On Monday I followed him around at recess making coyote calls. On Tuesday I wrapped my knee around the monkey bar and whirled around 52 times, then barfed discreetly in the bushes. On Wednesday I gave him my best shooting marble. On Thursday I showed him how to make a whistle out of a lilac leaf. I gave the relationship my very best, using all my feminine wiles—to no avail.
The golden opportunity presented itself at lunchtime on Friday. Kent went back to the cloakroom/supply closet to get his coat and I slipped in behind him, locking the door from the outside and pulling it closed. He glared at me as he squeezed past me and tried to open the door. He rattled it. It was locked.
Me: (Using my budding acting skills) Oh no! Are we locked in?
Kent: (Frantically pounding) Help, I need help.
Me: (With a saucy look) I can help you.
Kent: You just stay away from me.
Me: Hey, want to sing “100 Bottles of Root Beer on the Wall?”
Kent: Get away from me. I need lunch, I want to eat my bologna sandwich.
Me: We could color or something.
After this brief conversation, Kent clammed up and sat huddled in the corner. But, after a half hour or so, he succumbed to Stockholm syndrome. I will never forget the delicious bottle of creamy white paste we shared; taking turns scooping out the minty mouthfuls with wooden craft sticks.
By the time everyone came back from lunch Kent was my friend. Oh, the romance didn’t last because I found out it is not cool to marry your cousin, but I’m sure he still has fond memories of our time together.
( I wonder why he keeps ignoring my repeated requests to be his Facebook friend?)
Me & Kent