Reanalyzing how my anxiety impacted relationships in school

At the age of fourteen, I spent most afternoons in a small white classroom that overlooked my high school’s pathetic excuse for a courtyard. Surrounded on all four sides by two stories of reddish brick, the outdoor area left much to be desired. It looked like that one level of Luigi’s Mansion. You know: scraggly clumps of weeds, things growing up–and in–the crumbling brick walls, loose dusty dirt forming micro vortexes in the wind. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a spare family of possums or raccoons living down there. Long story short, things were pretty bleak.

To make matters worse, it was seventh period and my last academic class of the day: accelerated Spanish. I bring up the fact that it was accelerated only for dramatic effect, as all dialogue and instruction was entirely in Spanish. Keep that in mind. By that time in the afternoon, however, everything sounded like the muted trumpet infamously associated with adults in every Charlie Brown cartoon.

None of that mattered to me, though. I already knew the one word I needed: guapo.

Looking like he just rolled off the set of a Disney Channel Original Movie, my heart skipped two beats every time David walked through the door. His black hair was short in a way that appeared both put together and effortless. It was only slightly longer on top, making it difficult to notice any gradual changes in length. Between that and his propensity to wear the same medium-blue travel soccer jacket every day, he presented almost cartoonish in his consistent appearance. The only difference I ever noticed was that he wore jeans on Fridays.

David walked into Spanish class just a minute early every day with a soccer ball tucked in the corner of his elbow. After stopping at nearly every table to greet or chat with a similar-looking athletic type boy, David dropped his books on the floor across from where my books were stacked in a uniform tower. Every day, I tried my very hardest to mimic the “flirty, not desperate” eyes I saw Serena and Blair give in Gossip Girl to my classmate across the table. My gaze succeeded, I knew, when I saw the full-faced grin that reduced his brown eyes to slits.

“Hola!” He’d say with a small, energetic wave.

“Hola, David! Como estas?” I always blinked a few extra times for ~allure~.

His answer varied (as much as it could, given our limited conversational vocabulary in Spanish), but I was usually privy to the fascinating events that had just occurred last period at lunch. No matter what, something funny enough to retell always happened to David at lunch.

At that point in history, I spent my lunches alone on the couch outside the band room. I told myself that it was because I was ~studious~. Only a true academic prioritized To Kill a Mockingbird over frivolous, petty conversation. Besides, it was the perfect opportunity for me to plug in my earbuds, tune out the noise, and re-enjoy the album I could recite word for word from start to finish.

David did not know this. I never let him know Mariam. Instead, David spent his class period chatting and giggling with Meredith. He–having misheard my name once–and I–being far too awkward to ever correct him–continued our mildly disruptive side conversations for months. Our daily conversations grew far more detailed every day until it was literally all I could think about.

I then spent my lunches translating and memorizing words and phrases in Spanish. Words and phrases he, of course, did not know. This gave me the perfect excuse to then repeat those phrases in English. Rather than get in trouble for not “utilizing the target language,” as our teacher would say to others in the class, David and I were praised for our ambition and desire to “go beyond the vocab list”.

Our incredible teamwork landed us as partners for every project, assignment, and test. That is, all but one.

It was October and the Friday before a five day weekend. The high holidays were upon us, and my school gave us Sunday through Wednesday off for Rosh Hashanah. Regardless, our seventh period Spanish instructor decided to announce a new project that afternoon. For the life of me, I could not tell you what it was. But I can tell you this: it was expected that we would work on this project outside of class. I pictured myself with David at the library surrounded by books. My imagination fluttered, and suddenly I saw us at his kitchen table surrounded by books, since the library was too distracting. His little sister would probably be a nuisance, however, which would force us to relocate to his bedroom. There were no more books in my imagined scenario…

“David and Richard,” our teacher called, writing their names on the board beneath other pairs of students, “you will be partners.”

David and I locked panicked eyes. There must have been some kind of mistake. We were always partners.

