When I was fifteen, I finally landed my first boyfriend. I had been desperate for some years, but I finally had enough and pushed this kid into a locker and leaned on him, one-handed on his chest, and told him I liked him. Naturally, he gave in to my subtle charms.
His name was Mike, and he was cute. That was about it. Nice enough, but though I didn't know my type yet, he was not it. We were okay together. Mild. We made out. He never invited me over to his house, and I never met his family. What stands out in my memories of him was that he was cute, he named his younger sister Marsha after Marsha Brady, and he introduced me to the guy who would become my second boyfriend in one of the most dramatic ways possible.
Mike and Peter walked to my house in the middle of winter, which was quite an accomplishment. It wasn't as cold as it had been, but it was snowy. When I came to the door, I was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to see his friend.
Where Mike was tall, thin and dark, Peter was sturdy and pale. He had grey eyes that rarely blinked and a full head of fair, well-combed hair--the kind that he'd be sure to lose at middle age, but that feathered nicely as a teenager. Mike looked frightened. Peter looked determined. I let them both in, though my parents were gone for the day.
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