“I don’t appreciate what you said about my friends.” Her voice was tense, borderline hostile. What I didn’t know then was that this conversation would change the trajectory of both of our lives, hers and mine.

Between the abuse at home and the constant teasing at school, I was fed up. Mostly, I was tired of all of it. It was 1987, my Sophomore year of high school, and Dad said she was moving out with the possible ending of their marriage. Little did I know this would be good for me and my brothers.

Our high school sat atop a hill in Dublin, California, looking down over I-580. It was isolated from the rest of Dublin, far away from anyone, which made it a prestigious school. It was a private school, non-denominational, at least to my knowledge. I think I was asked once the ratio of boys to girls and I honestly don’t recall. It was bad enough that most of the kids attending the school had a lot of money, able to afford the tuition without breaking a sweat. My Dad couldn’t, but he did his best to make deals with the principal, ensuring James and I would continue attending. We didn’t know 1987 would be our last year.

To say I was a social outcast at my school would be understating the problem. The truth was worse than I care to remember. I didn’t play sports. The only sports our school was actively involved with were soccer, basketball, and baseball. With 150 kids split between the four grades, freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and seniors, we couldn’t afford to be picky with who was on the team. Some players were naturals, others just holding a spot for a better player to come along. And for being such a small school, we had a lot of natural talent – boys and girls who played harder, were super dedicated, and meant to win for our little high school. But I wasn’t someone who enjoyed playing outside. I hated baseball. Basketball was okay if you were watching it. And soccer? Watching the players run from one side of the field to the other exhausted me. If I had been good at a sport, it probably would’ve been the one I hated the most – soccer.

Instead, I worked on the yearbook as one of the chief photographers. I took hundreds of candid shots, utilizing my Dad’s Cannon AE-1 with multiple lenses and the rolls of ISO-200 given to me by the yearbook chief editor, Cameron. The pictures I shot weren’t blurry, like those shot with the auto-focus, automatic cameras of other yearbook staff. The photos I took and my ability to frame up a shot stemmed from Dad being a photographer and teaching me what a good picture looked like. As a former photographer for National Geographic, I figured I could trust what he told me.

Throughout my years attending this private school, I had a couple of crushes on a few girls, like Heather Lamberti, Jennifer Schlotthauer, Lisa McCann, Tracy Videtto, and Marcelle Wade, to name a few. I remember there was also a Kathy, but I forgot her last name.

Heather, Jennifer, and Tracy left our private school for public high schools in Dublin and Pleasanton. At least, that was my guess after the school year started, and they weren’t there.

None of those girls were important. Marcelle was. Not that Heather or Jennifer were cruel, but they wouldn’t talk to me unless we had a group project. They did their best to avoid me. Honestly, I can’t say I blame them. I was emotionally damaged and didn’t know how to deal with all the feelings I had. Feelings of rejection from home and from any social circles at school. The only kids who entertained the idea of hanging out with me were the 1986 graduating seniors. I had a few connections to the new senior class, graduating in 1987, but not like I did in the class of 1986.

Between the emotional abuse at home and more piled on at school from those kids claiming to be my ‘friends,’ it was all I could do to get through the day. When I got home, the last thing I wanted to do was study, so I didn’t. Did I have homework? Yeah, almost every day. How often did I do it? Only when I felt okay enough or wanted to complete the work. If it was a writing assignment? I was all over that! Everything else took a backseat. After school, it was all I could do to get myself back together enough to withstand the abuse from my Bio-Mom. Thankfully, she moved out, lessening the stress of after school.

So that day, the day Marcelle called me, you could say I was surprised. No. I was shocked that she had my phone number, much less took the time to contact me. I didn’t know she knew who I was. And I forgot what happened in the hallway during our lunch period.

We had a closed campus – once we were at school, we couldn’t leave until the day was over. I would later learn that other high schools in the area had open campuses – you could come and go as you pleased as long as you reported to each of your scheduled classes.

There was only one building with two floors, and I think 16 classrooms on the second floor, and twelve on the first. The remaining space was dedicated to the principal’s office and administration. Not that the number of classrooms mattered. What mattered was where we were, in proximity to what happened throughout our closed campus lunch period.

