I was a teenage stalker

{1977 - click to enlarge}

Left or right, wherever I look, I see faces I recognise. Most often, they don't recognise me, or only vaguely. I thought I stood out, at the time, but my best friend from those days is greeted more enthusiastically than I am.

Unless they are teachers. The minute I walk into the old school building, I hear my name and my old Dutch teacher kisses me on the cheeks. All evening they approach me and need no prompting for my name.

Are teachers supposed to kiss ex-pupils? We were a strict, protestant, school. Not strict enough to prevent me from hugging my biology teacher - a popular man with the women. He's resplendent in soft pink shirt and lambswool slipover, camp as a door now that he's come out with a big fat two fingers up to the school's hard core Reformed board.

We make our way to our designated classroom, immediately bumping into a few other members of our old clique. "Hey, how've you been, what'cher up to?" Lives and loves exchanged, I stay a little on the fringe of things. Nothing's changed there.

Everybody looks like mums and they're waving images of offspring around. Home bred and adopted, pictures of Dutch and exotic health.

Most of the cool kids still are cool, most of the nerds have grown into their once awkward skins, most of the teachers have gone bald and most of all I realise I never did grow roots in this place, seven years notwithstanding.

"Hey did you ever write that book? Didn't you want to write?" says someone whose name I don't remember. I'd no idea that had been on my mind in school.

The thing I remember being on my mind mostly is said to be hanging out on the first floor. With an enthusiasm I remember from my teenage years I bolt down the stairs to find him.

When I finally spot him, walking behind me, I lose my bottle and continue to eye him from a distance. Just like the teenage stalker that I was, 25 years ago. He doesn't seem to recognise me, or perhaps he doesn't want to. I wouldn't be surprised.

He hasn't changed a bit. A little older, true.

"Go talk to him," my friend says, but I refuse to. "Don't be stupid," she pulls me towards him, but I keep refusing until she gives up.

I'm not sure what keeps me from talking to him, or it has to be my great embarrassment at having subjected him to five years of my ridiculous - some called it morbid - obsession.

Or perhaps knowing that it would happen all over again. One look was enough to make me realise he hasn't lost that "thing", his actor looks, the walk, the arrogance.

Or maybe I'm just too afraid he'd say: "I'm sorry, I don't remember."

We don't hold back when we are younger, do we? We love like zealots, with an intensity we'll never be able to conjure up again for the rest of our adult lives. We hurt more and we scar more easily. Our first loves, however unrequited, stay with us in that little place inside us where we keep the moments of our lives that shape us.

I wasn't alone in my obsession. There were two of us, friends because we couldn't help but recognise a fellow stalker. We hounded the poor man wherever he went. We knew his schedule by heart, knew where and when to be at any given time to catch a glimpse of him. We hid in bushes, stood on street corners, went to church if he went, took pictures, tried to switch classes... you name it, we did it. We had so much fun, some of our other friends joined in just for the thrill.

I think I'm afraid he does remember.

"Ok, but I never want to hear a word about it, ever again," she says, obviously disgusted with my cowardice.

She drags me along to another face she recognises. "You fancied him, too," she says and I've no memory of it at all until we're in the middle of our quite pleasant conversation with him. "I remember now," I blurt out, "You used to bully me!"

He did. Relentlessly, he used to call me names around the tennis court. I still thought he was cool, with the expensive Head tennis gear, the monty coat, the little moped he used to ride. He's rather lovely now and not in the least contrite about his past mistakes.

We all gather for the Year photos, class of '82, the largest group shot that day. I have another drink, munch on the frozen canapes and quite frankly, can't wait to go home.

Just before closing time, I muster up some courage and sweep the first and second floor in search of my teenage crush.

Too late. He's left.

Never to be mentioned again. Ever.

{ 2002 }