Filmed Before a Live Studio Audience
The curtain rose and fell around our calculus class. That is where we met, after all. To be honest, you were the best thing about that class. You were new to the school, a military brat (like I had been) out of Alaska with lightly-freckled features and long, straight, brown hair. Aside from your bear-trap intelligence and full-moon beauty, the lilting, breathy way you said the number two enchanted me. I felt so compelled to try to bring you into the spotlight with me that I moved across the room to sit a couple of desks to your right, just to keep you company on the otherwise empty row of four.
I remember the letter I wrote you asking you to be my girlfriend. I knew nobody would see it coming, you and me together, but I felt some real chemistry between us. Apparently you felt the same way – you wrote back within minutes that you “definitely would not mind” being my girlfriend. (Yes, yes, I kept the note). Before class had even ended, we were casting nervous glances in each other’s direction.
“I haven’t been in a couple for a while,” you informed me giddily as we stood to leave.
“It’s okay,” I replied with a sheepish grin. “I haven’t been in one… ever.” I winced.
You smiled kindly. “I should warn you…” You gathered up your books and clutched them to your elfish frame (of the Lord of the Rings variety, not the Keebler). “I can be a little weird sometimes.”
I cradled my own things under my arm and followed you into the hallway. “I don’t mind. I like a little weirdness every now and then.”
And then you giggled.
This was pretty much the premise of the show: we made each other laugh. There were new problems for us to solve every weekday morning (mostly derivatives and the like), but we tackled them together whenever we could, cracking wise whenever the opportunity presented. I had my little comical asides, and you had your humorous anecdotes; between the two of us, we kept the nearby students (and even Mrs. Fitz) chuckling.
You also poked fun at the Korean half of your heritage from time to time. I was careful how to laugh during those moments; being a bit of a mutt myself, I tend to ask ‘am I or am I not’ more often than I should have to (and even more so back then). But you seemed to have a handle on it. Maybe that’s why I believed you when you told me that others’ opinions of us, even our parents’, shouldn’t affect our relationship.
Hmm. “Relationship.” That’s a funny word to me now. We only saw each other once off-campus during our time together, and even then we were playing chaperone to your sister and your friend. It didn’t help that I more or less begged my way onto that scene – I had been wanting to have a proper date with you for a couple of weeks already, but this was the closest I would get. We still managed to have a good time at the movie, though.
We were all in high school, so we thought it a good idea to watch and mock The Grudge. I don’t remember much of the film, but I do recall quite clearly the dimly-lit image of you with you sneakered feet up on your seat, your brown eyes wide open with both hands curled up against your mouth. That pastel beanie you liked to wear with the pompom balls sticking out of each side made you look so much more the terrified bunny that I couldn’t help but smile. And even though you were scared, I resisted the urge to wrap my cotton-sleeved arm around you in comfort. We hadn’t developed that far yet, so I just whispered soothing hilariosities to you to keep you from getting too frightened.
There aren’t many more scenes of us to cut and paste together in order for me to see us for what we really were. Even the fortune that we had started our relationship on the Tuesday of Homecoming Week was lost: we were supposed to make our big debut at the Bear Ball, but on the night of that formal I had to march in a competition hours away. I knew at the time that my after-school practices and state-trotting with the marching band certainly put our relationship in a difficult time slot. And with your parents’ pushing you to get the good grades, our schedule kept getting crushed even shorter. Still, I held on to the hope that there would be a second season to help make sense of it all.
Then the off-season happened. Thanksgiving, our cancelled date, my parade in Chicago with the band (a spin-off with only minimal ratings): it would all give the audience time to decide whether or not the show goes on. We were the stars, though – it was our choice to make..
We were leaving calculus when you told me. Red Georgia clay and patches of dying grass set the stage as I escorted you to your literature class (our usual little taste of free time together), the high school at our right and “Lake Houston County” to our left. We weren’t holding hands, even though the weather was wintering; as usual, our arms were too full with books and binders. The first little bit of our walk was silent as I simply enjoyed the company I had missed for the previous nine days. Just as we reached the 600 Hall’s big brick corner, however, you killed the lights.
“I think we should break up.”
The excuses you made all seemed reasonably acceptable – we never got any alone time together, you had scholarships to work on getting, I had so much work to do with the band (…okay, maybe not that one, since the season was over) – yet to my hopelessly romantic heart they made no sense. I had no idea how to react. It was all I could do to nod my head in stoic agreement with everything you said before you walked away. No gentle piano melody in the background confirmed that you were done. No audience members exuded sympathetic sighs as you went to class, leaving me alone on the soundstage. The ratings had spoken, apparently, and the show was over.
