I was in seventh grade, or maybe eighth, when the girl in the fuzzy sweater told me I was cute.

I still don’t know why she decided that I was going to be her boyfriend. I was awkward and out of place. I don’t remember ever fitting in, and certainly not with the girl in the fuzzy sweater.

Every time she spoke to me, I froze up and blushed. I would sink down as far as I could in my chair. At first she looked like she thought it was cute, but it wasn’t long before she was annoyed by it.

One day, as I sat in English class, I got a hot flash. My body was shaking. I was sweating. I couldn’t move.

The girl in the fuzzy sweater asked me what was wrong, and I told her, in quiet, embarrassed tones. She told me to tell the teacher. I said I couldn’t. She got mad and said that she was sick of me.

The girl in the fuzzy sweater never spoke to me again, and I never had another hot flash.

This was one of the places I learned I couldn’t.

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