When I was thirteen, I found myself obsessed with three things. Shakespeare, Star Wars, and Harrison Ford’s jaw line.
Doing what they’re contractually obliged to do, my parents put up with me. Mom yielded the television when I wanted to watch Empire Strikes Back. (Again? Yes Mom, again.) And when I spent forty minutes speculating whether Harrison looked better clean shaven or with a five o’clock shadow, Dad smiled at Mom and said, “Well at least we know the girl’s straight.”
Middle school was and would always be a different matter.
It wasn’t the Shakespeare. Even I wasn’t dumb enough to admit I actually liked Romeo and Juliet.
And as for me and Harrison? Well, he was a bit old. “Lecherous,” my friend said, though I knew no one caught Lechery any more. And despite the age gap (40 years, 10 months, 12 days), most people accepted it. Crushes were normal. Even, they supposed, when they weren’t directed toward Leo sigh Dicaprio.
It was the Star Wars that messed me up.
The trouble started on the bus. Eighth grade trip to Ashland Oregon. Four hundred and eighty miles, sixty-four pubescents, five terrified adults, and one Star Wars novel with a paper bag scotch taped over the front and back covers.
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This is a promising beginning: I really want to know what happens on that fateful trip to Ashland. The idea of a thirteen year old being attracted to this man old enough to be her father is inherently comic, and there's something very funny about her real father's blasé response (“Well at least we know the girl’s straight.”) Keep going on this?
ReplyDeleteEric