Bryce Romero

He was there on my first day of kindergarten. Dirty blonde hair and evenly bronzed arms. He wore round glasses. I was in love. We took naps on woven rugs in our classroom full of two foot tall desks. Our cubbie holes were near each other. It was there that I hung my coat and stored my woven rug for nap time. Mornings started with the Pledge of Alegiance and was followed by a prayer to the Lutheran flag flying next to it. We would stand in the square grass courtyard on cold California mornings and stare up at the two flag posts flying two flags. With the exception of the time that the redheaded boy in the desk next to me stole my sticker book, these were peaceful times.
During recess Bryce and I would escape hundreds of meters away from the kickball games and tether ball courts. We sat against the white painted cinderblock gates, closing us off to the outside world which we never had any interest in venturing into anyway. The wall was cool on our backs and the black asphault parking lot left marks on my shorts. He was my first boyfriend.
My 7th birthday party was an at home Sock Hop, complete with spoons for michrophones, side pony tails and pink lipstick. My parents didn’t have the money to buy me a bright colored poodle skirt made out of felt so I ended up reusing the skirt I wore to a square dance I went to with my dad. It was faded pink with delicate pink and green flowers. It looked like a voluminous bed sheet. Bryce came; the only boy. He wore jeans cuffed at the ankles and a white shirt rolled at his underdeveloped biceps. On his left arm one of his parents had drawn a heart with “Jenny” written inside and on the other was “Mom” drawn on a 45 degree angle. We danced in my family room until I started crying for some reason that I can’t drag out of my memory. It was a successful party.
After second grade Bryce moved to Scottsdale, Arizona so that his sister could pursue an Olympic dream in gymnastics. We would have had to of parted ways anyway. My mom moved me over to public school because Shepherd of the Valley was “too gossipy” and “ammoral.” I’m fairly sure most of the mothers were banging or wanted to bang Mr. Hartmire who taught 6th grade.

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