How To Spit in Your Crush’s Face and Get Away With It
Advice for life 😉😏
Back in the 80s (remember slouch socks and jelly bracelets?) I was an awkward elementary school student with a gap-toothed grin and careful penmanship. I was, in fact, one of the first students in my class to graduate from pencil to pen after proving my abilities with cursive writing when I executed an “F” so perfect it was worthy of an A+.
In the Year of our Lord 1989 my school was part of the Fluoride program wherein (with our parents consent) we would be subjected to the disgusting communal practice of rinsing our mouths with liquid fluoride several times a year, spitting it back into its receptacle at a synchronized cue, and depositing it into the trash.
This was also the year I decided I was going to marry Max Patrick*, the weird religious kid with a big (cute!) scar on his chin who sat in front of me. I loved him with the deep, invested love of any fifth grader. For Valentine’s Day I slipped an ocean-themed card into the paper bag “mailbox” on the front of his desk that said: I have a whale of a crush on you! I loved him the way all the other girls loved Jordan Knight from New Kids on the Block. I loved him because he was perfect.
My fifth grade class - can you tell which one is me? Can you guess which one is Max?
Just as Max was excused from the important school and country culture of O Canada and “The Lord’s Prayer,” so too was he excused from the fluoride program. Oh, the charmed life he led! (I once feigned a bathroom emergency so that I timed my return to the classroom so I was stuck in the hall with him. Just so I could watch what he did out there. Nothing is the answer. He sat on the floor and fiddled with his shoelaces. But in the most darling way. I stood—because one must always stand during O Canada—and his rebellion of sitting on the floor made me desperate to impress him.)
On fluoride days, white packages covered in tiny printing would be distributed to all the students (except Max). Together we would hold up our package in one hand and tear off the top with the other—a ritual nobody wanted. When the second hand of the big classroom clock hit 12, the teacher would say “Go!” and we would all pour the contents of that package into our mouths and start swishing.
The fear they put into us was real. DO. NOT. SWALLOW. IF. YOU. SWALLOW. YOU. WILL. DIE. Okay, that last part might be a slight exaggeration, but they made a big deal about it. Swallowing it was harmful on a call-poison-control level. But it would make our teeth so strong! Smiley face, wink, thumbs up.
One minute. That’s how long a classroom of children was expected to swish that horror. It was like gargling with someone else’s spit that had been mixed with a dash of aftershave. My mom obviously hated me if she would sign me up for something like that.
But I did it. Dutifully. And I also engaged in the collective groan when the class realized it was a fluoride day. Seeing it would cause me to salivate. (Not in the way a steak might make your mouth water, more like the way the back of your throat fills with liquid right before throwing up—charming, I know.) Ripping the package brought anxiety that it might spill. Smelling it would cause a wave of disgust to wash over me. Staring down into the foil-lined interior would spark a dare: just pretend to take it, just pretend to swish it, just pretend to spit it, and then fold over the top and no one will ever know. It would have been so easy, but I wasn’t like Max. I didn’t know how to rebel.
So the teacher counted us in. “3, 2, 1, Go!”
And I went.
Max turned around in his seat and stared at me. His eyes were like chocolate. He made a face. I smirked. A little fluoride trickled down the back of my throat. I felt myself dying and my eyes growing wide as I shook my head slightly. He made another face. A chortling noise came from the back of my throat. I swallowed a little more. I wondered if he’d be sad if he murdered me. Would he miss me? He made another face and that did it. I laughed, expelling the whole disgusting mess straight into his face.
“Alanna! Max!” the teacher yelled.
He made a big show of wiping it up, using his sweatshirt sleeve rather than getting paper towels from the dispenser. I leaned back in my chair, equal parts proud and embarrassed. I knew what was going on. He loved me too.
Four years later we held hands on a school bus. Three years after that he told me my butt looked good in those polyester bell bottoms (it was the 90s, people said things like that, and I liked it), two years later we ran into each other at the bowling alley and exchanged pleasantries even though I wasn’t wearing polyester anymore. I asked if he remembered the time I spit in his face. He didn’t.
Did you guess right?
And that is our love story. We never did get married. Just like none of the girls in my class ended up with Jordan Knight even though their notebooks were doodled with things like “I ❤️ Jordan” and “Miranda Knight” and “Amy+Jordan.”
I wonder if anyone is who they thought they would be when they were in the fifth grade. Probably not. But even then, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I have vivid memories of competing with Miranda over page count, marching past her desk to get more paper from the stack at the back of the classroom as I wrote fan fiction of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe while she wrote lavish descriptions of her wedding, exactly what Jordan Knight was wearing, and what their house would look like.
I certainly never thought of pursuing a career in publishing. Not then, and not even as an adult who wanted to be an author. It wasn’t until the gatekeepers kept me out that I decided to carve my own way, and in so doing, started making a way for others too.
Sure, there are moments when I miss the simplicity of a fifth grade crush or the joy of writing with no agenda, but I wouldn’t go back and change anything. I have no regrets about the path that brought me here. Except maybe the pants. I really wish I didn’t get rid of those pants!
