I grew up in the south, in the Beverly Hills of Alabama.  An oxymoron, I now know, but it escaped me at the time. The deceptively charming town of Mountain Brook lured my father, Daniel William Paige, away from the traffic-congested highways of Los Angeles with its winding, tree-capped roads and exclusive, castle-like homes nestled high in the surrounding hills. 

I was eight-years-old.  My dad had worked his way from nothing to a successful restaurateur.  My childhood home of Formica counters, puce-hued shag carpet, and popcorn ceilings was replaced by a rambling Southern mansion. 

Under instruction from my mother, Mimi Paige, I tried to make friends with the neighborhood girls. Dragging my Keds, I kicked pebbles up the forever sloping, white-brick driveway to Kitty Upchurch's, a girl my mom was determined I know. 

I found Kitty set-up on her sprawling green lawn, painting something pastel on a canvas set upon a fancy artist's easel.  She looked like a painting herself, long brown curls tucked beneath a red, wide-brimmed sunbonnet, sipping pink lemonade through a straw.  When she eventually took notice of me, she didn't stand. 

"Oo-oh, I know you. You're Annie Paige.  New to Mountain Brook, right?"   She said it like a threat. 

Eyes trained to the ground, I took in her glistening, pale-pink jelly shoes and matching painted toes compared to my feet clad in Keds, labels curling free from their stitches.   "Hi, yeah.  I'm Annie," I admitted, wishing for glue to fasten the unruly tags back in place.   

"You don't look like a Brookie."

"What's a Brookie?"

She sipped her pink drink, eyeing me as though I asked her who Santa Claus was. Unfolding soft, deer-like legs she stood, looking me up and down with all the disdain a nine-year-old can muster.  My unkempt hair, my tree-climber's scabs, my scruffy shoes.  "I am a Brookie."  She announced with the entitlement of a flying mermaid princess.  "Brookies are born in Mountain Brook, so you won't ever be a real one." 

I accepted her words stoically, as I imagined Anne of Green Gables would do.  I didn't belong in this town, could never be a Brookie.  I understood my social standing that day on Kitty's lawn.  But my mother?  She remained steadfast in her desire to fit in, to one day be a Brookie family, despite our distasteful new money. 

I found refuge in the woods.  I'd wake before the sun, a copy of Sweet Valley Twins or the Babysitters Club tucked firmly beneath my scabbed elbows.  Silently, I'd grab an apple or banana, knowing that if my mom woke-up she'd have other plans for my day—shopping at Laura Ashley or baking cookies.  Once outside, I would climb my favorite tree, easing my body up low-hanging branches, scaling to the top where limbs struggled to support my seventy pounds.

I read everyday, battling loneliness with books. When hot or bored, I waded in the creek behind our house, capturing crawdads, toads, minnows and anything else my mother deemed disgusting. 

Increasingly distressed by my Huck Finn lifestyle, she eventually intervened, carefully crafting a list of extracurricular activities.  My leisurely days spent in the woods were replaced by English riding lessons, swim, tap, ballet, jazz, ice skating, piano, calligraphy, tennis, diving, voice, and softball.  Despite my, or rather, my mother's efforts, Mountain Brook remained unimpressed.   

The town's shark-like nature was known to cause a startling array of emotional dysfunctions, so it wasn't all that surprising, that when in the second grade, I began to gulp.  I don't recall exactly how I came upon the tick, but gulping felt good and it stuck.

Anxiety seeped from my young body, releasing nervous energy into the air in the form of an echoingly loud sound made by clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowing.  I gulped at school, I gulped at home, I gulped at ballet, piano, and swim team.  My mother was distraught.  My new habit was rapidly under siege by a ragtag army of advisors assembled by my alarmed parents. 

Suggestions were made. 

My dance teacher advised that it would help to force me to sit in a corner and gulp for a few hours a day. 

"That'll rid her of the problem." 

"It could be a mild form of Tourette's Syndome," my new shrink counseled.

"More exercise," insisted my swim coach.

My Sunday School teacher's answer was simple, "She must seek help through prayer."

Interventions were attempted to no avail. Counseling sessions jettisoned in favor of stony pubescent silence--aside from the endless gulping sounds.  The spastic noises continued thoughout my elementary school years.  Needless to say, I wasn't winning any popularity contests. 

In addition to my leper like "gulper" status amongst my well-to-do peers, it was no secret that my father's business was faltering.  Nor was the fact that our massive collection of bills continued to rise ad infinitum.  Rumors rained from Alabama skies in great sheets of humiliation.

