In Year 7 Mrs Rufus took the class to see
an amateur performance of Romeo and Juliet.
We had studied it. Performed scenes
using swords and headdresses.
The seats were red velvet.
I was on the end of a row next to Jason Clean.
Weirdly, he smelt of disinfectant,
carried hand sanitiser on a key ring.
Everyone called him Spring Clean,
which wasn’t as mean as it could get.
One girl in the class was called Ugly –
simple as that, Ugly, no explanation
needed.
Jason held my hand after the interval.
I didn’t snatch it away
even though his fingers were sweaty
and I was trying to eat a bag of sweets.
He whispered, Want to have a kiss on the coach?
I said, Sure, yeah, OK, fine.
But I was worried.
I’d already promised to sit
with Sophie on the way home
and listen to music, an earphone each.
I had to pass her a note along the row
to explain I’d agreed to kiss Spring Clean
and would have to disappoint her,
disappoint myself.
It was a shame.
I rarely got a chance to listen to music on a phone
and Spring Clean didn’t even kiss me in the end.
He was too busy puking into a paper bag
and saying, sorry-sorry-sorry.
But that was love,
I guessed.
Love was sacrifice:
rarely simple,
rarely even what we wanted.