But then, maybe you were the audience the whole time.
I remember the letter I wrote you asking you to be my girlfriend. I knew nobody would see it coming, you and me together, but I felt some real chemistry between us. Apparently you felt the same way – you wrote back within minutes that you “definitely would not mind” being my girlfriend. (Yes, yes, I kept the note). Before class had even ended, we were casting nervous glances in each other’s direction.
“I haven’t been in a couple for a while,” you informed me giddily as we stood to leave.
“It’s okay,” I replied with a sheepish grin. “I haven’t been in one… ever.” I winced.
You smiled kindly. “I should warn you…” You gathered up your books and clutched them to your elfish frame (of the Lord of the Rings variety, not the Keebler). “I can be a little weird sometimes.”
I cradled my own things under my arm and followed you into the hallway. “I don’t mind. I like a little weirdness every now and then.”
And then you giggled.
This was pretty much the premise of the show: we made each other laugh. There were new problems for us to solve every weekday morning (mostly derivatives and the like), but we tackled them together whenever we could, cracking wise whenever the opportunity presented. I had my little comical asides, and you had your humorous anecdotes; between the two of us, we kept the nearby students (and even Mrs. Fitz) chuckling.
You also poked fun at the Korean half of your heritage from time to time. I was careful how to laugh during those moments; being a bit of a mutt myself, I tend to ask ‘am I or am I not’ more often than I should have to (and even more so back then). But you seemed to have a handle on it. Maybe that’s why I believed you when you told me that others’ opinions of us, even our parents’, shouldn’t affect our relationship.
Hmm. “Relationship.” That’s a funny word to me now. We only saw each other once off-campus during our time together, and even then we were playing chaperone to your sister and your friend. It didn’t help that I more or less begged my way onto that scene – I had been wanting to have a proper date with you for a couple of weeks already, but this was the closest I would get. We still managed to have a good time at the movie, though.
We were all in high school, so we thought it a good idea to watch and mock The Grudge. I don’t remember much of the film, but I do recall quite clearly the dimly-lit image of you with you sneakered feet up on your seat, your brown eyes wide open with both hands curled up against your mouth. That pastel beanie you liked to wear with the pompom balls sticking out of each side made you look so much more the terrified bunny that I couldn’t help but smile. And even though you were scared, I resisted the urge to wrap my cotton-sleeved arm around you in comfort. We hadn’t developed that far yet, so I just whispered soothing hilariosities to you to keep you from getting too frightened.
There aren’t many more scenes of us to cut and paste together in order for me to see us for what we really were. Even the fortune that we had started our relationship on the Tuesday of Homecoming Week was lost: we were supposed to make our big debut at the Bear Ball, but on the night of that formal I had to march in a competition hours away. I knew at the time that my after-school practices and state-trotting with the marching band certainly put our relationship in a difficult time slot. And with your parents’ pushing you to get the good grades, our schedule kept getting crushed even shorter. Still, I held on to the hope that there would be a second season to help make sense of it all.
Then the off-season happened. Thanksgiving, our cancelled date, my parade in Chicago with the band (a spin-off with only minimal ratings): it would all give the audience time to decide whether or not the show goes on. We were the stars, though – it was our choice to make..
We were leaving calculus when you told me. Red Georgia clay and patches of dying grass set the stage as I escorted you to your literature class (our usual little taste of free time together), the high school at our right and “Lake Houston County” to our left. We weren’t holding hands, even though the weather was wintering; as usual, our arms were too full with books and binders. The first little bit of our walk was silent as I simply enjoyed the company I had missed for the previous nine days. Just as we reached the 600 Hall’s big brick corner, however, you killed the lights.
“I think we should break up.”
The excuses you made all seemed reasonably acceptable – we never got any alone time together, you had scholarships to work on getting, I had so much work to do with the band (…okay, maybe not that one, since the season was over) – yet to my hopelessly romantic heart they made no sense. I had no idea how to react. It was all I could do to nod my head in stoic agreement with everything you said before you walked away. No gentle piano melody in the background confirmed that you were done. No audience members exuded sympathetic sighs as you went to class, leaving me alone on the soundstage. The ratings had spoken, apparently, and the show was over.
But then, maybe you were the audience the whole time.