I didn’t really understand how it all worked.
My face was illuminated by the blue glow of my computer monitor. I was procrastinating, avoiding homework by Googling “how to ask a girl out,” “how to talk to girls,” and “things that girls like.” I remember mostly generic, unhelpful advice like “be yourself” and “just go up and say ‘hi.’”
Everything in my life so far had an answer—a specific set of instructions to achieve what I wanted.
I dated Kylie Nisbet for about ten days, and after that whole experience of heart-fluttering wonder and frantic attempts at following Google’s relationship advice, I couldn’t help but feel lost while trying to follow a formula.
I obsessed over every breath I took around Kylie. She was really short. The top of her head barely reached my chin. She didn’t party. She didn’t hang out with any of my friends. She was cute, but not a blonde-haired blue-eyed cheerleader. I remember feeling like I could do better. After all, Hollywood taught me that the aforementioned portrait of a girl is something that I should be pursuing, as a football player.
The day I asked her to be my girlfriend:
I remember thinking about the way she would stroke her silky-smooth brown hair and look down and to the side, as if she was waiting for me to say something. I remember being hyper-aware of my own sweaty palms as I wiped them on my tattered football jersey that I wore to class on game-day.
“She has really pretty green eyes,” I thought to myself, “but will she say yes?”
“She has really pretty green eyes,” I thought to myself, “but will she say yes?”
You see, on Google, relationships seemed really simple:
Step 1: Just be yourself
Step 2: Ask her to be your girlfriend.
Step 3: Go on fun dates together and talk.
It seemed so easy. But why, after all my research, couldn’t I make her mine?
So I did the only thing that I could think to do. I texted her.
“Hey so do you want to be my girlfriend?”
“Sure :)”
It was that easy.
I did it. I finally secured a girlfriend. What next?
I felt accomplished. This was another check on my list of things that make someone have a successful high school experience.
I couldn’t tell my parents, though. What if they did something drastic like ask me about her? Or what if they tried to talk to her if she ever came over to hang out and watch TV? I couldn’t have that. That had the potential to be embarrassing. What if she went to a family gathering with me? My relatives would poke me with questions like “So when are you two getting married?”
So, like everything else I did as a teenager, I hid our relationship from my parents.
Our relationship was mostly textual, not sexual. It was late-night conversations about how we didn’t want to do homework. It was a series of quick glances at each other in class and a few “how-was-your-days?” and “you-smell-nices.”
One day after class, I was particularly bold. I extended my hand and reached towards her hand, my arm behind hers.
“You’re the guy. Your arm is supposed to be in front.”
“Oh, uh, right.”
I fixed our configuration. She clearly Googled some things that I hadn’t.
My palms. They were sweaty again.
She had to have felt them so I relaxed my grip so that our fingers were only lightly grasping each other. We walked about like this for about a minute, not saying a word to each other. My mind was racing the whole time.
“Am I doing this right?”
“What if she can feel my palms?”
“Why do her hands feel so scratchy compared to mine, is that normal?”
“Oh God I need to stop this.”
I let go of her hand.
I let go of her hand.
“I totally forgot, Mrs. Robinson asked me to stop by to go over my essay that I just turned in.”
It was a great lie.
“Uh, okay.” She said as she extended her fingers and released them from mine.
The next day was the same routine.
“You look really pretty.”
She grabbed my sweaty hand and we started down the hall, towards the stairwell where we knew that we would have to part towards our separate classes.
I immediately let go and asked “why don’t we just walk and talk without holding hands?”
She reluctantly agreed as a wave of relief washed over me.
She didn’t say much that day when we stopped to say goodbye to each other.
That night I texted her and asked if she was okay. She avoided the question with a series of responses that were short enough to convey that something was indeed “wrong” but also suggesting that I should know what I did to make her like this.
I finally shot her a text that said “Look, I’m not a mind reader, so I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I. Like. Holding. Hands.”
I wasn’t sure what to send back. I like holding hands too but, my palms! And she wasn’t one of the popular girls! She was only at football games because of the Leadership club she was in. She was a geek! What would the guys on the team think if they knew I was dating someone like her?
My eyes passed over the text once more,
“I. Like. Holding. Hands.”
My phone buzzed,
“But. You. Don’t.”
I replied with the only thing that I thought would get me out of having to ever lock my sweaty palms in the embrace of this girl’s petite hand again.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
“Tyler. Just give it a chance.”
“I don’t know, I just don’t think I can do this.”
I was doing what I did best. Dodging conflict like a prize fighter and running from my problems like Speedy Gonzales. I put down my phone and our relationship ended.
It was a weird two weeks for me.
I think about Kylie often and wonder what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t had such sweaty palms or awareness thereof.
I looked her up recently and she is absolutely stunning. She looks like the kind of girl that I’d want to hold hands with.
I Google a lot less now. 
[ratings]
This amazingly awesome short story was written by Tyler Higaki. You can follow Tyler by one of the following:
Twitter: @tyhigaki
Instagram: @tyhigaki
Or shoot him an email
tyleryoshio@gmail.com