Hey Little Girl, Is Your Daddy Home
"Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
Oh, I'm on fire...."
*
It's early 1985. I'm in my freshman year in Windham High. I am seriously innocent, seriously a wallflower, seriously ignored by guys and seriously bummed out about it. This is not through any lack of trying on my part. I've been going to all the school dances, trying to do the do of looking all cute - or as cute as I think it makes sense for me to look - and no dice. It seems the only way to get a guy is to undergo a total personality transfer, since the guys in my school are all interested in busty bubbleheads that talk about clothes, instead of a more reserved chick like me who likes to talk about stuff as well as doing...well, I don't know what. I don't know what guys like to do, because they are to me an exotic and unknown species still.
My friends Sue and Kathy assure me that no, there's nothing wrong with me. The girls that act like bimbos are just that, bimbos, and somewhere there's a guy out there who will appreciate me the way I am. I sort of believe them. However, the fact that both of them have boyfriends kind of affects just how much I do believe them. But I tell myself they're right and go on waiting.
Then one day when I'm in the middle of my French class, I get called down to the office. I can't remember today whether it was an announcement over the PA or a phone call to my teacher. But, I am asked to report to the principal's office. I trade a glance with Sue - she's in my French class - and get up to go. I'm such a goody-girl, I can't think of any reason why I'd be in trouble, but a small part of my brain thinks that there's something wrong. She looks back, frowning in confusion as well.
I head to the office and meekly ask the secretary what they wanted me for. She is momentarily confused herself; now I know something REALLY weird is going on. The secretary tells me to wait, and she'll go ask the principal what he wanted me for. She disappears into the back room. I sit, wondering, for a while.
Then the secretary comes back. She's holding a long, thin white box in her arms, and smiles slightly. She hands it to me with a twinkle in her eye. There's a piece of paper attached to it. I look at it first; it's a receipt from a florist's. I open the box.
Four longstemmed red roses are inside, with a notecard. I don't recognize the handwriting on the card. The message, though - it's a sweet, sentimental one. And it is unsigned. And it is for me.
For me. A complete stranger has sent me roses.
Me.
*
"Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
Oh, I'm on fire...."
*
I walk back to French class in a total daze. Our teacher Mrs. Mustard is just as excited about it as everyone else in class; things grind to a halt while everyone crowds around so I can show off. "You don't have any idea who this is?" people ask me again and again. I tell them no. The only clue was the receipt, signed with the initials "A.N.". But I don't know anyone with that name either. I try to fit the roses in my locker after class, and I spend the rest of the day fielding questions from friends as word spreads. Then more questions from my parents when I take them home. The roses end up in a vase on the dining room table, where we all enjoy them for two weeks before I dry them.
Then a couple weeks later, I get called down to the office again.
And I get handed a long white box again. And there are roses inside it again. And another notecard, again, with the initials "A.N." This time, there is a lyric from The Doors' "Touch Me".
I go back to French class again, and walk in grinning. "Again??" people ask, incredulous. I nod, blushing furiously - and grinning.
And it happens again a few weeks after that. And again a few weeks after that. For the rest of the school year, a secret admirer sends me four long-stemmed roses in a box every four or five weeks or so, with a few lines of poetry or a sentimental note written on the card.
Sue is a big Springsteen fan, and she starts teasing me whenever she sees me come into a room with a new box by starting to sing "I'm On Fire" - "Hey, little girl, is your daddy home..." I never find out why. Other people start rolling their eyes a little each time it happens again, but they're all also dying of curiosity. Our friend Kerri asks after the mysterious initials at the school office, but learns the only person in school with those initials is an "Abner Novarro", whom I have never met in my life.
A part of me, actually, doesn't want to know. Well, most of me does want to know - I want to know who this person is who actually, for the first time, desires me. Finally, I'm attractive to someone. Someone is saying these passionate things - they're passionate to my innocent girlish ears, anyway - and they are saying them to me. Of course I want to know who they are.
But there's a part of me that doesn't want to know, because when I find out, then they might stop. And I'm enjoying this - the school is absolutely abuzz. People are asking me if I know what's going on, people are talking about me, trying to figure out what's going on. And I'm enjoying being the center of attention each time I get more roses - the center of the school's attention for one. But mostly, I'm enjoying the realization that for the first time, I'm the center of an admirer's attention. Those feelings, those thoughts, the kind of things singers sing about - for I've started thinking about this whenever "I'm On Fire" comes on the radio - I'm inspiring them in someone. Right when I was about to give up on the idea that such a thing was possible, I realize that yes, I am special.
