The Max Factor

He shared with me all the little details that he liked about her.

“She’s amazing, Mum.”

“All the boys like her and she’s really funny.”

“Her clothes aren’t like the other girls; she dresses cool.”

“She has the longest hair and the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Ah yes, pre-pubescent love, agony is thy name. Although she had yet to utter a word in his direction, he swooned over her every syllable that parted her lips. Now, for the dreaded question I hesitated to ask. I didn’t want to see his little heart twisted into a pretzel but I also knew this to be an eventual fate for us all.

“Does Max like you?” I ask.

“I don’t know; I’m kind of scared to talk to her. What if she doesn’t want to talk to me? I’ll look like an idiot.”

I didn’t bother telling him how great he is; he stopped listening to that opinion in the second grade. He may not have known the word bias but he knew what it was.

“Parents always try to make crappy things good,” he would say. “Crappy things happen to everyone; it’s just my turn.”

I did plan to steal his little bit of brilliance while reminding him of the hierarchy.

“Hey, fourth-grader, leave my job alone. I’ll be the parent and you be the ten-year-old inspired by my wisdom.”

For some reason, this always made him laugh. He would often explain the workings of the world as much as he inquired them. I became a master at an expressionless face; hiding how much his intuition floored me. I developed a rigid expression that could only be outdone by Botox injections.

Once he would get bored of expounding on all things every parent needed to know, he would leave the room. I could finally cock my head to the right and furrow my brow to my insecure heart’s content. Who was this sandbox philosopher?

His brother could be worse at times, mastering adult situations with the precision of an undercover profiler. For this, he was nick-named Little Empath. Much of my learning experiences shone through the prism of these ankle-biting philosophers. Their unblemished views cut directly to the truth of the matter. For adults that prefer hedging hard truths, this can be a little spooky.

“What does she like? Do you have anything in common?”

“She plays chess.”

“How about inviting her over for a game. Did you tell her about your Simpsons Chess set?”

His pale freckled face flushed crimson, “I get nervous just being near her. She can make her eyes smile without moving her mouth.”

He then proceeded to bat his long eyelashes without moving any other part of his face. More akin to a deer in headlights, he looked frozen in place.

“I can’t do it like her,” he relented. “You got to trust me, her eye’s smile.”

“Maybe that only happens when she is looking at you?”

He turned to me and raised his eyebrow. The boy hijacked my overly dramatic expression when I sound too much like a protective mother. No words necessary, just the slow rise of the single brow as he stared into my eyes.

“What? It’s possible,” I said with genuine conviction.

“Stop talking like a mom. This is important.”

The eyebrow lowers as his grey-green eyes fall into that thousand-yard stare of unrequited love. I bite my lip as to not laugh in his glazed donut face.

At some point, everyone has had this look on their face. Adults struggle to navigate what they think is missing; the thing or person that will set their life in the direction they yearn. These are treacherous sixth grade waters, where we go under after one good wave of rejection. Puberty was just about keeping your head above water, torture to tread and torture to drown. It’s a different kind of torture watching my kid stick his toe in that proverbial ocean.

“Tomorrow night is the art show, I can invite her over if you introduce me. I promise not to embarrass you. I won’t mention how beautiful you told me she was or how smart she is.”

JR sized me up, the longer he stared, the more nervous I felt for him. His glazed over eyes hardened into cold grey steel burrowing into my brain.

“Promise?”

“I promise. Believe it or not, I had sixth grade love, too.”

He plunked down to the kitchen chair, all the while shaking his head.

“That was forever ago, it isn’t like the olden days. What you think is cute, could mean changing schools or even having to move to another town!”

“Ok, nothing about her eyes being the color of caramels.”

His head fell forward to the table with a thud. “I’m going to die.”

“Or was that milk duds?” Parental amusement can be a little wicked.

“Mum, what the heck?”

“Sorry, kind of. I get it; I promise.”

Off the chair and out the kitchen; awkward pre-teen feet stumbled over this new sound drumming in his ears. He may not know it but, he moved in step to lyrics sung by a budding siren named Maxine. For the time being, this would be the music of his waking moments.

The art show came and my son couldn’t have cared less. That was until he saw her.

“Remember your promise.”

With feigned indignance I asked, “Who always has you back?”

He smiled and then a tune began to play for me, as it does for all mothers. This time walking on air, his parting left an echo of empty space closing around me. He drummed up as much swagger as his twelve-year-old body could muster. Over the cacophony of children’s voices, I heard a tune new to my ears. Granted, it was just the first few bars but, I knew immediately that I was listening to the unmistakable melody to the swansong of boyhood.

I met the lovely Max who did have perfectly styled dark brown hair. My boy’s description was spot-on, including her caramel-colored eyes that had a smile all their own. JR and Maxine started to talk and before long, the chess game was on. Without my help or intervention, he made the play date a reality.

What was the one factor about the brilliant Maxine he failed to mention? The one thing missing but beautifully there?

Her flawless brown skin.