Beatrice Portinari: Desert Rose and the Unrequited Lover. #Confession P. 1

 
   During the last days of my sixth grade, and while we're having this global exam in the most sweltering days of the year, I'd been thinking of how am I gonna enjoy the remainder of the stretched holidays before the finals. Fun fact: I was this quasi-nerd sexy leftist-to-be who'd outdo girls in maths (ironic for someone who definitely hates statistics) and still preserve their pedestal as a hooligan with the I-didn't-make-it-this-year-either clique. I've enjoyed being butt-kissed by the archetypal trinity every class has; nerds, girls, and the lend-me-your-copybook titans. 

Well, to this day I'd still count the sixth grade as my favorite grade of all since it was the year I had my first cheek-kiss by the girl I outdo every time which I know hates me for that matter, and also by my french teacher. 

    While we're being prepared for the finals, a new batch of students -most of which were females- arrived to attend the end-term activities. Seven students were inaugurated by the headmaster, and gosh he was a terrible speaker in Arabic. The students were pretty confused by the hubbub of the class (by the class I obviously mean the titans), and they'd find themselves hesitant to ask about literally anything or, hey, at least that's what I assumed. Well, this classmate and I were quite gallant, or in more modern patois 'simps'. We'd take initiative and ask them if they need anything since they would just sit in the rears rolling their scared eyes over the chaos everyone makes. 

    Apparently, not all of them were Moroccans, and that's a blatant reason why they didn't initiate a conversation with us. Either that or the fucking headmaster warned them that we have a cannibalistic tendency towards new blood.  Jokes aside, there's this activity that we had in one of the weeks; they call it 'Olympics'. This used to be my favorite part about primary school because I'd definitely slay them all. So at that, new-comers finally had the chance to take part in an activity that's lingua-franca (meaning it only required a language that everyone understands, so no worries if one's different). The thing is this activity is not per se what we're looking at, but more the activity as circumstances. An 11-year-old me would definitely thank the circumstances for that it'd drawn me closer to this Palestinian girl. Yep, she was from the west bank, and surprisingly the other girls were, Jordanian, Tunisian, Syrian, Algerian, and two Moroccans. These were not accurately their nationalities, but to my recollection, I'm not sure about the Tunisian. 

    Here begins my saga with the Arab Crush. My Beatrice Portinari, a bespectacled whose eyelashes ask for an urgent U-turn. To be sincerely honest, I'd still think she is 'that' beautiful, with my newfangled standards. She was maigre, literally, everything about her was, and god had an emergency meeting when he was devising eyelashes. She had an abundance of that, and that was and I guess is still a sexy thing. 

    At the time, the whole Arab cord thing was kinda less stigmatized, so I had no reason not to wear it on the theatre day instead of my favorite Japanese Kimono my dad brought. So I took his pilgrimage stuff, well not the one similar to the white roman togas but the Arab cord (this - An agal: Arabic: عِقَال, ʿiqāl: "bond" or "rope") the 'Thawb' thing. So I was preparing myself for the last play we are having at the end of the week, and I'd still remember we have had Coscous at school, for a Friday noon. I was so stoked for the play since I assumed she will notice me with the clothes. I was rehearsing over and over again so that I look smart and kinda composed, unlike my frenzy classmates. 

    The fact that I remember all of this was because of the frustrating result. Although it's a poignant reminder, it was very interesting that I felt cocky in those days, and I've had nice retribution. My previous lover felt this sweet revenge after what happened. Now you know why I was cocky, cos' i tried to find a way to fend off my lover before the Arab girl came. 
They didn't come. They were scheduled to leave Saturday, but for some reason, a change of plans happened, or maybe they weren't even supposed to attend Friday, but my Kierkegaardian ass took a leap of faith back then, and it was a bummer!
    Man, I'd still relive that feeling, the frustration, and the barely interested play, while that bitch sitting in the front row, smiling at me projecting her It-feels-so-good face. But I overcame that, I actually found repose in '3ish Safari', it was so good. 

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