My First Stalker

Freshman year of high school is a time for the oddities to develop in a person.  These oddities can range from eating pepperoni with peanut butter or starting a blog or still being a boy scout or spontaneously joining the cross-country team.  It’s a normal period in life when people start to “learn” about themselves and try new things because that’s what you do in high school.  One of the things that people try most often is dating.

By then, freshman year of high school, you are old enough to say, “Dad, I’m a teenager.”  This teenage status is distinguished from middle school status because, let’s face it, being 13 really isn’t as cool as those Disney Channel Original movies told you.


So hopefully by freshman year you are at least 14 and ready to start smooch’n.  However, there is a certain suaveness you have to have in order catch your date, and not in an illegal/creeper way.   This brings me to my story that of a boy who stalked me.  My first stalker.  Let us begin.

Denny's Sideburn

I was in PE when, let’s call him Denny, decided to ask me to Homecoming.  He was tall, skinny, somewhat chinless, with slightly funky sideburns and wacky hair.  He was the chemistry teacher’s son, a self-proclaimed genius, and had spelling skills for shit.  He thought he was a terrific athlete and always made grandiose, swooping hand motions.  He was a little weird. 

Side note:  In sophomore year, we wrote “novels” in English class for a whole month.  Denny’s was a sci-fi novel that included the main woman protagonist turning into a man, among other things.  More on that later.  End side note.

So as we were exiting PE, Denny stops me and asks me to Homecoming.  At first I had no clue what he said (he has a bit of a nasally voice) but then I realized that he was asking me to the stupid dance.  I gave him an ambiguous answer, and immediately went up to the girl’s changing room and told my friends what just had occurred.  They said, “Say yes!” or “No!”  Well, being a bit of a people pleaser I told Denny yes, and then began his journey to stalkerdom. 

We went to the dance, but beforehand went to dinner, with his parents, and played mini golf.  The dance was fine, whatever, but afterwards as we were exiting the gym, Denny stopped me and cornered me.  As I was against the wall, slightly panicked at what was to come next, his face way to close to mine, and his over-sized suit drooping awkwardly, he asked me to go out with him.  Shit.  In my panicked/people-pleasing/nice voice I made up an excuse that my dad didn't want me dating and that maybe in the spring we could reassess the situation.  He backed off and I was safe.

Fast-forward a few months.

I played golf in high school and what consisted of that was getting out of school at 10 a.m. to go hike a bit and swing a club at a little white ball.  Good times.  Anyways, the morning of my first match I was running around, collecting assignments from teachers and such.  Denny was behind me the whole time.  It wasn’t like we were chatting or he was walking with me to the various classes—he just stayed a few feet behind me.  When I would enter a classroom, he would stay in the hallway, leaning against the wall.  I would exit, rush off hurriedly, and he would follow.  Not ok with me. 

Well, I went golfing.  It was a bright, sunny afternoon filled with bliss, many shanks, and sore feet.  A good day… until Denny.  Yes, I round the bend of the 7^th, and what do I see?  Denny, and his father, walking up the path, Denny clad in full baseball gear with the cleats, hat, and really ugly funny pants that baseball players wear and I don’t know why.  I cringe at every step he takes because of the crunching of his cleats on the pavement.  I smile, try to be nice, and now, plagued with the attention, it is my turn to tee off.  That was a fail.  The ball went straight up and barely anywhere.  I blame Denny.

Who in the hell goes to high school golf matches?  No one except for the parents who can afford to drive around in a golf cart.  And what is especially annoying is that Denny didn’t even change.  So he is out there—the nicest golf course in town—with full on dirty gross baseball garb.  Ridiculous.

In subsequent weeks Denny started calling me… a lot.  At one point he would phone me eight times a day.  8 times.  Being a freshman girl and entirely disinterested, I ignored every single one of them.  The few times I have spoken with Denny on the phone have led to three hour conversations about his weird sci-fi fantasies and Italian food.  I wasn’t going to go there.

 

I told my golfing teammates about my conundrum and they said it was definitely stalker status.  Great.  I had a stalker.  Why he liked me?  No clue, but for whatever reason he thought it good to call me and follow me everywhere.  This had to end.

I confronted Denny somehow, and I don’t quite remember how, but it might have consisted of:  “Hey.  You keep calling.”  “Yeah.”  “Why do you keep calling me?”  “It’s the spring.  And you said in the spring that maybe I could ask you again if you would go out with me.”  Shit.  Well, I said no, again, and Denny backed off.  Thank the Lord Baby Jesus. 

That’s the gist of Denny as my first stalker.  There’s more to come with Denny, that’s for sure.  The more includes Europe, English, mental breakdowns, and his girlfriend senior year.  Gross. 

-K