The school year winds to a close. We all go on to summer vacation. A few weeks into the summer, I get up to go get the mail and find a bundle on our front lawn; a dozen longstemmed roses this time, eleven red, one pink. The note inside reads, "You're one in a million. - Love Forever, A.N."
That is to be the last I hear from my admirer. I spend the first part of sophmore year trying to investigate who A.N. is, then slowly I give up.
But I do hang on to the feeling that I am someone's "one in a million", and start to believe it.
*
"Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby edgy and dull
and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul..."
*
It's 2003. Periodically over the next several years, I've idly wondered who that admirer was. I’ve enjoyed telling the story to people I met in college and afterward, and they all were excited about it - and incredulous I never found out who it was.
I also finally met boyfriends in college and after, and found that Sue and Kathy were right - both about the guys back home and the guys who'd finally be interested in me. I'm the center of their attention - I hear one lover tell me words far sweeter than ever were on those notes, I see another tell me with just a look and a brilliantly warm smile that I'm the center of his world. I also learn that being the center of someone's attention isn't always the point, nor is it always enough.
But once in a while "I'm On Fire" comes on the radio and I remember what it was like to first feel admired, what it was like for the first time to feel that yes, I was special. I wonder who that was who had given me that gift.
I'd been periodically poking my nose into one of those reunite-with-your-classmates web pages. I decide one day, finally, that what the hell, I'll see if I can find anything out. I post a message in the message boards for my school explaining the situation, and asking if anyone had any information for me.
That night, I get a very sheepish call from my friend Sue. Sue and I have kept in touch after high school - I was her maid of honor, she came to visit me on the occasional birthday - and sometimes when we call, we talk for hours at a time. This call, however, is short. "Um, I saw your post," she began. "I have to tell you something."
She tells me everything. Where she got the money to pay for all the roses. How she swore the florist to secrecy. How she got the initials “A.N.” from “Anthony Nelson” -- Huey Lewis’s middle name and Prince’s last name. How she’d planned it all in part for the fun of it, to pull off a big stunt, but mostly because I needed the cheering up. How she started singing "I'm On Fire" each time I came into class with the roses and everyone was wondering what was going on, because that was the only way she could stop herself from telling me it was her. She'd kept from telling me because I was so happy about the roses, and she thought I'd be mad at her if I ever found out. She'd actually thought I'd forgotten all about it, but when she saw the post online, she realized I needed to know. Then she begged me not to be angry with her.
I reassure her that I’m not. What's strange is, I mean it. As we talk, I realize that even knowing that it was her all along, doesn't change the way I feel about what happened. We talk some more, me reassuring her that no, I'm not mad, but the whole time I'm wondering why knowing what really happened is having no affect on me. We hang up and I still wonder.
I finally realize that it's because the fact that I felt special for the first time hasn't changed. It may be that I feel special for a slightly different reason, but it still is a situation in which someone cared enough about me to put me at the center of attention. It may have been a best friend, too, but she still did something to remind me of the possibility that, when you least expect it, you could be inspiring someone to fall for you simply by being you. Everyone, sooner or later, inspires that kind of attention from someone somewhere; everyone can be someone's beloved.
I go get "I'm On Fire" and put it on for a listen. It still reminds me of that surge of hope I felt then, that feeling that "hey, someone could be singing this about me finally." We all have the capacity to inspire someone. You may be single now, but at some point someone will look at you and will like what they see so much they will want to sing to you and send you roses. And even if it's happened before, you forget it's possible until someone comes along and reminds you. Even if nothing comes of any of it afterward, the reminding is so sweet, and comes to everyone.
*
"Only you can cool my desire
Oh, I'm on fire."
Did he go and leave you all alone
I got a bad desire
Oh, I'm on fire...."
*
It's early 1985. I'm in my freshman year in Windham High. I am seriously innocent, seriously a wallflower, seriously ignored by guys and seriously bummed out about it. This is not through any lack of trying on my part. I've been going to all the school dances, trying to do the do of looking all cute - or as cute as I think it makes sense for me to look - and no dice. It seems the only way to get a guy is to undergo a total personality transfer, since the guys in my school are all interested in busty bubbleheads that talk about clothes, instead of a more reserved chick like me who likes to talk about stuff as well as doing...well, I don't know what. I don't know what guys like to do, because they are to me an exotic and unknown species still.
