In the fall, our youth group took it’s annual beach trip. 48-hours with little supervision and hundreds of new faces. my friends and i scoured the boardwalk for anything with a slight hint of amusement. we met a guy our age playing the guitar. his curly hair and haphazard appearance charmed each of us. he flirted, casually mentioning that we were attractive. one of us, more skilled than the rest at rousing entertainment, asked which girl of liked best. he pointed to me, “i like her,” he offered as he passed me a wanton smile. my outsides clenched my insides and my skin became hot. i tried to force a smile, but it came out more standoffish than encouraging.
it wasn’t that i didn’t appreciate the attention, or reciprocate the aesthetic admiration. i did. but i felt like a fraud. like one of those intricately painted matryoshka dolls, standing along side her sisters; that you open disapointedly, because it's hollow and plain.
