Can't Write With Purple Ink Without Thinking About It

I was just telling someone this story today, and because I'm a glutton for punishment (and at a lack of anything else to write about)....here goes.

I'm still haunted by this day. I can remember what I was wearing. I can remember what he was wearing. I can remember the color of marker that was used. I can remember the face of my best friend with her mouth hanging open, completely mortified on my behalf.

It was a Spring day in 6th grade. I was in school in Thailand, at the International school there, where all the missionary kids attended. The school was an eclectic mix of nationalities and cultures, but for the most part....it was like any other school. Full of drama....at least the middle school and high school were.

I had a tremendous crush on the cutest boy in 6th grade. I can still hear his deep Georgian accent. He was dreamy. And he was the first kid in our class to have an Apple computer (remember those?!) at his house. Big stuff. Not only was he cute-as-a-bug, but he was also genuinely nice. I don't remember him ever being mean to anyone. He held doors open for all the girls and said, "Yes, Sir," to our crazy, whacked-out Buddhist teacher (that's a whole other story!). This kid was a great catch.

And I finally worked up my nerve to tell him that I thought so. My best friend and I carefully drafted note after note which detailed my love for him. We worked for days on the perfect words and the perfectly shaped hearts that would dot all the i's. And finally we had it. It was a beautiful note.....even written in purple ink.

My best friend sneaked into our room during lunch recess that Spring day. She slipped the note into his desk and crept back out to the playground where I was waiting. I remember he was playing tether ball with his friends, and my heart was beating out of my chest knowing what he would find when we all headed back inside.

The bell rang and we made our way up the steps. My best friend and I giggled all the way up to our room. But then it was over. Because when we walked in the room, all we heard was the horrid sound of snickering and laughing. He was standing in the middle of the room, red-faced and shaking his head. And then I saw it.

There. On the board. Written in bright red marker were my words. All my words. Even my hearts over my i's.

And then I saw him. The meanest, most cruel boy in our grade, if not our whole school. He had his arms crossed, face stuck up in the air, laughing....and holding a red marker and my carefully folded piece of notebook paper with the purple ink. I would have known it was him even without the red marker.

He had done it. He had followed my friend in at lunch and watched her. Then he nabbed my heart-felt letter and did the most horrid thing ever. He rewrote it on the board and displayed it for everyone to see. Awful. Pure awful.

I could do nothing but cry. He, that sweet boy, just stood there shaking his head. Then he did the sweetest thing ever. He walked over and grabbed the note and shoved it in his pocket. He took the red marker, recapped it, and placed it in the basket. Then he grabbed an eraser and calmly erased the words. He then walked to the tissue box, grabbed a tissue and brought it to me. Then he walked back to his seat, took out his math book, and got to work. The room fell silent and everyone else started working on their math, too.

We never talked about that day again. He never became my boyfriend, but we stayed friends until I moved.

I will never forget how horrifying that day was....but will always remember that little Southern gentleman. He brought me a Kleenex, y'all!

And that other boy.....ugh. He continued terrorizing me right through 8th grade. Only to "ask me out" the last year I was at that school.

Uh...the answer was a big, fat "NO!"