My First Crush Was a Disaster
When I was thirteen, I had my first real crush. His name was Ben. Not his real name, of course. I’m protecting the guilty. Also myself.
I first met Ben when I was about eleven or twelve, long before I developed any romantic delusions about him. Back then, he was just another Boy Scout with sunburned ears, a cocky grin, and the full confidence of a boy who had not yet been knocked down enough by life. I was a Girl Scout, and because the universe enjoys irony, our troops sometimes ended up on camping trips together.
My dad was a Webelos leader and got involved with Ben’s troop through their Scoutmaster, Mr. Lewis. From time to time, Mr. Lewis invited my dad’s boys to join the older scouts on camping trips. And somehow, I often got swept along for the adventure.
One weekend, we camped at Lake Chabot in Castro Valley, California. It was beautiful with rolling hills, sparkling water, tall trees, the whole postcard package. Some of the older boys had built homemade kayaks and paddled to the campsite like miniature mountain men. The rest of us hiked in carrying sleeping bags, gear, and enough supplies to survive a minor apocalypse.
By the time we got there, the kayak boys were already lounging around, proud of themselves and ready to swim. My father shut that down immediately.
“Set up camp first,” he said.
Nothing kills a teenage boy’s joy faster than a responsible adult.
So everyone started unloading gear and picking spots. I was setting up my own sleeping area when Ben and one of his friends wandered over. Ben dropped his sleeping bag and backpack at my feet like I was hired help.
“Since you’re the only girl,” he said with a grin, “you should set up our stuff.”
I smiled sweetly and said, “Sure.”
My tone should have warned them.
But without the brains that the Good Lord gave them, the two boys swaggered off toward the lake, cackling like two fools who thought they’d just won the Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Comedy Series.
My dad raised an eyebrow but said nothing, busy helping the younger scouts get settled
Now, earlier that day, I had noticed a giant anthill near our campsite. Not a cute little anthill. A full-scale ant subdivision. Busy. Organized. Motivated.
So I decided to honor Ben’s request and perform my “womanly duties.”
With great care and a servant’s heart, I laid out his tarp directly over the anthill. I spread out the sleeping bags, arranged their gear, and made the whole setup look downright cozy. It was the most thoughtful act of revenge I had ever committed. No one would have suspected a thing.
Well, almost no one.
My dad glanced over at me with that look parents get when they know exactly what you are capable of but don’t yet have enough evidence to stop you.
Still, he said nothing.
After camp was set up, we all went swimming. For a little while, the afternoon was peaceful. Sun on the water. Boys splashing around. Me enjoying the calm before the insect uprising.
Then I heard it.
“Ann Marie!”
That one sentence told me everything. I hurried back, trying—and failing—not to laugh.
I came running back to camp and found the two Neanderthals in absolute chaos. They were shaking out sleeping bags, flinging ants off their packs, slapping at their legs, and hollering like they had been attacked by tiny, furious outlaws. Mr. Lewis was laughing so hard he could barely stand up. A couple of the other boys had collapsed onto logs. Even my dad, who was trying to maintain parental authority, looked like he was one second away from losing it since the twitch at the corners of his mouth gave him away.
Turns out, ants get downright hostile when you bulldoze their neighborhood.
Ben glared at me.
I gave him my most innocent face, which has never once fooled anyone.
The boys had to strip down their campsite, shake out every piece of gear, and try to evict the legions of ants that had made themselves perfectly at home. My father told me to help, though the boys wanted no part of my assistance by then. Even Mr. Lewis, between laughs, said, “They had it coming.”
He wasn’t wrong.
The cleanup took forever, and even then they never got every last ant out. All night long, the campsite echoed with startled yelps and muttered curses each time one of those tiny, determined invaders found a fresh place to bite. My dad and I tried to keep quiet, but every now and then I’d hear another shout in the darkness and have to bury my laughter in my sleeping bag.
That should have been the end of my story with Ben. In a sensible world, a boy whose bedroll you had booby-trapped with an anthill might not become your first crush. But life, especially at thirteen, is rarely sensible, and you would be underestimating adolescence.
Somewhere between that camping trip and the summer before my freshman year of high school, Ben and I started liking each other. I was nearly fourteen; he was fifteen. And somehow, the same boy who had once treated me like unpaid labor had become very interesting. That is the sort of bad judgment that makes adolescence so dangerous. Good judgment simply flees.
By the summer, Ben had become my first real crush. He started coming by the house to see me. We rode our bikes around the island, hung out at the beach, and sat on my front stoop talking for hours about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing. It was easy and sweet and innocent, right up until it wasn’t.
One afternoon, Ben showed up at my house with his best friend, and we joined a group of neighborhood boys already hanging around in the yard. Everybody was laughing and carrying on, enjoying the lazy ease of a summer day. Then, without warning, Ben leaned against my dad’s car, pulled me close, and kissed me.
The boys went wild, laughing, hollering, and teasing us without mercy.
I froze. My face went hot. In one awful second, I could already hear the jokes that would follow me for weeks. I knew I would never hear the end of it unless I did something immediately.
So I did the only thing my flustered thirteen-year-old self could think of.
I punched him square in the jaw.
It was not a heroic punch. It was not a movie punch. It was more of a panicked, reputation-saving jab. Still, it landed.
Ben stepped back, rubbing his jaw, and then—to his credit—he laughed. “I’ll see you later,” he said, before climbing on his bike and riding off with his friend.
But I never really did.
Just like that, my first little summer romance ended almost as quickly as it had begun with one stolen kiss, one dignity-saving punch, and a yard full of witnesses.
Looking back now, I can smile at the whole thing: the anthill revenge, the bike rides, the stolen kiss, and the dramatic defense of my reputation. At thirteen, I was only beginning to understand the complicated, embarrassing, tender business of growing up. Boys and romance seemed baffling. And that summer taught me something I would spend years learning again and again: the heart doesn’t always glide in soft and sweet. Sometimes it crashes into your life laughing, leaves you blushing in front of the whole neighborhood, and rides away before you’ve even figured out why you liked it in the first place.
Tales of a Family 