Before the Summer's Out...

I am in love with Heather Amestead. If we are going to be friends, this is the most important part about me that I need to convey. Most other facts about me and my life are not so important in comparison. But I will give the main stats:

My name is Benj Morgan. I work at Dairy Queen and hate it there. I have an older brother and a dog named Kingsley of Green Acres, or King for short. King is only worthy of his name sake in size: he's a Great Dane who is lazy, passive, and not very obedient. By the way, my brother's name is Derek. He is mostly in his room or at school. When he is at school, Derek studies the vague area of "graphic design" and when he is at home, he plays online poker. I think he's pretty good.

Also, I do already have a best friend so that position is all sewed up. However, there is always room for more friends; especially in my life, where the friendship pool is shallow with only Enid Phelps as a loyal frog living in the middle of my pond. Enid and I have been best friends since we were nine. We did a science project together for a science fair- an event that only seems to happen in movies. But this was real and thanks to Enid's brains and my exceptional ability with a paintbrush, we won the blue ribbon. Enid's real name is Enadeana, pronounced N-ah deen-ah. Over the years she's tried to get nicer nick names to stick, other than Enid: Ena, Deanie, Edna, Deanna etc. Her parents call her Enid for short and I call her Enid for short and every else calls her Enid. Only her grandmother calls her Enadeana.

Following that "it only seems to happen in movies" mode of thought, Enid is accident prone to the point of Nickelodean humour. The dramatic falls and trips that make a big embarrassing display actually happen in real life for Enid. However, Enid does not smile charmingly at the camera, lip gloss shining and start blathering on about how she hopes the cutest guy in school didn't see that display. Enid usually picks herself up, turns a little pink, and curses herself and the objects in question.

Some main stats about Enid are: she is very, very short and very, very pale. And she is really into poetry and has always had ambitions to become a famous poet. I don't see how that could possibly happen: all the famous poets I'm aware of were dead for years and years before they got recognition and besides that, I don't think there's much of a market for poets. If Enid heard me say all that she'd probably push her glasses up her nose and inform me snarkily that, in fact, I know absolutely shit all. Unlike in the movies, Enid does not dress entirely in black and smoke a bong all day and speak in romantic rhyme all the time. Enid is drug free and uses a disgustingly good vocabulary and dresses in pretty much any colour.

But getting back to the main reason I'm alive. I know it sounds cheesy, but it's also true. One time last winter it was really icy out and I slipped on a patch of black ice that Enid had somehow managed to skirt. I would have fallen and cracked my head open on the pavement if Heather Amestead hadn't been behind me and steadied me from falling. Enid told me that she'd only caught me to prevent the chain reaction of my falling on her and thus making her fall and crack open her head. I told Enid to shove it. Enid then conceded to the fact that Heather had smiled very kindly at me and her words "whoa. Be careful, Benj," were not malicious and were also very nice. I apologized to Enid for telling her to shove it.

Heather Amestead and I have had about twelve other conversations similar to that one. They mostly were about homework, but they were still verbal contact in which Heather was looking at me and I was looking at her. Oh and Heather is beautiful. Enid says I get hyperbolic when I say that Heather looks like a Greek goddess, but it really is true. If you could see her, as a male or female, you'd agree. But for Enid's sake I will kick Heather down a notch to wood Nymph.

Heather has these waves of chestnut coloured hair that are shiny and smell like clean cinnamon and she's got these dark blue eyes that have flecks of ebony in them. And her lips... oh god: they are full and a shade darker than the norm of Caucasian girls. Her lips are the colour of fresh, ripe raspberries and I dream that they taste twice as good. Heather's skin is tanned and smooth as butter: with nary a pimple. And her body is slim with that perfect athleticism. And yes, her ass is fantastic: it makes every pair of jeans she wears look perfect, and her breasts are great too: perky and voluptuous and they make just the right amount of cleavage.

It's not just that Heather is other worldly gorgeous. I love her because she's smart, but not pretentious about it; popular, but not at all stuck up; and generous, but not a kiss up. I love her because she has that intangible grace about her. And it doesn't hurt that she has a dazzling smile and smells teasingly like some expensive perfume that mixes perfectly with her cinnamon scented hair.

You might ask how I could possibly feel this way about someone after only speaking to them twelve times about homework. Well I'll tell you: there are just certain souls that you connect with. You see them for a glimpse of a moment and just know. You watch them and you admire everything they do because if you had their grace, you'd do what they did too. And Heather's soul and my soul are kindred spirits. She may not know it yet, but she will. One day when I finally get the balls to ask her out, I will take her in my arms in front of her house on Rosepark street, kiss her on her raspberry lips, tell her I'm in love with her, and then give her a bouquet of tiger lilies- her favourite flower. And she will respond by telling me that she never realized how perfect I was for her and then will proceed to tear off my clothing and have fantastic sex with me on her front porch.

Enid is sometimes a good sport about my Heather obsession and sometimes she isn't. She says I'm a stalker and that I've built Heather up in my mind. I tell her, how could I build up the physical things?? I see them and feel them. Enid says my brain has associated too many attributes to Heather in a deranged, committed bout of wishful thinking. I tell Enid to shut up. Enid tells me to go to hell. I apologize to Enid and she says she sorry for suggesting I go to hell. She never says sorry for bashing my love for Heather.

For a poet, Enid is not very sympathetic to the plight of unrequited love, the topic of most poetry as far as I'm aware. Enid agrees with me only on the part about unrequited love being a popular topic of poetry. She says it is a universal feeling. I have never told Enid that Heather is my universe and she is everything I feel for. Enid would most likely laugh at me and then trip comically over a parking blockade.