Living flat dab (as we say) in the middle of a cotton field in Texas makes for a very long commute to public education. 6th grade, 6:30 am & 18 miles one way every morning on a school bus is a haul. Not only are you combating distance, but also the winding dirt country roads leading up to every single home of the 20 or so other kids you're gonna be picking up for an hour and a half before school even begins. I learned to do a lot of daydreaming from a school bus seat while buckling in for long, boring rides. That was until I met Shelly.
Shelly was a high school girl. The kind of high school girl who caused a hush of silence from the normally rowdy bunch of boys seated in the back each time she stepped foot on the bus. I learned to look forward to fashion inspiration when pulling up to Shelly's house. One always knew she was gonna be on time, already standing at the corner and most likely dressed in some sort of pastel sweater and dark jeans looking like the cover of TEEN. She was Texas country, Ranch Girl Glam.
I, on the other hand, was still in my 6th grade awkward stage of long twisted braids, Mickey Mouse sweatshirts, baggy jeans and sneakers. If I was feeling fancy? Maybe I would be wearing a 99 cent mood ring I was endlessly conjuring up from the drugstore vending machine. I think most every one's 6th grade motto is blend in, because at 11 standing out is a frighteningly daunting nightmare. Again, that was until Shelly.
"Junior high boys are such idiots. I feel sorry for you having to deal with them all day. Ignoring them won't work, it's better to just look them in the eye and tell them to knock it off or you're gonna deck'em"
Those were the first words Shelly ever spoke to me as she turned around and single-handedly boomeranged a styrofoam cup half filled with crushed ice right back at the boys in the last few rows. She was smart, savvy and quick witted. I'm not sure why she took a liking to me, but I'm glad she did. Sitting next to me every morning she would tell me about the boys who fought over her in the hallways of high school. One of those boys was Mike Smith.
Mike Smith's small town fame was so astronomically huge that even I had heard of him miles across town in the lowly halls of 6th grade. My friend Katy had a photo of him from the school newspaper taped inside her gym locker that we all frequently ogled over. He was known for an extremely expensive blue sports car, an award winning smile, much longer hair than the the other boys and a football number whose impressive running stats were mentioned even more than cotton prices during the fall season.
Ahhhhhh Texas.
Hearing stories of Mike and Shelly first hand was not only surreal to me, but admittedly thrilling. I thought of them as small town royalty and the most beautiful couple of all high school couples ever. She talked a lot about how they would most likely one day get married, have two children and own the biggest ranch in cotton county.
How unbelievably jealous my friends would have been if they had only known one of the hippest chicks in high school was now my very own personal bus friend. Even at 11 I was fully aware of the popularity bonus that could become reality with such information, but I opted instead to be Shelly's lock box. I never shared one detail with another 6th grader or with anyone else for that matter. After all, our friendship was the grown up kind and I wanted to be worthy of her kindness. I wanted our bus talks to remain sacred and most importantly? I wanted to be just as cool as Shelly one day.
Every morning as the bus would pull up to PHS, I was enamored by the scene. Pretty girls in high heels and short skirts hanging with muscle jocks in football jerseys. All pretending to be oblivious to one another while clearly flirting on the front lawn.
And Mike Smith, always Mike Smith. Like clockwork he would be leaning against the white pole of the WILDCAT mascot sign waiting for Shelly. His shiny blue sports car glistening in the morning sunlight. So mysterious, So Dreamy.
When exiting the bus Shelly always looked back and waved at me. I thought it was immensely cool of a high schooler to publicly commiserate with a nobody 6th grader and I even remember a few times when Mike waved back too. Oooooo Yeh, I was operating at the pinnacle of cool. How funny I must have looked to them, glued to and gawking out of that school bus window like a goldfish. I felt like I had secretly become a member of the in crowd and it felt so good.
Most afternoons Shelly didn't ride the bus home. I assumed and often envisioned Mike Smith whisking her away in the mysterious blue sports car to some exclusive downtown hang spot where only Juniors and Seniors were allowed. I hated it when she didn't ride the bus home, because when she did it was the best.
Taking my braids down & brushing out my hair with her white flip brush she would explain in detail how I should be curling my hair to make it more bouncy like hers. Straight out of her faux Gucci bag she introduced me to the scent of Calvin Klein par fum, the joys of powder from a mirrored compact and the finer techniques of mascara application while bumping down dirt roads. My Christmas wish list that year suddenly went from a new basketball and roller skates to a burgundy Angora sweater and hot rollers. I adored Shelly.
Some days on our rides home, Shelly didn't want to talk much as it seemed like Mike Smith kept her in a sad style turmoil. Too much sadness for such a happy girl I thought, but I was just a kid so what did I know.
The last day I ever saw Shelly was on a Friday. I remember the day of the week only because she told me how Mike Smith had tragically broken her heart that afternoon and how she wouldn't be attending his football game that evening because it was just too sad. She also told me that at the beginning of summer she would be moving to live with her father in Dallas to finish her Senior year and then attend Baylor University. Wiping her tears away she told me how it was all for the best anyway, because Mike would be going away on a football scholarship soon and having a girlfriend didn't fit into his plan.
I was devastated. Why? Why did Shelly have to leave? How could anyone be mean to the sweetest girl in the world? Why did the nicest, coolest high schooler I had ever met have to be so sad?
Years came & went. My bus journeys ended as my family eventually moved away. In July before my Senior year I traveled back to that small town to visit a friend for a few weeks of summer fun. We were seventeen and everything.
One evening we decided to check out the local rodeo dance. While dancing with my friends, a boy motioned to me while stumbling his way across a dark dance floor. I smelled his drunken breath before I heard his words, "I think you should dance with me." Trying to adjust my eyes in the darkness, he seemed so familiar. When the lights came up, there was no mistaking, it was the legendary Mike Smith.
He looked so much older than his years and much more weathered for the wear. He stumbled toward my friends in embarrassing fashion and just like that, a sloppy hot mess shot down six years of teenage boy idolatry in only a matter of moments. Of course he didn't know me from Eve as I'm sure the goldfish girl in braids peering from the bus window didn't ring a bell. He asked me to dance again.
"Uh No. Thanks anyway, but my friends & I were just leaving."
Walking across the parking lot I caught glimpse of a blue sports car. Noway, could it be? Faded with a crunched front bumper and a shattered windshield, it wasn't quite the same glamour mobile I had remembered.
As we drove away I wondered a million what ifs and I couldn't help but smile as one resounding thought kept flashing in my brain like a Texas Friday night lighted scoreboard...
This one's for you Shelly, wherever you are.
Hepburn Hugs & Ric Ocasek Dreams
