6 first-love stories

My guy By Jocelyn Laurence
When I was a toddler, my great-aunt made me a doll out of grey and white work socks. Sandy -- he was definitely of the male persuasion -- might have been monochromatic, but he had a jaunty red knit scarf and jolly red wool tassels on his wrists, ankles and on the top of his tuque. He also had a hugely cheerful smile.
Sandy became my beloved companion. When times were tough at home, as my parents painfully geared up for a separation, I'd make Sandy dance, which he always did with a joy that he transferred to me. Not only were my parents tense, so was the rest of the world. This was Vancouver in the late 1950s, and the Cold War was making everyone jumpy. At school, we rehearsed for potential disaster by crouching under our desks to shelter from The Bomb (yeah, right) while the fake sirens howled. Lying in bed at night, the wail of a fire engine or ambulance had me convinced we were all about to die. But I wasn't alone. I had Sandy. He smiled and danced on, and allowed himself to be squeezed, turned upside down and smothered without ever losing his gentle good spirits.
I loved Sandy so much he grew grubby and sprouted bald spots that I had no idea how to fix, nor did my mom (darning wasn't exactly her forte). So at some point, my great-aunt made me another doll. I don't remember the transitional moment, but Sandy disappeared and Sandy II was born.

Trouble was, I never loved him as profoundly as I had his predecessor. I treated him with care and respect -- after all, Sandy II, like all Sandys, did his best. He smiled, he waved, he danced. In fact, it made me sad how hard he tried. None of this was his fault. But he wasn't the same Sandy who had seen me through the dark nights of my eight-year-old soul. We could be -- and were -- good friends, but I had already given my heart to another.

He likes me, he loves me not By Helaine Becker
It's 1972. I'm 11 years old, in Grade 6 and in love. Madly, obsessively, Crocodile Rockin' in love. I've got hearts with the name Jeffrey Friedman inked inside them all over my yellow smiley-faced binder. He likes me, too; but not in the boy-girl way. But I know Jeffrey kind of likes me because he sometimes bikes around to my block, just to hang out. Once he even let me climb behind him on the banana seat for a spin. For five glorious minutes I got to wrap my arms around his scarecrow-skinny waist and let my chin rest on his shoulder. But he won't ask me to go steady, and I don't get an ID bracelet from him -- the true marks of Grade 6 affection. I am madly, obsessively frustrated.

Then the aptly named Gail November appears on the horizon. She's a gymnast and can do five round-offs in a row. Jeffrey asks her to go steady and gives her an ID bracelet. I cannot believe my love would let his head be turned by Gumby Girl.

Fast-forward to 1982. I am at the library and recognize Jeff at the next carrel. He's the first to speak. My heart lurches as he asks me out. I am giddy with shock. I have waited 10 years for this. Jeff takes me to a New Year's Eve party. For me, this is the 20-something equivalent of an ID bracelet. So at midnight, when he kisses me and then whispers in my ear, "Doesn't that girl over there look like Gail November?" I hit him -- hard, really hard.

We have not seen Gumby Girl since Grade 6. Yet when I look over to where Jeff points, I know, with total certainty, it's her. We approach with Jeff holding my left hand. She turns to us, blinks and says, "Oh, my God, I know you! And you, too! Are you two still together?" I clench my teeth. My jaw aches with the effort of not screaming. I make Jeff take me home at 12:20. He laughs and promises he does not want her phone number; he is not interested in Miss Gail November.

Jeff and I date for two more years. There is, at the end, a prolonged period of sadness when we both realize that, while we care for each other, we are not in love. No words are necessary.

Fast-forward one last time to 1997. We are in a sports bar, drinking beer as we always do whenever I make my annual visit to my hometown. I am now married, Jeff is divorced, and one night a year, I let myself pretend he is mine all over again. Jeff says, "You'll never believe what happened. My son is three and has a new friend in day care. He went home with her after school. I went to pick him up and guess who answered the door? Yup -- Gail November, back in town. Her daughter and Greg are the nursery school sweethearts."
I laugh so hard I cry. And funnily enough, once I start, I just can't stop.