First love believes in forever

The Boston Herald

They're 16, sophomores in high school. Last time I saw them they were freshmen. He wore braces. She wore her hair long and loose like a child's. They sat on opposite ends of a long table. She talked about poetry and plays. He talked about school. They hardly noticed each other.

Now they hardly notice anyone else.

They sit side-by-side, close, but not touching. They are shy in their affection. They exchange a quick, tender look then tell me they're going out. They say they are a pair. Last month he talked to her for 787 minutes. His parents were horrified. They told him he was spending far too much time on the phone and chastised him about his slipping grades, and his preoccupation with a girl instead of with his studies. But he repeats the number, with pride, the way a new soldier recites his serial number.

Seven hundred and eight-seven minutes? What did you talk about all that time? Is it possible that you have that much to say? He shrugs, then grins with embarrassment. He steals a look at her and she returns it, then drops her eyes - she wears mascara now - and smiles back.

We write letters, too, she adds. Every night. After we finish talking.

Each is carrying one. Hers is in her pocketbook. His is folded in a square and tucked in his shirt pocket. They take them out. They don't unfold them. They just hold them in their hands. But you see each other every day at school, I tell them. You eat lunch together. You talk on the phone. And then you write letters? Don't you ever run out of things to say? They look puzzled by this question. It's something they can't even fathom, running out of subjects to explore, and ambitions to share and feelings to ponder. Their words are like water from a fountain constant, endless and fresh. How did it start? I want to know. Did you secretly like -- each other when you were sitting on opposite ends of the table? When did this romance begin?

Another glance. Was there ever a time we didn't like each other, their eyes ask. It seems impossible now. How did they exist, how had they been happy before they knew each other? In her wallet she carries dozens of ticket stubs to movies she's seen. He thinks this is remarkable. He thinks everything about her is remarkable. In her pocketbook she fits a calculator, notebook, lipstick, mirror, comb and a small spray bottle of 'Tribe.' She uses this intermittently throughout the day. He loves her perfume. He loves the way she fits so much stuff in her tiny bag. He loves the way she puts on her lipstick, eats french fries, picks at her grilled cheese. He loves everything about her. He is a child showing off his new friend and there is no artifice in him. There is only joy.

They first started communicating on their calculators. That's how it began. You can type words on a calculator, didn't I know?

I didn't know. They take their calculators from their book bags and show me.

'Then I wrote her a real note and asked her to the semi.' 'When was the semi? In January? What did you wear?' I say to her.

Oh, it hasn't happened yet. It isn't 'til May, she says. It has never occurred to him that asking a girl way back in December to go to a dance with him in far-away May is a risky thing to do.

'Weren't you a little nervous about making plans that far ahead? What if you two don't like each other by then?' 'That's exactly what my parents said. But I told them that was not possible,' he tells me.

First love. This is how it always is, certain, sure. First love believes in forever. First love knows that he will never change, and she will never change and they will always be together. First love holds nothing back, gives far more than it takes and gives straight from the soul.

You wonder when it changes. What changes it. When the walls get built. When the games begin.

Watching them is like breathing mountain air. I take a deep breath. I want to stay on the mountain. I feel renewed by the purity of their love.