I longed for a friend.  Day-dreamed of a partner to weather the storm.  I sat in the grass at recess stringing clover necklaces, transfixed by small clusters of girls huddled together on the playground.  Their laughter and easy interaction was like a television show.  I mentally recorded the way they walked, shoulders back and heads held high, the way they laughed in breezy whispers.  I prayed that somehow, against all odds, that one day I'd have friends of my own.  But even I knew my chances looked bleak. 

My father eventually opened the door for my wishes to come true.  He delivered the news with an iron fist one spring night over dinner. 

"Annie, we're moving to Oklahoma."

My nature's one of distaste toward change, and initially I resisted vehemently. 

"Oklahoma!  How could you do this to me?"   I'd screamed racing from the table to the safe confines of my canopy bed.   But as I lay crying, an exhilarating idea formed in my head.

A brand new start. 

Electric possibility set my mind abuzz.  Branded as a freak in Mountain Brook, but in Oklahoma I could be whoever I chose. I could be Kitty Upchurch. 

I didn't immediately tell my parents that I was fully on board with their plan.  My tearful sulking continued for weeks, and subsequently I was promised a pony or a pool.  Bribe accepted, I planned for the move.

One month later my family was packed, sardine-like,  into an oversized U-Haul truck, heading west down Interstate 20—bound for a bright new future.  Since hearing of our move, I'd spent my time crafting a plan of domination over the small country town of Durant, Oklahoma.  My to-do list entailed finding true friendships and popularity amongst my peers, acquiring the perfect boyfriend, and most importantly, no gulping.  As the landscape morphed from towering evergreens to one of a flat and treeless sunlit horizon, I felt ready.

We moved into a beautiful home--complete with cabana, hot tub, and pool.  The house was twice the size of the one we left behind.  I suppose money went a lot farther in Durant than in Mountain Brook, and my parents were in no way gun shy about their spending habits, which is how we arrived there in the first place. 

My mom was so pleased with my change of heart that she didn't object in the slightest to my request for the latest copy of the Durant Middle School yearbook.  I needed to do some research.  Mom delivered.  Red marker in hand, I laid by the pool flipping through pages of my future classmates. I analyzed each smiling face intently and circled the chosen few. 

Twenty-five photogenic strangers picked out, I propositioned my parents for a pool party.  They agreed, and the weekend before my first day at my new school, I waited, stomach aquiver, for my guests to arrive. 

One-by-one kids rang the doorbell, and I battled the urge to gulp.  My mother took great pains to introduce me to each of the strangers before awkwardly shuffling our group toward the pool.

I gathered quickly that my mug-shot method of selection was flawed, as not all of the attendees were exactly what I'd envisioned.  Our backyard was a virtual carnival of kids.  One previously picture-perfect girl had acquired braces and matching headgear since her last yearbook photo was snapped.  A few of the boys sported doo-rags and saggy pants—their best imitation of Tupac Shakur.  Pimply faced preteen girls bore padded bikini tops and brushed their hair with nervous energy.  Hormone-besieged, eighth-grade boys reigned terror over the pool, cannonballing on top of one another with reckless abandon.   I surveyed my guests and decided that although it wasn't exactly the crowd I'd intended, I certainly saw potential.

I took notice of a girl with honey blonde tresses, self-consciously adjusting her modest one-piece in a vain attempt to conceal freshly acquired and unusually voluptuous breasts.  She sat on the edge of a lawn chair, casually dipping her neon-painted toes into the water and riffling through an oversized beach bag.  With a guilty expression she cautiously withdrew a book and ignoring her surroundings, read. 

The connection I felt was immediate when I recognized the book as one from my favorite childhood series, Sweet Valley High.  I approached the girl with an unfamiliar confidence. 

"Hey, sorry to interrupt you," I said with no trace of a gulp.  "I'm Annie Paige."

"Hi, Annie," she said smiling. "I'm Harriett McNeal." 

We bonded over a shared love of the Wakefield twins, cheese, and Diet Coke.  We discovered that we would share an eighth-grade homeroom class, and that we were each going out for the softball team.  Our budding friendship filled me with peace, Harriett's effect on me like that of a walking, talking Valium.  Silently, I thanked my parents for the party, for Harriett, for hope. 

Although my fast friendship plan was off to what I deemed a respectable start, I was far less impressed with the male selection of partygoers.  None of the awkward boys wreaking havoc about the pool fit the ideal boyfriend mold I'd carved in my mind.  That is, until "he" arrived on the scene. 

"Who's that?" I asked Harriett, pointing discreetly toward the mirage of a young man making his way affably down our cobblestone path.  He shouted hellos to his friends as he strode.  "Who is that?" I said again, accidently knocking over my lemonade glass in my frenzy for an answer.  Ignoring the shattered glass, I silently begged Harriet for an answer. 