“Hey, Richard, wanna trade partners?” I said almost immediately after all pairs were assigned.

Richard, not oblivious to my very indiscreet plan, shrugged. He couldn’t have cared less.

My gaze shifted back to David, “Okay, perfect! Looks like we get to be partners”.

He smiled, hesitating. I could tell he was translating in his head.

“Si trabajar juntos…necesito tu telefono numero,” He smirked.

(For the gringos in the audience, that directly translates to, “if to work together, I need you number phone”. )

I leaned forward with knitted brows. My face burned. Wet circles expanded under my arms.

In my haste, the following came out of my mouth in clear, loud, flabbergasted English, “Oh, no. We can’t actually be partners on this project. We’re gonna get in trouble!”

Like a mime doing the mask trick, his grin flipped without a word. He was absolutely speechless for the first time since we met in August. Richard scoffed a little. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, a gesture that gave condolences.

I was surprised at how badly David had wanted to work with me on that project. Didn’t he know you can’t just switch partners like that? Honestly, maybe I was lucky to not be his partner. Did you hear how he asked for my number? What a ridiculously terrible translation.

“Si estemos trabajando juntos, necesito tu numero de telefono,” is the correct way to ask for–

HE JUST ASKED FOR MY NUMBER!!

HE JUST ASKED FOR MY NUMBER AND I SAID NO!

BRRRIIINNNGGGG the bell announced the end of class.

I turned back toward David so hard my neck popped. He had been packing his books while I slowly gained awareness of my accidental rejection. Eyes locked on the ground, he stood without a word and dove into the river of students traveling between classes.

“Have a good weekend, David!” I extended the olive branch…

…and he snapped in half when he mumbled, “Bye, Meredith.”

Our Spanish teacher, none the wiser, continued to place us directly next to each other in every seating arrangement for the rest of the year. We still spoke regularly, as it was part of our grade, but we no longer went outside the vocab list. I had made it clear to him, unfortunately, that our relationship was strictly professional. It wasn’t until a few months later, when he figured out my name wasn’t Meredith, that we no longer had any relationship at all.

Fin

In reflecting on that moment, a younger version of myself would have been critical. I’d have been resentful of my lack of awareness and irritated how I hadn’t even tried to reconcile a friendship that brought me a lot of joy. There is so much that I could have done differently. If this was a romcom, I would have run out of the classroom calling after him. We would have met at the top of the stairs in a culminating moment of relief. There would be the satisfying happy ending that would allude to a “happily ever after”.

In fact, I spent most of that following long weekend imagining what could have been, had I not been so oblivious. Later, when I’d come home from another dateless school dance, I could see Meredith posing for pictures with David and his hilarious friends from lunch. I’d look for Meredith in the bleachers when I walked past the soccer field at school. Meredith would have never been so stupid.

For years I thought that was my life’s biggest mistake. I now know that my life’s biggest mistake was mixing equal parts Malibu and Celsius in a candle jar for an “anything but a cup” party in college, but that’s a story for another time.

Now, when I reminisce on this moment, all I find is humor. That, and a life lesson I learned as a result: my anxiety told me “no” before I even had time to understand what was being asked. Like many women, I had gotten into the habit of denying myself things for fear of potentially getting in trouble, no matter how unrealistic it was. I was so scared of breaking the rules that I literally took zero risks.

I don’t beat myself up about it anymore. Instead, I live my life with awareness. I give myself enough mental and emotional space to process. Whether it’s five seconds or five days, I try not to let my anxiety answer for me. Since then, I can’t even begin to recount the joys I’ve gotten from taking a minute to say “yes” to myself. Try it next time you feel the anxiety jolts. Take a second, just a breath, to process.

If I had waited just another second to understand that David wasn’t suggesting we go against our teacher’s assignment and was, instead, just asking for my phone number, maybe I’d still be going by “Meredith”…

Love Always,

M