths, this can be a bit unsettling.
"What does she like? Do you have anything in common?"
"She plays chess."
"Why not invite her to a game? Did you tell her about your Simpsons chess set?"
His pale freckled face flushed deep crimson. "I get nervous just being near her. She can make her eyes laugh without moving her mouth."
Then he started batting his long eyelashes without moving the rest of his face. Like a deer in headlights, he looked frozen in place.
"I can't do it like she does," he conceded. "You have to trust me, her eyes smile."
"Maybe it only happens when she looks at you?"
He turned to me, raising an eyebrow. When I sounded like a protective mother, the boy hijacked my overly dramatic expression. Words were unnecessary. Just the slow rise of a single brow while he stared into my eyes.
"What? Is that possible?" I said with true conviction.
"Stop talking like a mom. This is important."
His gray-green eyes lowered as they fell into the thousand-yard stare of unrequited love. I bit my lip to keep from laughing at his glazed donut face.
At some point, everyone was looking at their own faces. Adults struggle to navigate what they think is missing. What or who sets their lives in the direction they long for. These are the treacherous seas of sixth grade, and we go after one good wave of rejection. Puberty was torturous, torturing and torturing to keep your head above water. Watching my child dip his toes into that proverbial sea was another kind of torture.
"There's an art show tomorrow night. If you introduce me, you can invite her. I promise not to embarrass you. I won't mention how beautiful she is or how smart."
JR grew larger, and if he stared long enough, he got nervous. His glazed eyes hardened into cold gray steel that dug into my brain.
"Promise?"
"I promise. You might not believe it, but I had a sixth-grade crush too."
He fell into the kitchen chair while shaking his head.
"That was ages ago, it's not the same. Thinking someone is cute means you have to change schools or move to another town!"
"Okay, there's nothing about her eyes being the color of caramel."
His head fell to the table with a sound. "I'm going to die."
"Or did that milk get to you?" Parental amusement can be a bit wicked.
"Mom, what the heck?"
"Sorry, just a bit. Got it; I promise."
He got out of the chair and into the kitchen. The awkward foot stumbled upon this new sound drum in his ear. He might not know it, but he stepped to lyrics sung by a rising siren named Maxine. For now, this would be the music of his awakening moment.
The art show came, and my son probably wouldn't have cared much. That was until he saw her.
"Remember your promise."
In the disguised in-sign, I asked, "Who always brought you back?"
He smiled and then, as all mothers do, began to play the tune for me. This time, walking on air, his farewell left an echo of empty space around me. He stomped as much as a 12-year-old body could. Amid the dissonance of children's voices, I heard a new song in my ears. Certainly, it was the first few bars, but I quickly knew I was listening to the unmistakable melody of boyhood swans.
I met the lovely Max, who had perfectly styled dark brown hair. My boy's description was spot on, including her caramel-colored eyes. JR and Maxine started talking, and soon a chess match began. Without my help or intervention, he made the playdate a reality.
What was one factor about the wonderful Maxine that he didn't mention? Was it one that was missing but beautifully there?
Her perfect brown skin.