What if…?
I hurry along, my feet carrying me as far as possible from the boy who can’t stop making eye contact with me from across the pool. I’m on patrol right now, and there’s nothing I could do to adequately get away, even if I tried. I resist the urge to look back at him to confirm his position and how far away I’ve already moved, knowing that if I do, our eyes will meet awkwardly once more, forcing me to turn suddenly and to walk faster; the urge to escape is greater. I’m supposed to be paying attention to the kids right now anyway, most under the age for anything like this to be a real problem for them. They’re still too innocent, too naive, too young for anything like a boy a little less than half their age trying to hit on them to worry them.
I roll my eyes inwardly. “Though I look like I’m 12, I am 20, just stop…” words no other 20 year-old has ever had to utter, and words I cannot because of my job. In my peripherals, I see that I am nearing him again in my rounds, but by some twist of wondrous fate, he is getting up to get something from the concession stand. I breathe a slight sigh of relief and glance to where he is headed, my pace slowing slightly upon seeing the guy working the stand.
I’ve seen him before; we’ve talked endlessly about college and majors and places we’ve been that we want to return to, and yet I still can’t get a read on him: he’s overall pretty quiet, but not so much when I talk to him (though that could be my over-eager ability to talk anyone with any semblance of intelligence until I am blue in the face and their ears are hanging by threads, and nothing actually special about me), he never looks my way voluntarily, but he listens intently (perhaps out of boredom and nothing else on which to focus his attention), he smiles more when I’m around (but it’s not like I see him all the time anyway, how am I supposed to be the judge of how often a grin flits across his countenance?)… I catch myself staring, though it’s probably only been a moment, so I pick up my pace once more and look around for a kid to be misbehaving.
Halfway around the pool once more, I see the prepubescent wonder making his way directly for me, tray in hand. At least I have something I can yell at him for. “All food must remain inside the concession area, bud.” He looks confused for a moment, then stammers out, “Th-th-the guy back there w-wanted me to give this to you.” The kid looks like he might cry. I sigh and walk him back to the picnic tables littering one end of the deck, not even paying attention to what he’d said. Kids…not wanting to take responsibility for their actions… “Wait, what did you say?” He takes a deep breath and forces out, “Theguybacktherewantedmetogivethistoyou,” sets down the soft pretzel he’s been carrying, and runs off, jumping into the water without a glance back. The guy back there. What if…
I’m not much of one for hoping: when you find that you’re a hopeless romantic soul stuck in a cynic’s body, you learn to repress any romantic notions you once had about any aspect of life. Still, some days, I find myself slipping and thinking, “Wouldn’t it be nice if, just this once, something were to happen?” and I have to try desperately to remind myself that all it takes is once to become crushed by the way things really are. It’s happened a few times too many, and I’m not sure just how much more disappointment my spirit can take before it breaks completely, if it hasn’t already. But… the guy back there… I glance toward the stand’s window, but the worker is busy preparing someone’s hot dog. I could be seeing things, but the ghost of a smile seems to be lingering around his mouth. I once told him that I wanted a soft pretzel, then quickly added, with a laugh, “but I always want a soft pretzel.” What if…
I am going back to school in less than a month; so is he, assumedly. Next summer, I may get an unexpected internship, meaning I wouldn’t work here again; he might decide that there are better things to do with his time than sell nachos and candy to chlorine-drenched children. We may never speak again. But… what if…?What if he secretly likes me? This question is forever stuck on repeat in my mind, more often than not responding with, “There is no conceivable way…”
I do not approach people I have feelings for, feelings I try desperately not to have out of fear of further breaking. I am far too worried about what will happen if things go sour to even dream of doing such a thing. But what if this is the one moment I have left to say something, anything? What if this conversation I wish I could have without fear is the one that would finally set the records straight and wipe the slates and scoreboards clean? What if I am too afraid to ever find out what could happen if I simply said what was on my mind? What if…?
