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[untitled—suggestions?]

I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was gorgeous. My eyes burned into the back of his head—he had long, wavy brown hair. I wondered what color his eyes were, I assumed brown. As he was about turn around and end my wondering, my mom yelled to me, “Katie! Where are you? We need your help!” I turned around to find my parents pull my My Little Pony sleeping bag out of the car.

I was stuck at a summer camp for the arts with the rest of “you’re too difficult” kids for six weeks. When I turned back to find the object of my stare, he was gone. At the first-day camper meet ‘n greet powwow, we had to introduce ourselves to a member of the opposite sex.

Me: “Hi, my name is Katie.”
Him: “Hi, my name is Shawn. And I hate camps. Goodbye.”

That was it—sixth grade love had found me.

We began this weird semi-friendship where he would kill bugs with a magnifying glass under the sun, and I would just say “ewwww” repeatedly. We also would sneak into his cabin and play Contra on his Nintendo.

We had to make these stupid handprint in cement things for our parents during the third week of camp. Shawn wrapped his hand around my wrist and held my arm straight while I made mine. This is when I knew it was for better or worse.

During the last two weeks of camp, Shawn and I got really close. We held hands, we picked-up trash on the lakeside, and we buried a dead bird.

Me: “What do we do with it?”
Him: Uhm…bury it?”
Me: “Ok….in what?”
Him: “Well, we picked-up a bread bag awhile ago.”
Me: “That’s cool, I guess.”
Him: “So, being the manly man I am—I will pick it up.”
Me: “No, it’s ok—I’ll do it.”
Him: “You’re a cool girl, Katie.”
Me: “I know, right?”

So, we buried the baby blue jay on the beach and put a stone on top of it for a grave marker.

The last day of camp was filled with crying mothers, lost sleeping bags and a round of goodbyes. Pick-up time was between one and three. My parents showed up at 1:15. I walked over to Shawn’s cabin to say goodbye, but he wasn’t there. I ran to the lake, he wasn’t there. I checked his friends’ cabin, he wasn’t there. By 2:30, my parents were getting frustrated and wanted to leave. We headed to the car. When my dad opened the trunk, his mouth turned into a wide grin.

My dad: “What are you doing in here?”
Him: “I just….”
Me: “Hello.”
My dad: “I’ll leave you two alone.”
Him: “I thought you’d leave without saying goodbye.”
Me: “I wouldn’t do that.”
Him: “Here’s my address and phone number.”
Me: “ Cool.”
Him: “So…”
Me: “What?”
Him: “Do I get your’s?”

Shawn and I talked on the phone once-a-week because long distance was 50 cents a minute or something ridiculous in 1996. We wrote letters back and forth, and waited until the summer when we could see each other again.

For the next three summers, we would see each other for an entire month each summer. He would either come to Hubbard and spend a month with me, or I would go to Collinsville and spend a month with him. At the end of my eighth-grade summer, Shawn asked me to be his girlfriend.

Me: “What did you say?”
Him: “If you want…we could date.”
Me: “How? You live like 5 hours away from me.”
Him: “So?”

And just like that, I had my first real boyfriend. We dated all through high school. We were the couple that other girls envied. We slept on the phone together when we got too tired to talk anymore (this was after free nights and weekends on cell phones), and we would write each other attorcious poetry that didn’t amount to more than “No, I love you more.” After we both graduated in 2002, Shawn proposed. I, of course, said yes. Did I even have a choice?

Originally, I planned on attending Miami University in Hamilton, Ohio with Shawn. He wanted to major in Mathematics and major in English. I never I wanted to teach high school English. We signed-up for classes together. We even ended-up in the same freshman composition class. After my mother’s health started to decline, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to move away from home. I decided to attend Youngstown State for Education.

During my first semester of college, Shawn would come visit me in my dorm room and I would go to his house every other weekend. We spent Christmas of 2002 on a rooftop in the middle of downtown Cincinnati. It was freezing, but romantic. He gave me an opal and ruby ring, and I paid for him to get his arm-sleeve tattoo.

Things were simple. Things were safe. He even wrote a poem about it, about me.

Safe
I'm looking for something
hope its not fading to an end
this endless longing
i think i found in a long lost friend
you seem to feel the same
these paths arent for what were meant
you too know this endless pain
you too know this torment...
Im afraid to tell you that
afraid you'll scare and leave
I will never want that
Stay, Stay with me please..
Ill do what I have to
to give you what you've given me
I think i want just what you do
She has something
She gives me safety.......

My mother needed to have a hysterectomy on the weekend of March 14, 2003—so I knew I wouldn’t be able to see Shawn until she was ok. This is where things got complicated. I was sitting in the middle of a waiting room in the hospital with my father, and my older sister. Suddenly, my cell phone started playing “Sober” by Tool, mine and Shawn’s song. I immediately thought, “Oh, how sweet—he is calling to check-up on me and find out about my mom.”

