Twelve years old and lovesick, bumbling br and terrified for the first time in my life, br but strangely hopeful, too, and stunned, br definitely stunned—I wanted to cry, br I almost started to sob when Chris Klein br actually touched me—oh God—below the belt br in the back row of the Skokie Theatre. br Our knees bumped helplessly, our mouths br were glued together like flypaper, our lips br were grinding in a hysterical grimace br while the most handsome man in the world br twitched his hips on the flickering screen br and the girls began to scream in the dark. br I didn’t know one thing about the body yet, br about the deep foam filling my bones, br but I wanted to cry out in desolation br when she touched me again, when the lights br flooded in the crowded theatre br and the other kids started to file br into the narrow aisle, into a lobby br of faded purple splendor, into the last br Saturday in August before she moved away. br I never wanted to move again, but suddenly br we were being lifted toward the sidewalk br in a crush of bodies, blinking, shy, br unprepared for the ringing familiar voices br and the harsh glare of sunlight, the brightness br of an afternoon that left us gripping br each other’s hands, trembling and changed.