We were in high school. He was one of the “in” kids. I wasn’t. One day, out of nowhere, he invited me over to his house after school. He heard I had pigeons. He wanted to show me his loft and talk birds. I went.
Nice neighborhood. Nice house with a spacious pigeon loft built on an upstairs deck. I was impressed. He was enthusiastic about his birds. It was all going so well. Until. He said “I’m so glad to have someone to talk to about pigeons that isn’t a dork.” I don’t remember anything after that. A dork. A “dork” is exactly how I thought the kids he hung out with would describe me. He hung out with friends during breaks and at lunch. They talked and laughed. I was socially awkward. I had friends in our neighborhood, but at school I was more comfortable eating lunch alone, then going to the library to read.
Sincere as he may have been, and happy to have someone to share his love of birds with, I was put-off beyond repair by his overture; his offhand remark; my teenage insecurity that he might be making fun of me. We didn’t bond over pigeons. In fact, I don’t recall ever speaking with him again after that day.
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