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human. I began to suspect that her next words might not be as complimentary as I’d initially hoped.
    â€œKevin Mopsely, you … you butthole ,” she snapped, clattering the flute on the desk. “Just forget it, okay?”
    As she stormed out of the room, I couldn’t help wondering why I hadn’t just said “yes”; a few weekly lessons is all she’d have needed to realize that my dorky reputation wasn’t entirely justified. And then we’d probably have started dating, I’m sure of it. After all, she never actually denied having a crush on me.
    But it was not to be. Instead, I was absolutely right in supposing that things would never be the same between us. That was the last time Natasha ever spoke to me.

    Perhaps it was inevitable … after blowing such a gift-wrapped opportunity, I was bound to suffer what might be termed a “girl drought”; I just hadn’t counted on the drought lasting four years. But it was fall of ninth grade before my flute and I again attracted attention from the opposite sex. And even then it was Alyssa Gregoire, whose goofy-cute combination was amply offset by her questionable personal hygiene.
    I should have realized straight away that Alyssa and I were not destined to be together. Her idea of social climbing was a fervent desire to join the Band Geeks, the musicians’ clique of which I was unofficial head and, technically, one third of the membership. (Ben Walton, our fourth member, had just left by mutual agreement after he failed my weekly pop quiz on music theory.) I was proud to be a Band Geek, but even I was aware that we were pretty low on the social totem pole.
    Besides, I had other reasons to question Alyssa’s sudden interest in the Band Geeks. She had recently begun announcing that she aspired to be the best flutist in school, which meant supplanting me. So it seemed only natural to question whether she was joining my clique, or infiltrating it.
    Then, one lunchtime, she plopped down at our table and asked to try out my flute. I figured she meant she just wanted to touch it, but she pieced it together and started blowing. Her embouchure was all messed up because she’d just gotten braces, and spit flew everywhere. But she still gushed about the lightness of the key mechanism, and said how jealous she was that I had a solid silver flute while hers only had a silver mouthpiece. She said it nicely, too, with a gentle singsong voice and a lopsided smile that emphasized her cuteness and made me momentarily forget her odor.
    She continued talking, but I wasn’t really listening. I had already put my lips on the flute, absently fingering the opening notes of a Handel sonata while thinking about the way our saliva was being commingled on the silver mouthpiece. It was like French kissing, except without the danger of injury from her braces. And even though we were only sharing a fake Frenchie, it was still an incredible turn-on. So much so that I didn’t hear her until she started shouting.
    â€œKevin, why are you moaning?”
    I froze. “Was I?”
    â€œYeah!” She continued shouting, like her volume control had gotten stuck on High.
    I looked around the cafeteria. Everyone had stopped to watch.
    â€œSorry,” I whispered.
    She hesitated. “Did you clean my spit off first?” Another pause. “You did clean my spit off first, didn’t you?” A long pause—the horror of dawning recognition. “Omig od, you’re sharing my saliva! You’re sharing my saliva and … and moanin g !”
    Moments later, I’d not only been deposed as head of the Band Geek clique, but kicked out of it as well. While she munched contentedly at the dirt beneath her finger nails, Alyssa assured my former clique-mates that she’d assume my leadership responsibilities. It was undoubtedly the low point of my life.
    I didn’t play my flute again at school for the rest of the year,