“Hey,” said Rick Jensen, my first serious boyfriend, the one I grew to hate as much as I loved him. We were the perfect high school couple: he was the quarterback and captain of the football team; I was the captain of the cheerleading squad. His auburn hair and gray eyes contrasted nicely with my blonde hair and brown eyes. We were both only children. His parents (who adored me) and my grandma lived down the road from each other. I’d lived with Grandma ever since I could remember. My parents died in a car accident, and so Grandma raised me. It was the two of us against the world, at least until I fell in love with Rick. Then there were three. Our high school epic romance ended the summer we graduated, when Rick decided to believe his best friend, Jeff, over me. Jeff, Douchebag #1, said that he saw me swapping spit with a guy from a rival school. Actually, he accused me of a lot more gymnastically, shall we say, with that guy, and a couple others, too. Supposedly there were pictures.
