If you had asked me in Jr. High who I wanted to be my Valentine, I would have said Micky Dolenz. He was the drummer and occasional lead singer of The Monkees, a rock band and TV show rolled into one. The Beatles were the Fab Four and the Monkees were the Pre-Fab Four, a cartoon version of the Beatles. I was a big fan. I followed their comings and goings religiously in Tiger Beat Magazine.
Hey Hey We're the Monkees!
Micky was my favorite. He was funny and cute. I had a secret crush, even managing to fool my Mom (I think) when I asked her to take me to Screen Gems Studios in L.A. to watch a filming of the show so I could write a report on it for my Social Studies class. My Mom told me to pick another topic. Drat. I’m sure if Micky had met me, he would have liked me back.
One day in eighth grade, standing around the quad area of my school with my girlfriends, a girl named Rewa pranced up to our group. She was not part of our crowd, but we didn’t shun her or anything. (Luckily the schools I attended had very little Mean Girls Syndrome.)
Rewa was bubbly and a center-of-attention type. She was also very pretty—more Angelina Jolie than Jennifer Aniston. She had brown hair and beautiful blue eyes with long eye lashes that she covered in blue mascara. Blue! As if my Mom would have allowed that.
We started talking about the Monkees. Rewa jumped into the conversation:
“I’m going to marry Micky Dolenz!” she said exuberantly and matter-of-factly.
I can’t remember what the reaction was of my friends, but I silently steamed. Rewa was so sure of herself. I gave her the stink eye as she continued until finally—thankfully—someone changed the subject. My adolescent fantasy had stopped at the “like” phase. Who said anything about marriage?
The damage was done. If Micky had to choose between the two of us, he would pick Rewa over me. I was bummed. Crush over.
In ninth grade (High School) Rewa wanted to tag along to the Friday night football games with the girls I went with—my next door neighbor Jo Ella, Denise, and Patty. The four of us lived close by, but Rewa lived out of the way. She was picked up last. (Patty’s Mom did the driving.)
When Rewa climbed in the car I hoped no one heard my gasp. Rewa was dressed as Queen of the Disco Ball before Disco had even been invented. She had on a gold lamé jumpsuit and clunky shoes. She wore a wiglet on her head (a fake-hair puffed-up bunch of curls). I am pretty sure she had on false eyelashes over her own extra-long blue ones.
Call me shallow. Call me insecure. (I’m sure I was at that age.) But I was embarrassed to be seen with Rewa. I had on my dorky brown cords and moccasins. But at least I blended in—conformity being a priority with me at that age. Even if I had wanted to buy a metallic outfit, I had no idea where to buy one.
That was the last I went to the games with JoElla—and the beginning of us going our separate ways in High School. We were still friendly but ended up in a different group of close friends.
That was also the last I paid any attention to Rewa. She moved out of the school district. Our of sight, out of mind? Not quite.
For the reappearance of Rewa in my life, check out Part 2.
