Senior Year

Now we are approaching the end of my public schooling. I consider my 11th grade year my Senior year, because I graduated a year early. Plus I had senioritis so bad, I might as well have been a real Senior.

This year I could drive, and I always parked in a church parking lot by the school so I could avoid the craziness of the school parking lot. Turns out, Max also parked there. I literally memorized his schedule so I would always arrive earlier than him so I wouldn't have to awkwardly walk by him to get to school.

I had 4 classes with Max. Two every single day. It would have been 5, but we got put in separate classes at the last moment.

I really loved having Max in my classes. He still had some class clown-ness in him, but knew how to bridle it in. I looked forward to the periods that I had with him all day, and when he wasn't there, I got really sad.

In one class we would watch CNN 10 every morning before class, and Max absolutely loved Carl Azuz. When we didn't have time one day to watch it, Max pulled out his phone and started watching it himself.

One day Max was sad. I never learned why, but I left a note on his car saying that he was awesome. I didn't sign it. I don't know if he ever even got it. I hope he did.

It was this year that I realized I had a massive crush on him. I'm pretty sure I've had one since 6th grade, but I never admitted it to myself since Kiley was my best friend. This was the worst year to figure it out though, because he got a girlfriend.

His girlfriend was beautiful, short, happy, and just the perfect person. They were together for a very long time. I don't know why they eventually broke up, but Max looked like a kicked puppy that day.

I remember every kind word Max said to me directly that year.

"Your beanie is cute."

"Rosemary! You're back! We missed you."

"You're graduating early? That's awesome!"

Max started wearing suits on Wednesday and called it Dress Up day. I decided to follow the trend. No one else ended up doing it. So it was just me and him. Looking back, I hope he didn't realize why I did it.

At the end of the year, we had a huge final for Spanish. We could take a huge test covering everything we went over that year, or make a pinata. A group of about 6 of us in the class decided to make a giant pinata that was a remake of one of the posters in the room. Max was part of the group. That project put me in closer proximity with him then I'd been since 6th grade, when I'd hit him in the ankles with books.

I got all shaky, and couldn't talk to him, even though I really wanted to. I really, really wanted to. I wanted to say sorry. I wanted to be friends again. For me, being friends is more important then any romantic aspirations I might have.

But I couldn't talk.

Looking back, I wonder why I didn't just put a note on his car saying sorry for what I did. That would have been the most painless solution. But I didn't.

I graduated that summer, and thought I would never see Max again. But I did. Because of course it would happen that way.