Whenever I had a crush, every optimistic love song seemed to apply to my own personal situation. With Sam, I threw my teenage affections into Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life,” the perfect soundtrack to blossoming puppy love.

Sam had the boyish good looks that I still tend to fall for, complete with the pensive stare of a moody teenager on the cusp of adulthood and the inquisitive grin of a boy barely past puberty. He was a reformed skater boy, denouncing his old half-pipes and baggy jeans, choosing instead to fiddle with his synthesizer and strobe lights in his basement.

I met him on a school stage crew. We were both there doing favors for friends, and neither of us meshed well with the drama cult. Since we were completely inept with hammers and mystified by two-by-fours, Sam and I were always assigned the easiest assignments: painting signs, finding tools, odd tasks that often involved us being squeezed into a tight closet space.

Sam and I were a year apart, and our friends were completely different crowds. I was a year off from the emo explosion in suburbia, but his friends brooded and moped with their shaggy haircuts and screamo records. My friends were bros who spent hours playing Madden and loved doing keg stands. As much fun I had drinking their alcohol and smoking their weed, I wanted friends who (as terrible and pathetic as it sounds) also listened to same predictable indie rock, watched the same contrived indie films, and read the same sarcastic self-involved memoirs as I did. In that sense, Sam was much more than a crush. He was also a door to the scene I wanted to join.

With a little sleuthing, I discovered his screen name and internet-stalked him for a good week before he IMed me. Our rapport translated easily to the internet, and we would talk for hours about Sam’s band, Farewell Charlie Brown, and my desire for a driver’s license. One day after school, Sam handed me a mix CD. He pointed out that the jewel case was the same color as my shirt, which was obviously a sign of our destined romance. I went home and fell in love with Midlake and Modest Mouse. Maybe it was his eerie resemblance to Conor Oberst, but I immediately connected “First Day of My Life” to Sam.

Our first date was the typical movie session. Sitting an awkward six inches apart, we watched Alien vs. Predator in his basement. As a joke, Sam pulled the old yawn-and-reach-around-the-girl move, and though we both laughed at the cliche, his arm didn’t leave my shoulders.

Despite my friends’ questions, I skipped the spring fling and all its after-parties for a second date with Sam. Even Evan’s open house and well-stocked liquor cabinet couldn’t tempt me from my hopes of romance. Because I had mentioned that he reminded of me Patrick Fugit’s character, Sam brought over a copy of Almost Famous for us to watch. But throughout the movie he made pointed remarks about my attraction to Patrick Fugit, and after a few hours of mindless conversation with no physical advances, the banter trickled to an anxious silence. The movie had ended and Jackass was on TV, but neither one of us was paying much attention to Steve-O humping a zebra.

The tension was too much for me. “Other guys would have kissed me by now,” I said.

Put on the spot, he leaned over and kissed me. I wish I could describe the kiss positively, but “uncomfortable” would be a better word for the teeth-mashing, closed-mouth pecks.

“Was that your first kiss?” I asked him.

“Yeah.”

I’m always straightforward. “Well, you can also touch my boobs if you want.”

Testing out the waters, he laid an unsure hand on my left breast, then another on my right. His clammy hands were motionless for two minutes. I decided he should master first base before he hit a double. “I guess I should practice more,” he said.

“Practice makes perfect.”

In hindsight, that second date was pretty embarrassing. But at the time, it filled me with anticipation for future practice. I had “First Day of My Life” on repeat for days. I would read the lyrics, listen to the song, think about Sam, and swoon. I had grand visions for the future: the kissing would surely improve, and then I would get my driver’s license, eliminating the need for awkward brother/parent chauffeuring. I invited Sam over for that practice time, but his band’s practices always took precedence. Teenage girls love “sensitive musicians,” so of course I understood. However, it wasn’t long before I suspected that band practice was more important to him because of a certain female lead vocalist. At his band’s first show, I watched Sam shyly smile at the girl, a pixie brunette, a smile once reserved for our time in dusty broom closets.

After I sent our mutual friend to inquire about Sam’s romantic leanings, she returned with sad news. “Sam likes Emily, but he says you’re better because you totally have bigger boobs.” Leave it to a fourteen-year-old to point out your best attribute.

I was crushed. Granted, Sam and I were never officially a couple, but still! I went home and opened up iTunes. My last playlist popped up – “Crush.” And the only song on the list, “First Day of My Life,” loomed in front of me. At that point, I realized I could never listen to that song again. Cue the tear ducts, and here we have another teenage movie scene.

Three years later, too many kisses later, I no longer conjure scenarios of future hand-holding and candlelight dinners so quickly. But it’d be nice to capture the optimism I once had. Maybe this time is different, I mean, I really think you like me… yeah, right.