Mission Impossible*

Watching the “Moby Dick” episode of The Adventures of Mr. Magoo on Sunday morning TV helped me to understand that I was Ishmael to her Ahab. I was the observer who sort of understood the other’s obsession, and sort of didn’t. 

I, too, was subject to the relatively new body chemistry that intensified my interest in boys. But my best friend Libby’s interest was next level. 

My crushes followed a predictable course: I got fixated, I tested the water cautiously, I backed off. My fixations were somewhat calculated, and I’d already decided an 8th grader was much too grown up to be interested in a mere 7th-grader like me. So I crushed on guys my age who I might have some hope of exchanging a few words with.

Libby did not limit herself in this way. She made no distinction between accessible and inaccessible crushes. We regularly encountered 8th-grade boys in band class and she longed after them. Lee who played French horn, Ricky on trumpet, and Matthew, a flute player like us. Her crushes on them were simultaneous and absolute.

“Oh my gosh, I love ‘Rikki Don’t Lose That Number.’ You know that song? Every time it comes on the radio, I think of Ricky and his mouth on that trumpet. Did you know there’s a drink called a lime rickey? Do you suppose Matthew can play the flute part to the Mission: Impossible theme?” 

Anything served as an opportunity for Libby to be reminded of her love interest, and she was not one to passively pine. She wanted to take action: where was his locker? How could we find it? Had he noticed her as we walked by on the way to the cafeteria for lunch after band last Wednesday? Should she write him an anonymous note and slip it into his locker if we ever found it? There were posters in the hall that she had done the lettering for; should she therefore disguise her handwriting in the anonymous note?

To every question I answered, “Yes.” Yes, he might have noticed you; yes, let’s casually wander the halls to see if we can spot him at his locker; absolutely, yes, you should write him an anonymous note. 

The anonymous note was a brilliant idea. If it didn’t appear to be welcome, it had the benefit of deniability: Who me? No, I didn’t send you a note. But it also cued the boy that he had an admirer; maybe he’d look around more purposefully to see who it might be and his eye would fall on Libby. I couldn’t imagine doing these things myself, but I was fascinated, being so near to this active reaching for a desired someone.

Actually, I could imagine doing these things myself. I’d gone for it, once, the month before, and I didn’t enjoy the experience. Danny Schwartz was in my social studies class. He was stocky with a gravelly voice I loved, wavy brown hair, and a dusting of freckles. He was also funny and his desk was one row over from mine. 

One day we talked before class about nicknames and I revealed I’d never had one. He cocked his head to one side and said, “I’m going to call you Ketchup.” I brought this exchange home like a mystery offering and turned it over again and again. He’d been flirting with me, right? That’s what that had been, wasn’t it? Libby and Danny had locked horns in sixth grade and he’d been her sworn enemy since, so I kept my crush to myself. My heart leapt with every, “Hey, Ketchup, how’s it going?” when he saw me in class. 

Passing each other in the hallway was another story. I’d see him from afar and perk up in anticipation. Maybe he’d notice me this time. Maybe he’d call me Ketchup and everyone would hear he had a special nickname for me. But his notice didn’t extend to the spaces outside of class. Pretty soon, I had to admit it wasn’t that reliable in the classroom either. My crush was getting nowhere. I didn’t enjoy my wants being so exposed, particularly when they were unrequited.

Meanwhile, Libby’s crushes reached a fever pitch. She had to get Matthew or Ricky or Lee to notice her. Lunch was directly after band practice, and the band teacher, in order to discourage snacking, asked that those who brought their lunches from home leave their brown paper sacks and lunch boxes on the floor just inside the door. Libby leaned toward me and whispered with reverence, “I saw Matthew set that sack down. That’s his lunch.” I wasn’t sure exactly what this signified but I nodded indulgently. 

After band, Libby rushed over to the lunches. “Hey, Matthew!” she called out as she drew her foot back.

She told me later she only meant to pretend to kick his lunch, to get his attention and surprise him. Instead, her foot connected and sent Mathhew’s lunch slamming into the wall. Libby cringed away from what she’d wrought, hand over her mouth.

Matthew strode past her and picked up his lunch. He opened the bag. “You kicked my banana,” he said, shaking the leaking, mashed piece of fruit in her direction, his face twisted in disgust.

I never wanted to be on the receiving end of so much negative attention. To be so obsessed with landing the whale that you’d risk humiliation and disappointment was more “out there” than I ever wanted to be. I needed to look no further than Moby Dick itself to understand which role was more survivable.

*(Some names have been changed.)