I Grew Up Brown County

We are making address books in class. We learn how to put the dashes in our phone numbers and to capitalize the street names in front of our houses. We write our addresses in shaky, oversized letters on thick, dark lines across the page. Everybody in the class gets a copy of our Class Address Book, photocopied on the big copier in the office, with three staples holding it together down the left side.

On Sunday, the phone rings. It is for me.

“Sarah, it’s Ni-ick,” my papaw says.

I am excited! This is the first time the phone rang for me that it wasn’t Sissy or some other family member. A real phone call!

“Hi,” says a little voice on the other line. “I called everybody in our Class Address Book so far down to you and you’re the only one who is home.”

We talk for a minute or two, our nine-year-old selves having little to contribute in the way of conversation.

The trouble, though, is that now a boy has called me. A real boy. From school.

Papaw tortures me mercilessly.

He croons to me, “I just called…. to say…. I love you. I just called… to say… I care.” Some weird old song from a long time ago. Embarrassing.

I’m taunted around the house with “Nick. N-Nick.Nick. Nick. NICK. Nick. NICK-O-LODEON!”

“Oh, Ni-ick. So glad you called,” he mimics me. Except, I don’t think I even said that.

“NO! It’s not like that! I was the first one on the list to answer. He wasn’t even trying to call me especially.” My protests, pouts, and shouts go unanswered. Papaw is not the least bit concerned with who Nick did or did not mean to call.

I live in constant fear that another boy will accidently call me someday. Papaw doesn’t care when four years go by, then ten, and Nick never calls me again. He carries on in his own little pretend world where Nick and I are estranged lovers, holding out for the day we can be together, just calling to say "I love you."