I was the kind of kid that brought her toys to recess. Whether or not I had friends at recess was sort of a day-to-day variance, and in the boyfriend department, when others were starting to get their first crushes and romances, I was woefully behind. Then Evan Coad moved in.

Evan Code was a sixth grader. He was apparently taller than Mr. Erickson, the sixty-five-year-old math teacher, which was (quite literally) a big deal. Fifth graders were all a buzz about the blonde new arrival. I, of course, allowed my innate sense of “boys are gross” to kick in, and insisted that “Evan Coad [is] disgusting!” This was before I had ever seen him. But I had an alarmingly cavalier assurance that Evan Coad was, in fact, male, and therefore, not worth my time.

A fated assembly brought Evan and I together… by proximity anyway. Mrs. Covert’s class was the last row of fifth graders, and Ms. McDowell’s class was the first row of sixth graders. And I think it was Danielle Guyerson, though I could be wrong on that one, who leaned over to me and said, “Oh my gosh, Sierra! You are so lucky! Evan Coad is sitting right behind you.” So I turned. I looked. And I finally beheld.

The sixth grade Paris, himself. Brad Pitt in miniature (only not that miniature because he was really tall). Blonde hair gelled up in a hairdo that looked like a breaking wave, blue eyes the color the wave might have been were it real. We made eye contact, before I promptly turned around and tried to spit up the butterflies in my stomach. Evan Coad was my first real crush.

He was the kind of crush that I come to know very well. The kind of crush where your heart just whips out the white flag and surrenders. The kind of crush where giraffes do jumping jacks in your stomach (an interesting visual, I’m sure). The kind of crush that requires a jaw massage periodically throughout your day because you’ve been grinning for twenty-four straight hours (yes, even in your sleep).  The kind of crush that one specifically designated for middle school, but crops up every so often in the middle of your college French class.  Crushes are the sweet-suffering for an unobtainable someone, and the emphasis is on the “unobtainable” part.