Me: “Hello?”
Her: “Katie?”
Me: “Yes? Who is this?”
Her: “Rachel. Are you ok?”
Me: “Yeah…why?”
Her: “Shawn was in a car accident. He’s dead.”
Me: …
Her: “I…(she had obviously been crying)…don’t know what to say.”
Me: “Oh my God. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
Her: “It was bad. Head-on.”
Me: “How? Why? Where was he going?”
Her: “I have to go.”
Me: “Why do you have his phone?”
Her: (she had hung up)

I freaked out. I shook my dad’s shoulders. I screamed. I was hysterical. My dad led me out of the door and kept asking who had called and what happened. I told him in broken sentences about Shawn and the accident. My mind was racing back and forth between my mom and Shawn. I didn’t know where to go, what to do. I decided this: Shawn was dead; there was nothing I could do. My mom could die, I should stay and wait for her to get out of surgery. So, I did. And she was fine.

I broke at least 700 traffic laws while driving to Collinsville. I called Shawn’s phone number to see if anyone would answer. Shawn’s friend, John, answered the phone.

John: “Hello?”
Me: “Hey. I am on my way. I am about 25 minutes away from Shawn’s house.”
John: “Oh..well, uhm…Shawn’s mom is hysterical. Why don’t you just come to my house?”
Me: “But..shouldn’t I see her?”
John: “No. Come here.”
Me: “But…I think I should be there for his family. My family.”
John: “Come here. We’ll talk.”
Me: “But…”
John: “Please, Katie?”
Me: “Ok. I guess.”

I felt like something was amiss, but I didn’t want to voice my opinion at this point. I felt like I would just make it worse.

I spent the night at John’s house. In the morning he told me that I should leave. I did leave, and I wanted to go to Shawn’s house. As I passed Shawn’s house, I saw his mother in the yard, and Shawn’s car in the driveway. It didn’t make any sense to me. But I figured that maybe he wasn’t driving his car when it happened.

As I pulled into the driveway, my cell phone rang. It was John again; he said I should just go home. I didn’t even know how he knew I went to Shawn’s house, but he explained that he was behind me. I looked in my rearview mirror, and I saw his white Mustang behind me. He tried to tell me that Shawn’s mother was going crazy and that she needed time alone right now. That didn’t make any sense to me either. John escorted me to the highway.

I drove home. When I got home, I Googled Shawn’s name over and over again, trying to find some news article about the accident or an obituary. Nothing. I never heard anything from Shawn’s mom, any of his friends, or other family members. I called his phone a few times, but to no avail. Eventually, I got the standard “The number you have dialed has been disconnected. Please hang-up and try your call again” message when I called. I mourned for Shawn’s death for the next year-and-a-half.

I refused to go out and meet new people until I met my current boyfriend, Corey. Corey and I started dating in April of 2004. I realized that I could be happy, if not as “crazy in love” as I was before. I moved into an on-campus apartment and my college classes zipped right by me. When my second set of roommates moved in with me in August of 2005, I was nervous and excited.

I was sitting on the edge of my bed, waiting for Corey to come and pick me up for a date when my cell phone rang. It was my father.

Me: “Hey dad. What’s up?”
Dad: “You need to come home—and look pretty.”
Me: “Why?”
Dad: “Just do it.”
Me: “Ok.”

I called Corey to tell him to come to my parents’ house instead of my apartment. I told him that I didn’t know what was going on, but my dad seemed pretty upset about something. I got ready quickly and hurried to my parents’ house.

I remember the time: 3:45. I remember what I was wearing: a black shirt with puffy peasent sleeves, baggy black pin-striped pants, black flipflops and my hair was a recently dyed violet-red color. I walked into the kitchen and heard my dad yelling “Do you know what this will do to her?” on the deck to an unseen person. My mom was in the kitchen, crying. I asked her, “What’s wrong?” She said, “Just sit on the couch.” “Mom, what is going on?” “Just sit down.” So, I sat.

I sat on the couch for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably about five minutes when, out of my peripheral vision I saw a moving mass of long, wavy brown hair and black clothes. I knew it was him. I knew it was Shawn. I passed out. When I opened my eyes, Shawn and my dad were standing over me.

Me: “You still have shit-brown eyes.”
Shawn: “Yeah.”
Me: “Aren’t you dead?”

I passed out again. When I came to, my head was pounding and nothing made sense. I looked up to find Shawn’s face still above my own.

Me: “Zombie.”
Shawn: “I am sorry, Katie.”
Me: “Out. Now.”
Shawn: “We need to talk.”
Me: “Nope, I think we’re good.”
Shawn: “Come on.”

I walked out of the living room and into the kitchen to stand with my parents. I nudged my dad and asked, “Should I talk to him?” My dad said, “Dead people might have a lot to say.” I crept back into the living room.

Me: “Let’s go outside.”
Shawn: “Ok.”

We went out onto the porch to talk.

Me: “Why?”
Shawn: “I thought you’d go psycho if I broke-up with you. We were so intense.”
Me: “And this whole experience is supposed to make me what exactly?”
Shawn: “I love your hair.”
Me: “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE AND MY LIFE!”

He left. I contacted his mom who didn’t even know what happened. She kept apologizing, but she had nothing to be sorry for. She mailed me a ten-page letter, some of my belongings from their house, and pictures of Shawn and myself. I found out Shawn had switched majors to Creative Writing.

He called me a few times and we had dinner together once or twice. He now goes to a different school in Ohio for his Master’s program in Political Science, which I think is extremely fitting.

And that’s it.