Most of us wandered the halls like most high school kids would. Unlike generations after us, we didn’t have computers, cell phones, or other electronic media to keep us occupied throughout the fifty minutes. Some of us studied, which didn’t make sense to me. Why would you do that in your free time? Others of us played sports. Nope. Not me! A few of us actually ate food. That’s not entirely true. Some of us, like me, ate a Snickers and drank a Coke. That was lunch. And it only cost me a dollar, so there’s that. If you weren’t doing one of those things, you were probably in the computer lab, playing Oregon Trail on the Apple IIe computers. And if you weren’t computer savvy? You watched others play. I did that sometimes. More often than not, I wandered the hallways, gravitating between the first and second floors, looking for an exciting conversation to listen to. Or engage in. Either way. Didn’t matter to me.

On this particular spring day in Dublin, California, as I wandered through the school on lunch, I happened to come across girls studying for their next class, I think Spanish, if I remember correctly. Jonelle and Linda sat outside the classroom, giggling, whispering, and pointing at me. They had been doing this for a few minutes, and I was fed up. I was surprised to not see Marcelle with them. She usually sat there, studying and talking to the two of them. For some reason, she wasn’t there. After the giggling and laughing, I decided I’d give Marcelle a piece of my mind, thinking she could get them to stop. I think that’s what I was thinking. To be honest, I don’t remember. I barely remember what happened next. The only reason I remember it today? Marcelle called me.

I finally found Marcelle right outside the administrative offices. And that’s where I let loose all my pent-up anger and aggression. It all came out on her. As loud as I could, I shouted, “Your friends are both bitches!” I stormed down the hallway, out the doors, and ran up to the second floor just as the bell sounded for my English class. No one said anything to me! No one told me it was uncalled for or that I was out of line. Not one teacher addressed my cussing in a private Christian high school! I’m unsure how I got away with it, but I did. What’s worse is I forgot that I said it in the first place!

I arrived home from school later that afternoon and Dad grabbed me before I ran upstairs to my room, my radio and cassette tape deck. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, exiting his office. The front of our house had a set of double doors, the one on the right being the one we used to enter and exit the house. The left side stayed locked unless we needed to move something big in or out. The office was to the left of the front doors. “Someone called for you a few minutes ago. Some girl.”

No one called me except my best friend, Tim. And he had soccer or baseball practice. I could never remember which. Besides, Dad would’ve told me it was Tim. “I think her name was Marsha. No. Not Marsha. Mar-co. Mar-shawn. No, that’s not right. Marcel?”

“Marcelle? Marcelle called for me?” My mind was racing. Why would she be calling me? Better question – did Dad get her number? “Did you get her number?” I asked, thinking that I would finally be able to talk to her!

“No, son. I didn’t. She said she’d call you later. I told her you’d be home around 4 P.M.” I looked at my watch, the digital readout reading 16:04 – four minutes past four o’clock! She’d be calling any second!

Then the phone rang. “I got it!” I shouted, running into Dad’s office and shutting the door. “Hello?” I answered.

There wasn’t a “Hi, this is Marcelle.” The voice on the other end was terse. “I don’t appreciate what you said about my friends today.”

My mind was reeling. What did I say about your friends? What did my day look like? What happened all day at school? I couldn’t remember a thing, focusing instead on backpedaling as fast as possible, apologizing for anything, no matter how small, thinking I could turn the conversation around. “Oh wow,” I said, taking my time to let that sink in. “You know, I’m really sorry about that.”

For the next fifteen minutes, I dominated the conversation, telling her how long I wanted to talk to her, how I looked for but couldn’t find her phone number (it was unlisted), and then, at the end of all the pleasantries, I asked her out. “How would you like to see a movie? The Secret of My Success opens on Saturday.”

I didn’t hear a word for a few seconds. The pause scared me, but I waited. Then Marcelle answered, “Um, yeah, okay. I guess we could do that.”

“Great! I’ll pick you up,” even though I hadn’t discussed it with Dad yet. I figured he’d get over it.

And that, boys and girls, is how I managed to get my first date!