"That's Jaime Knox," she finally said. "He'll be a freshman at Durant High School this year."

Unprecedented feelings of desire and want coursed through my body upon hearing his name.  I was desperate for more information.  "Does he. . .have a girlfriend?" I pressed, unable to exhibit even a morsel of restraint in front of my newly acquired friend. 

"Yup.  He dates Bonnie Huntington.  She's like the most popular girl in school.  Head cheerleader, played Sandy in the school's production of Grease. That sort of thing."

"Oh," was all I could manage.

"I don't understand it though," Harriett continued. "In my opinion, she's way too good for him.  He's like a male cheerleader, Annie.  A bit fruity."

Her warnings went unheeded, lost in the simple fact that Jaime Knox was heading our way.

He approached silently, holding my breathless gaze.  He bent to one knee, delicately collecting the broken pieces of glass surrounding my lawn chaise.  "You look like you could use some help."

And, indeed, he was correct.  I was rendered utterly useless by his voice, his smile, his presence.  I couldn't speak.  The glow in his smoldering green eyes bewitched me.   I watched the confident way Jaime's body moved as he proactively scooped up the last tiny shards of glass and deposited them in the trash.  I sat mesmerized by the side swept perfection of his hair, by the neon blue zinc oxide dotting his cute as a button nose.  The cocksure way he wore his zinc amazed me, and a fiery blush rouged my cheeks. 

"You're burning," he said, swiping his tube of sunscreen from his swimsuit pocket and boldly applying colorful streaks to my face.   "Beautiful. We match."   Recapping the lid he winked before turning and diving into the pool, effortlessly stoking the swirl of my raging pre-teen estrogen. 

We match!

In this moment I knew--he was the boyfriend mold.  He was my missing link, the final piece to my brand new beginning, and my happy ending.  In my young mind the case was settled: he must be mine. 

I spent my first few years in Durant hoping, wishing, and planning for glimpses of Jaime Knox.  Early tactics to win his love included toilet-papering his house, prank-calling his girlfriend, Bonnie, (the beautiful wonder bitch) and other amateur-hour forms of stalking. I forced my mom to drive "the drag" with Harriett and I ducked low in the backseat scanning for Jamie's cherry-red Mazda Miata.  I spent my summer days splashing below his lifeguard stand, breaking pool rules, silently begging him to blow his whistle.  Most days he obliged, calling me toward him laughing, shaking his head at my antics.  I wanted, needed, craved, and longed for bits and pieces of Jaime Knox...anything. 

Alas, the separation between the middle and high school proved insurmountable. I was in my freshmen year at Durant High before opportunity arose.  Our clandestine paths crossed at a church lock-in, the breeding ground for the most desperate forms of adolescent lust.  He wore a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt, perfectly fitted jeans, and hair tinted blonde from a summer of lifeguarding at the city pool. Sight on seen the chase was on.
​
The lock-in climaxed during an intimate, midnight bus ride to the park. Jaime cuddled close to me. I clung to his hand.   Feeling it, looking it over, I mentally placed a gold band around his long, soft ring finger.   I trembled when his fingertips brushed slowly along my inner thigh.  He smiled down at me, sweeping freshly cut bangs from my love-lit eyes.  Inside, I exploded. 

I watched his full lips, anticipating their decent upon mine. Captivated, I waited, willing myself not to breathe too heavily, for fear of spoiling the mood.  The bus stopped.  Fluorescent lights flashed, illuminating his golden hair.  He neatly gathered his backpack.

I was hooked—strung out on Jamie and jonesing for a fix. He would prove a far more powerful addiction than my nervous gulping habit.   
​
From here, admittedly, I digressed.  I followed him to college, secretly knowing that once our paths crossed, he'd embrace our white hot passion.  I spoke to a witchdoctor and cooked up love potions.  While gathering water under the full moon, I visualized the blending of our lives.  I wore a bay leaf bearing the name "Jaime" stuck inside my left shoe for a week.  I wrote long-winded love letters, Anais Nin style, sharing my desire to be him, to know his innermost thoughts and feelings.  Annie, plus every essence of Jaime.  And lo and behold, one day it happened.  Or so I believed. 
​
Looking back, I realize that no gesture at all is better than a vague gesture.  But vague is what he offered up, and I latched on like a rabid pit bull on speed.

It was Christmas time, the year after my graduation from Southern Methodist University.  I was twenty-one and home to Durant, freshly fired from my first attempt at what my father referred to as a real job.  I'd deemed it hell. 

