Emerald Eyes

How could she do something so immature? Well, I couldn’t blame her. She was a lot more confident than I was. She had more friends and interests than I did. She was more into shopping while I was always in bookstores. She was all over the internet, updating her blog everyday and her social-networking websites while I wrote poetry and did ballet. We were both opposites, even with our appearances. I had violet eyes and brunette hair, hers was blonde with blue eyes. But I guess we’ve know each other for so long, I guess being alternates didn’t matter.

We met in kindergarten, when I was the shiest girl in class, and Summer offered to help me to the nurses’ office after I fell down the slide. I guess we have been friends ever since. We went all through elementary school like sisters. Exchanging phone calls and emails, having sleepovers, and even giving each other charm bracelets. But things sort of changed when we reach our teens. We put our barbies away, and replaced them with silver headbands. Our girl scouts uniforms were replaced with brighter and newer outfits. We stopped our everyday childishness and became more mature. And that’s how it all happened. But something much more enticing occurred. Something I thought a girl could never feel.

It all started one summer before junior high, when transferring students from my elementary school were going on a summer camp to my middle school for two weeks. I was used to the mild, calm weather of Newport Beach, and was happy to spend two weeks in Palm Springs. It was a day camp, but there were hostels available, for those who lived faraway. Hence, Summer and I agreed to share a bunk bed. The first night was fun, I made a bonfire with all my future classmates and sang campfire songs.

Then to my fate, I reached for a wooden stick, only to toss it into the fire. But my hand touched another’s. I looked up and met the most beautiful set of green eyes. I was scared at first. I had never seen eyes so deep. They were clear emerald with golden specks. The robust fire gleamed within them as they actively beamed. His mess of black hair brushed over them. I noticed my hand couldn’t move away from the touch of the boy’s arm. I stared at his lips which were of a rosy red color that blended in with his cream skin. He blushed and moved his hand away.

“Sorry,” he said. His voice was so beautiful. All I could do was stare at him, feeling so stupid with my twelve-year-old self.

He noticed I was tongue-tied and said, “I’m Asher,” he said. I noticed I was still holding the wooden stick. I stared at it for a while, and then back at him. I nodded. Subsequently, he turned around and disappeared blending in with his friends. I stood alone for a while, and then threw the wooden stick , watching it erupt into the fire.

My encounter of my first crush turned into extreme infatuation. I found myself head over heels with Asher Peterson. I knew everything about him. I knew his favourite color was blue, and that his favourite sport was soccer. I knew he had a little sister Ashley who was three years younger. I even knew where he lived. I wished I could follow him home and watch play soccer in his backyard. I doodled his name in my notebook with two green eyes in English Literature class.

Throughout the seventh grade, we only had one class together, English. I sat in the third row while he sat in the front and centre. I stared at him in awe, whenever he read an essay to the class, as if questioning God why he didn’t keep such a perfect angel for himself. That didn’t stop me from staring at him in the halls and watching him play soccer after school. I was in love at only thirteen. A lot of girls flirted with him though, making me naturally jealous. They would gush at him as he walked down the hallways and sigh whenever he read a poem in class, as if he wrote a love poem just for them.