Tastes just like Cherrie Cola

I grew up in a time when parents would name their kids ridiculous things. Obviously they still do, but I went to school with some people of unusual and sometimes downright embarrassing names. Parents who couldn't remember the sixties because they were REALLY there, frittering away a free education by consuming every mind altering substance they could lay their hands on. Mind you where they lived, when they were having kids in the early 1970s, that probably didn't consist of much more than cheap red wine from South Australia and some bad Hunter River pot sent in the post. But still they did their best to play the part of expanded minds, long before they grew up and had inflated heads. Often it was not the parents fault, it was just a weird cultural coincidence that Dougal had the same name as a character from the Magic Roundabout, and similar shaggy mop hair. Every now and then, an attempt at naming someone for a naturally beautiful phenomenon would come up, and hence I went to school with the creatively spelled Rainbo. Of course she was re-christened Rambo by a bloodthirsty bunch of teenage boys anyway. But the parents of one girl in particular must have known exactly what they were doing. There was no mistaking that everyone would find it amusing that they were in class with one Cherrie Blossom.

Cherrie was, I suppose, a reasonably attractive girl. She was tall for her age, though, which often made her a target of derision from the other girls, and relatively flat chested, as though her added height was a result of being stretched. But her face was pretty, and her awkward stoop made her move in a way that was at once gawky but endearing. I always noticed that tall girls develop hunched over posture, especially in the teen high school years, as if they are trying to withdraw themselves from view, which merely has the effect of making them more ridiculously obvious. Like a giraffe trying to hide amongst a herd of zebras. She had almost-black hair, with a consistency of dried grass, such that it stuck out at strange angles, despite her best efforts to tame it. I was never entirely sure if she straightened it to enhance this spasticity, but as long as I knew her it remained the same black haystack . As a result of this contrary nature, it was kept mown pretty short, and she was quite possibly the first time I developed a crush on a short haired girl. A recurring theme in my life, strangely.

I say strangely, though, as I developed a crush on Cherrie Blossom with very little encouragement from her whatsoever. In fact, I hadn't noticed her at all, much, until her existence was brought to my attention by some concerned friends. A group of other young ladies I went to school with had decided that, as "everyone else" was pretty much coupled up, it was clearly high time I also found true love in the back of the bus I shared with them every day.

"You know who likes you?" they taunted.

Of course, being a tough thirteen year old boy, I intended to act aloof in front of my mates who were sitting around me on the oval at the bottom of the school. They then recounted the story of how Cherrie told someone, who told someone else, who told someone they knew who told them that she thought I was cute. Even at this early age, I took exception to that particular adjective since reading once that it meant "endearingly ugly", so I was not overly impressed, though I knew most of these girls never used it that way. It was still less impressive than handsome, or gorgeous, or hot, though no one really used that term back then, except in the movies.

But they had planted a seed in my mind. A germ of an idea that grew in intensity as I went about my business. I started noticing her far more often. I also noticed that her chalky white complexion grew pinkish and blotchy when she caught me looking her way. So it was true, then. Perhaps. At least it was a distinct possibility. Then there followed a week or more of badgering by the girls. It was quite obvious to them, and clearly should have been so to me, that I could not continue to carry on as a single man in this hectic social life of the schoolyard. So it was decided I should be pressured into asking her out, and she, I was told, unaware of the whole thing, would surely go along with the plan. After all, the girls who were feeding me intelligence (now there's a confusing use of the term if ever there was one) were much more popular than Cherrie, who while being quite cute, and rich enough, was something of a nerd. In my "friends" words: perfect for me. And I went along with it, acting up to my assumed role. In some ways, convincing myself I believed it was my choice; convincing them I was into the idea. I still don't know why, for sure. The adolescent need for acceptance is strong.

Eventually it was up to me to make something of this. I had resolved I should ask her out, I should do it on the bus she took along with me every afternoon. And I tried, but couldn't quite swing the conversation around in time before she made her exit every day. A week went by, then another, and another, and eventually, I began to wonder why I was even considering this. I didn't really have any feelings for her, I was being pressured into the whole thing by the girlfriends of my friends, in order that there were no third wheels at their social occasions. In the end, I had to clear all this up. I had to tell Cherrie Blossom what was happening.

One day I jumped off the bus at her stop, claiming I was going to the nearby shopping centre, where I would be picked up by my mother. This was a complete lie, and it took me forever to get home from there afterwards. But it was here I planned to explain the situation to Cherrie. She looked happy at first, and clearly thought I was going to ask her out. It soon became clear my intention was almost the exact opposite, and by the time I came around to the end of my long winded explanation (that even though I thought she was really nice, and very pretty, I didn't actually want to go out with her) she was crying. She never really spoke to me after that day.

I suppose she was embarrassed by my rejection of her, that she'd ever said anything to my friends, or her friends, or anyone. I knew that she had been fed a great deal of misleading information about my feelings for her, as well, and it didn't make me fonder of my girl-friends for doing it. I don't know that I resolved to do it, but I definitely began at that point to become better able to hide my feelings. I suppose in the long run it has been a useful skill to possess, but it has been costly. The fleeting embarrassment of a sweet rejection and an understanding kiss on the cheek is far more easy to live with than the unending heartbreak of losing someone you truly love because you never let them inside the wall.