My hopes of locking down Jamie, getting married, and starting a family were dashed by the reality of my teensy, windowless workspace at the Dallas Department of Health Services.  The 'Keep Calm and Carry On' poster had mocked me, hanging askew on the dingy wall.  The sage words inspired a steady burn of rage. 

I had rebelled, acting out against the oppressing cubicle and monotony of office life.  I showed up late, read magazines, and did my best to ignore the psycho of an office manager, Vern.

Ultimately, my termination came as a result of boredom and hunger.  I was caught red-handed shoveling what turned out to be Vern's mother's homemade pasta salad into my mouth, finger food style.  The words 'you're fired' had come as a welcome relief.  No desire to re-try my luck with a real job, I pounced on the opportunity to go back to the relative comfort of school. 

As with all holidays, my mother held court in the kitchen, chopping and whisking with great abandon.  She worked furiously while peppering me with thinly veiled concerns and prying questions regarding my lack of a potential husband.

"Don't you want a husband?"  she asked, concern and streaks of flour smearing her face.  "Did you hear about Betty's daughter, Grace?  I believe she was a few years behind you in school, dear.  She's getting married this spring." 

I faked sleep on the couch, anxiously awaiting any opportunity to escape my parents' relative infested house.  When I heard my mom mumble from the kitchen that she was low on butter, I sprung from my spot singing, "I'll go!"  Barely beating out my dad, who's known to "accidently" nap through family gatherings.  Flashing a victorious smile at my tortured father, I grabbed my purse and raced for the door. 

Once freed from holiday hell, I decided to make the most of my precious alone time and hungrily steered toward my favorite small town food joint, 'Taco Casa,' planning to stuff myself into a taco coma. 

Intent on prolonging my outing as long as possible, I avoided the speedier drive-thru option and made my way into the small orange-and-brown restaurant.  I stood in line studying the menu, doing my best not to drool, when I felt the prickly sensation of being watched.  I followed the feeling with my eyeballs toward the back corner booth and froze.   There he sat, smiling wryly behind a pile of tacos--Jaime Knox. 

Immeasurable happiness flooded my being.  I lost consciousness.  Before I knew what happened I was melting into his arms, inhaling his familiar Jaime scent, soaring high on the love roller coaster of my life. Over the next few magical months slowly, but surely, I wheedled my way into his life. 

I remember the night "it" happened in vivid colors.  We were on the lake.  He wore white linen and I donned my most lake-appropriate Free People tank with ass-cupping cutoffs. Off we rode in his speedy fast boat, Led Zeppelin cranked, fresh water-wind whipping my long, chestnut hair. 

We talked about high school, reminiscing about football games, old friends, toilet paper wars.  He remembered chasing me across his lawn, playfully tossing me to the ground, straddling my body while threatening revenge by wedgie.  Feelings of unmet desire, fueled by early hormonal lust remained full force.  His clear green eyes locked with mine, as the water lapped rhythmically against the boat.  Led Zeppelin's, 'D'yer Mak'er,' played softly in the background and then, eight years into the hunt, I got my prize.  Well, sort of. 

I didn't know much about sex.  My mom's version of "the talk" went something like, "Annie, sex is like shopping.  You don't go to the mall to buy a used dress.  Men don't like hand-me-downs. Your husband should be the first, and only one, to wear you." 

Jamie had me arranged on top, straddling him in the captain's chair.  He's wearing me. I watched his face.   Eyes closed, he appeared to convulse beneath me.  The sex didn't last long.  He stopped moving and kissed my cheek, signaling we were finished.

I stood on sea/sex shaky legs gathering my discarded clothes and spiraling thoughts.  The lake air chilled.
Jamie wrapped me in a downy soft blanket, as if bracing me from his intentions.  "Just so you know, Annie, I can't get wrapped up in a relationship right now.  I'm always out of town for work." 

His words bounced off my bubble that night, but Jaime's elusiveness would prove to be a chronic problem.   He disappeared from my life, leaving neither a phone number nor an address.  I held on to faulty memories.  Curled up in Harriett's bed, night-after-night, we dissected every minute point of my night with Jamie. It was the last time I saw him for years. 

Nothing if not perseverant, I held steadfast to my vision of first love through many boyfriends over the years.  One man after the next paled in comparison to my larger-than-life memories.  He remained the gold standard, the motto burned into my soul, forever tainting relationships to come—Jamie Knox or bust.

Thank you for reading! Please show love by voting if you enjoy the chapter :)

Also, I am taking part in the Brigade Watty Awards, and I'll be in love with you forever for voting for Fag Hag in the contest. It is chapter 83 and here is the link:

http://my.w.tt/UiNb/io0KGX0lkv

Thank you so very much!!