manipulate

"Don't." I whispered. I pushed his hand away from the drawstring of my pink Champion sweatpants.
"Why?" his forehead was pressed against the top of my head. His eyes were so watery blue. I had to look away or I would have let him do anything.
"Just don't." I tried to entwine my fingers with his, but he pulled his hand away and went for the drawstring again.
I grabbed his hand. "Don't."
"Is it your period?" He had propped himself up on his elbow.
"NO! just... don't."

I thought I was supposed to put up some kind of resistance. I also knew that last year in eighth grade, girls who let guys go down their pants were called sluts and had secret names like Carrie Tuna Fish Bradhomme. There was a rumor Tuna Fish was bowlegged because she let so many boys "finger" her. The sound of "finger" as a verb held nasty dirty filthy cheap dismissive connotations. I also thought my vagina was gross and perpetually dirty and smelly no matter how much I washed in the shower. It was always betraying me by oozing blood and clear stuff. What if I had some weird smell? What if he never spoke to me again and told all the seniors and then I would have no friends like the C list girls at school.
There was Natalie Wagner, who was rumored to have slept with not only Tony Pantaglione but Key Largo Brown and some more of the foosball guys. There was Tammy Whitehead who was rumored to have peed on Bob Fortiss while he fucked her. There was Virginia Biggerstaff who was rumored to have allowed the senior class valedictorian, Mitch Biggs to fuck her in the library audio visual equipment room. The only girls who were given stigma-clearance were those in long term relationships of a year or more.
Charliebrownshoes and I were not in a relationship. We had never even been on an official date. We went bowling once in a group. We ended up at some of the same house parties. That was it. I asked him about all of this on the phone a week prior to the drawstring struggle.
"What are we doing?" I posed out of the blue.
"Whatta ya mean?" He asked back. The Castle Greyskull theme was playing in the background.
"I mean, like...you call me every day, you come over, we make out for a thousand hours, so...like, what is this? What are we doing?" I was pretty impressed with myself. I had never been so direct with him about anything.
"We're 'talking'." He enunciated 'talking' as if I were a toddler. I had heard guys say this phrase before. It was the lowest rung on the commitment ladder. There was talking, dating, going out and the big one; serious. As in, "George and Julie? Yeah, they're (insert verb from aforementioned list here). "
My heart sank. I was hoping for at least dating. No dice. I retaliated, "We certainly aren't dating because that would require. Going. On. A. Date."
He expelled an irritated sigh. "That costs money!"
I rolled my eyes. "Uh, yeah..."
"Are you gonna pay?" He demanded.
Silence from my end.
"HA! That's what I thought! I have college to save for!" I thought he was lying or making excuses to avoid taking me out. Looking back, I think there may have been some truth to it. He didn't wear name brand clothes, except for Levi's. He didn't have very many clothes. Sometimes he repeated shirts in the same week. He didn't go out every weekend, like the other guys. Many times he would come to my house after working all day at one of the Poppalopagus's restaurants. He didn't play football his senior year. When I asked him why he said so he could work for college.
"How many girls are you 'talking' to?"

"Not many."

"How many?"

"I don't know...a few."

"A FEW? You mean, you have other girls that you go to their house and you make out with them and then you come to my house and make out with me? That is so gross! I have a right to know who they are in case I don't want to get their germs!"

He was laughing on the other end.

"It's not funny! I'm serious!"

"What do you want?" He sounded serious.

"I don't know...to be like normal people."

"What's normal?" He still sounded sort of serious. I think he actually cared somewhat about what I was saying.

"Well, you could speak to me in public."

"WHAT!?! YOU don't speak to ME in public! Every day you walk by me in the morning and you never say Hi. Those guys bust me on it every day! Steve asks me every day,'Aren't you talkin' to that girl?' and then they laugh at me!"

CBS hung out in the same corner every day where the cool senior guys congregated before school. The route to my friends' lockers took me directly in front of this spot. I usually passed by and didn't even glance in their direction. On a few occasions, he called out to me. I would look over and wave but keep walking. I would hear the other guys laugh and I thought they were laughing at me. I would actually flush and look stricken to the point where my friends would ask me what was wrong.

"I wave at you if you say something to me."

"You could come over and speak to me!"

"I'm not going over there!"

"Why? What's the big deal?"

"Nuh-uh! No way! I am not approaching you. You are supposed to approach me!" I was serious.

"Says who?"
I didn't know until many years later that CBS's mother held an important state job, managed a large staff and brought home the bigger income in his household. I thought he was either retarded or was avoiding treating me appropriately by feigning ignorance. I realize now he was probably not that sophisticated. I assumed that everybody adhered to unspoken policies that I had compiled through observation and assumption and had no basis in reality.

"Says I don't know who...just that's how it's supposed to be! You're the guy and you're older!"

"What's that got to do with anything? Haven't you heard of women's lib? You need to get with it! I see girls approach guys all the time. Debbie comes over and talks to Steve every morning!"

"Debbie and Steve are practically married, plus she is a senior."

"They are not! They're just going out! What does her grade have to do with it?"

All this logic was very clear to me. I had very definite systems and classifications in my head. I thought it was common knowledge.
"Plus, you never take me anywhere."

He couldn't reply. I had him there.
The next day in school he approached me in the hallway and asked where my next class was. He took my books from me and walked me to my next class. I could have died of embarassment. Not only because so many people looked at us, but because he chose on this day of all days to wear bright gold sweatpants. He looked like a complete doofus. I talked about it with my best friend, Vanessa.
"Oh, my God. He looks like Big Bird. He could be so cute if he just had some style!" At the mention of Big Bird, Vanessa covered her face. She thought she looked ugly when she laughed and her face crinkled up. The truth was Vanessa was beautiful. She had black hair and green eyes and huge boobs. The two most popular guys in the senior class called her every night. When she was composed, she asked, "What's up with those 'brogans'?" and we busted out laughing again because I immediately knew what she meant. Ocassionally, CBS would break out a pair of suede lace-ups that looked like a cross between bucks and wingtips. They didn't make sense with his outfits. For example, he would pair a white oxford shirt and Levi's with the brogans one week and repeat the same outfit the next week with his tennis shoes. We tried to come up with a pattern to his brogan appearances, but there were none. And there was the issue with the hair. Atop his exceptional facial features, he insisted on keeping a dated "feathered" style with bangs. All of the cool senior guys had short styles and used mousse or gel. We ripped on his hair for a while before I finally said, "And this is the guy I want to be my boyfriend....and he WON"T!" We collapsed with laughter again.

We struggled a bit more for the drawstring. I finally grabbed it in my fist and squeezed so tight he couldn't pry my fingers away.
"Then I'm leaving!" he raised his voice. I was shocked. That was so unfair...just because I didn't want him to touch my...
"Then LEAVE!" I screamed at him and then I started crying. "You are so mean! I hate you!"

I regretted it as soon as I said it. That week he had approached me in the hall, carried my books to my class, took me to help him pick out his senior class ring, called me every night, and paid extra attention to me at Kelly's house party. He told me, "You look nice." in front of my friends and a few of his, and never strayed more than a few feet away from me. I had gained status with my friends. Tracey said, "Wow, you and CBS seem to be getting serious."

He pulled me to him and put his mouth by my ear. "Don't say that." he whispered. He kissed my hair and my forehead and my eyelids and he took my face in both of his hands and kissed me very softly. "I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry." He whispered. "Say we're okay. Look at me. Say we're okay." I had stopped crying and I nodded. I kissed him again and this time, when he went for the drawstring, I didn't stop him.