The first time I did something hurtful to a girl, I was seventeen years old. That’s not necessarily the first time I hurt a girl, mind you, because I did a lot of hair-pulling and training-bra-strap-snapping in elementary school, but that was just your average boyhood sexual harassment in the ’70s. Any pain I caused was —from my childishly asshole-ish perspective— an unfortunate byproduct of getting a girl’s attention.
In contrast, when I say “hurtful” here, I mean an infliction of pain for pain’s sake. I wanted her to cry. I wanted her to feel loss. I wanted her to be an object of ridicule. I wanted her most of all, but as it turns out, that whole “childish asshole” thing was tough to shake.
I was in love with her; she was just lonely and horny. (For the sake of this piece, let’s call her That Poor Girl.) We talked on the phone every night for hours, whispering about half-understood sexual stuff while praying her parents weren’t going to pick up on another extension. She wanted to hear all of my perverted thoughts, and contributed her own when coaxed. We never got around to actual phone-sex until years later, after we were both out of high school, but we kept each other worked up in our respective darkened bedrooms most evenings.
At school, though? She was a different person; no interest in me, no acknowledgement of the time we spent together… nothing. For reasons never explained, I simply wasn’t good enough to be with her publicly. Or at least, that’s how it felt.
As an adult, I can perceive the subtle compliment that was there to be taken, that being someone’s secret sexual confidant can make for an interesting, intimate connection all by itself. It never occurred to me that perhaps TPG avoided me publicly because I knew her too well, and she didn’t want to feel vulnerable in front of a crowd. It was hard to be sure, since we were both immature idiots.
Whatever was actually going on, my teen self could only see the rejection, and after enough of it, I decided to return the favor. By the end of senior year, I was moving out of state with my family, and honestly didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. It felt as if it were time to carpe or get off the diem.
The sophomores, juniors, and seniors all planned a skip-day around a rendezvous at the nearest theme park, three hours away. I didn’t have a clear idea of what I would do, but I knew it would happen on that trip. At the very least, I was going to be a huge dick and tell her off in front of everyone, but as the day wore on and the rides were closing down, I could feel the opportunity (and my resolution) slipping away.
That’s when TPG’s best friend stepped in, and I found my first hesitant attempt at casual cruelty rescued… by another girl.
Everyone in our group knew I was in love with TPG, and strongly approved of our coupling, but the object of my affections simply refused to play along. (In retrospect, I admire the way she stuck to her guns. Tough little bitch.) As the sun was beginning to slip toward the horizon, I pulled TPG’s BFF aside and asked what she thought I should do.
“Go for it,” she answered with surprising enthusiasm. “And let’s make it really good.” With that, I had a collaborator, and we began to brainstorm in whispers, furtive glances, and covert gestures.
It needed to be more than an insult or “a scene”… it needed to be a statement. It needed to be something so particular in it’s execution that it would leave her speechless, and everyone around us thinking, “whoa.” It would be the last time I saw many of the kids assembled there, and my entitled little ego felt strongly that they should remember me as That Dude Who Totally Did That Badass Thing and not That Dude Who Couldn’t Get That One Chick To Date Him. Once we settled on a plan, all I needed was the bait for the trap.
“Get the unicorn,” TPG’s friend assured me. “That will do it.”
As my co-conspirator scurried off to ensure that a few important people knew to be at the right place at the right time, I paid for the bait and paused to consider what I was doing. I was spending my last dime on this little event, with no idea if it would work, or if I even had the balls to follow through. The “NO RETURNS” sign on the shop’s counter brought a certain sense of inevitability to the proceedings, but the plan had an inherent backdoor; all the way up to the last second, I could have backed out. I couldn’t entirely scuttle things —because “NO RETURNS”— but I could opt for an alternate ending. All of those computer RPGs and Choose Your Own Adventure books had been leading me to this moment: a chance to pick my fate.
We assembled in the theme park’s abyss of lost cars, and started the slow process of deciding who was riding back with whom, and thus, which girls would spend the next three hours getting finger-banged vs. bitterly bitching about the radio and needing to pee every thirty miles. As this delicate dance of libido and logistics continued in the background, I at last approached TPG with a small gift bag in my hand.
Through the subtle carnival barking of my accomplice, everyone was turning to watch what was happening. TPG smiled a little, being accustomed to accepting gifts from me. I held the bag open so she could reach inside.
“I know I’m leaving and everything,” I began, with utter sincerity saturating every syllable, “but I wanted to give you something. I wanted you to know how much you really mean to me.” I found myself unexpectedly enjoying the way the words sounded as they hit the air.
Her smile grew into a grin as she reached within the bag. Her fingers closed around a hand-crafted, delicately designed, glass unicorn. She held it up to catch the sunset, and it glittered magically. TPG was obsessed with unicorns, and this one was just sparkly and expensive enough to make her get a little flushed. She was excited, and flattered, and heading swiftly toward giddy.
That was the moment. I could have stopped, and who knows…? We might have had our first kiss. I might have spent the ride home getting a handy in the back of someone’s van while Def Leppard screamed through the speakers. I might have made an insecure, bitchy girl feel just a little less of both for a night, and made the world just a slightly brighter place.
But instead.
“What’s that right there?” I asked as she cooed over the figurine. She didn’t even look up, but began turning the unicorn over in her hands, examining it.
“Here, let me look at it,” I said, pulling it abruptly from her grasp. Her expression clouded with confusion as her gaze followed her gift. I squinted at absolutely nothing with great intensity. “Oh, shit… there’s a little crack right here, you can barely see it.”
I took a silent breath, and rolled my eyes to lock with hers. Smiling carefully, I finally accepted what I wanted to do, and for a fraction of a fucked-up second, relished the shit out of it.
“Too bad, such a waste,” I said. And with an exaggerated sigh and a careless flick of my wrist, I tossed the unicorn over my shoulder.
It shattered on the hot pavement behind me, or so I was told; I didn’t bother to check. I simply nodded at her cheerfully, spun on my heel, and walked away, never looking back. I climbed into my friend’s waiting truck and we headed out. My partner-in-crime let me know later that TPG cried the whole ride home. Everyone snickered at her, and delighted in her embarrassment. As last-minute, evil schemes go, it played out to perfection.
“I wanted you to know how much you really mean to me,” I’d told her, and after that, she definitely knew.
