I jumped out of the school building, or more properly the door, skipping several steps with each lunge. Just like every day in school, I was in a hurry to get where I was going. In this case, to the waiting yellow school bus at the curb.

I quickly climbed up the steps through the open retractable bus door. I always wanted to pull the lever that opened and closed the bus door. As I turned down the aisle of the bus, I eagerly scanned for a familiar face. Rhonda was sitting about midway back, next to the window. Her smile lighted the way, and I grinned in return; the corners of my mouth pointing to heaven.

Rhonda and I had been "dating" for several weeks; at least as much as any two sixth graders can be boyfriend and girlfriend. She was the first real love interest of my young life. Just a few weeks back we had danced together in the "Sixth Grade Ball," although I'm not sure you could legitimately call my dysfunctional histrionics "dancing." But with Rhonda, I didn't care.

As I slipped into my familiar spot next to her on the bus, I couldn't fail to notice the baseball glove on her left hand, ball inside. I don't recall what chit-chat took place between us, but I'll never forget that glove. Perhaps I was too dull-headed and naive to see what was coming next. My ability to decipher female behavior, particularly related to matters of the heart, has always been second-rate at best.

As I had numerous times in the past, I casually extended my hand toward hers. I was anxiously expecting the nervous but ever-so-exciting feeling that develops in the connection of a boy holding hands with his girl. Even if that tender hand was presently encased in the leather of a baseball glove. I expected the glove to come off...

From the corner of her eye, Rhonda sensed the movement of my open hand and promptly placed the baseball in it. Almost without moving her head from its direct gaze out the window.

And I knew instantly. Our budding romance had withered faster than a cut rose in water.

Several years later I saw Rhonda again, as she zipped past me on the highway, as well as the State Trooper just in front of me. My last recollection was that of her little car on the shoulder, silhouetted by flashing red lights. Wonder if she still likes baseball?