I blew it.

Surely I was born with only half a brain. Dad must have dropped me on my head a couple of times. I think the school had psychosis-inducing mold growing in the walls. That’s a thing, right? It has to be a thing because there must be a reason why I did what I did. This was my chance, my chance, I tell you. After fifteen years of being a leper to every Y-chromosome I encountered, finally a boy had asked me to be his girlfriend.

And I blew it.

The Phoenician autumn air was an oven inferno. The high school edifice was a prison-gray. The raucous herd of lunch-time students were stampeding to the cafeteria and its brown “green” beans. This was not a romantic scene. But hey, I wasn’t picky. This was my chance, after all.

He asked me to meet him by the bushes at lunch. He didn't say why. He didn’t need to. I knew.

11:53, and all six of us were assembled. Me, with my ninth grade nervousness in tow. Him and his two scraggly hairs he called a mustache. And the omnipresent teenage awkwardness became our sixth guest.

“So I’ve been thinking for a while, Katie,” he began easily. Then paused. Wait, Katie. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Breathe, though! Remember to breathe! “And you know, I’ve liked you for a while.” YES! A boy liked me! I wasn’t a leper! Did I like him? Well, no, not in that way. But who cared? A boy liked me!

“I think you’re smart and pretty and really kind.” He spoke with a c***y confidence; I listened with an eager ear. The moment was coming—the drums were rolling—the question I’d thought would never arrive was barreling down. Here. Was. My. Chance.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

“Ben,” I sighed, “I’m sorry.” Wait—what? Did I say that? Here was my chance to delve into the mature world, to not be seen as a kid or, in the words of one classmate, an “asexual jellyfish.” Here was my one and only chance . . . and I blew it.

“I ca-can’t be your girlfriend,” I stuttered and stammered. Why? I didn’t like him that way. We had nothing in common. I wasn’t ready for a relationship. Were those valid reasons? No. Not at the time. But I gave them anyway because they were true. Despite what I thought I wanted, I knew even then that this wasn’t for me. But it was a bitter truth to accept. Why didn’t I say yes? Why didn’t I at least try? Who knew if this chance would ever come again? This—this was my greatest high school regret . . .

For half an hour. I found out sixth period that he had asked my best friend the same question not ten minutes after he asked me. And she said yes. He had even added “funny” to her extolment.
In the three months they dated before she broke it off, he tried to force my vivacious, adventurous, courageous friend into being his subdued, obedient, insecure girlfriend. And she let him. Not all the time, of course, this is Lindsey we’re talking about, after all. But there were times, instances, when she lost that brilliant spark that made her who she was. She still hasn’t forgiven herself for that. 

Not saying yes was my greatest regret for not even an hour. Saying yes became my friend’s greatest regret to this day.