My friends Sue and Kathy assure me that no, there's nothing wrong with me. The girls that act like bimbos are just that, bimbos, and somewhere there's a guy out there who will appreciate me the way I am. I sort of believe them. However, the fact that both of them have boyfriends kind of affects just how much I do believe them. But I tell myself they're right and go on waiting.
Then one day when I'm in the middle of my French class, I get called down to the office. I can't remember today whether it was an announcement over the PA or a phone call to my teacher. But, I am asked to report to the principal's office. I trade a glance with Sue - she's in my French class - and get up to go. I'm such a goody-girl, I can't think of any reason why I'd be in trouble, but a small part of my brain thinks that there's something wrong. She looks back, frowning in confusion as well.
I head to the office and meekly ask the secretary what they wanted me for. She is momentarily confused herself; now I know something REALLY weird is going on. The secretary tells me to wait, and she'll go ask the principal what he wanted me for. She disappears into the back room. I sit, wondering, for a while.
Then the secretary comes back. She's holding a long, thin white box in her arms, and smiles slightly. She hands it to me with a twinkle in her eye. There's a piece of paper attached to it. I look at it first; it's a receipt from a florist's. I open the box.
Four longstemmed red roses are inside, with a notecard. I don't recognize the handwriting on the card. The message, though - it's a sweet, sentimental one. And it is unsigned. And it is for me.
For me. A complete stranger has sent me roses.
Me.
*
"Tell me now baby is he good to you
Can he do to you the things that I do
I can take you higher
Oh, I'm on fire...."
*
I walk back to French class in a total daze. Our teacher Mrs. Mustard is just as excited about it as everyone else in class; things grind to a halt while everyone crowds around so I can show off. "You don't have any idea who this is?" people ask me again and again. I tell them no. The only clue was the receipt, signed with the initials "A.N.". But I don't know anyone with that name either. I try to fit the roses in my locker after class, and I spend the rest of the day fielding questions from friends as word spreads. Then more questions from my parents when I take them home. The roses end up in a vase on the dining room table, where we all enjoy them for two weeks before I dry them.
Then a couple weeks later, I get called down to the office again.
And I get handed a long white box again. And there are roses inside it again. And another notecard, again, with the initials "A.N." This time, there is a lyric from The Doors' "Touch Me".
I go back to French class again, and walk in grinning. "Again??" people ask, incredulous. I nod, blushing furiously - and grinning.
And it happens again a few weeks after that. And again a few weeks after that. For the rest of the school year, a secret admirer sends me four long-stemmed roses in a box every four or five weeks or so, with a few lines of poetry or a sentimental note written on the card.
Sue is a big Springsteen fan, and she starts teasing me whenever she sees me come into a room with a new box by starting to sing "I'm On Fire" - "Hey, little girl, is your daddy home..." I never find out why. Other people start rolling their eyes a little each time it happens again, but they're all also dying of curiosity. Our friend Kerri asks after the mysterious initials at the school office, but learns the only person in school with those initials is an "Abner Novarro", whom I have never met in my life.
A part of me, actually, doesn't want to know. Well, most of me does want to know - I want to know who this person is who actually, for the first time, desires me. Finally, I'm attractive to someone. Someone is saying these passionate things - they're passionate to my innocent girlish ears, anyway - and they are saying them to me. Of course I want to know who they are.
But there's a part of me that doesn't want to know, because when I find out, then they might stop. And I'm enjoying this - the school is absolutely abuzz. People are asking me if I know what's going on, people are talking about me, trying to figure out what's going on. And I'm enjoying being the center of attention each time I get more roses - the center of the school's attention for one. But mostly, I'm enjoying the realization that for the first time, I'm the center of an admirer's attention. Those feelings, those thoughts, the kind of things singers sing about - for I've started thinking about this whenever "I'm On Fire" comes on the radio - I'm inspiring them in someone. Right when I was about to give up on the idea that such a thing was possible, I realize that yes, I am special.
The school year winds to a close. We all go on to summer vacation. A few weeks into the summer, I get up to go get the mail and find a bundle on our front lawn; a dozen longstemmed roses this time, eleven red, one pink. The note inside reads, "You're one in a million. - Love Forever, A.N."
That is to be the last I hear from my admirer. I spend the first part of sophmore year trying to investigate who A.N. is, then slowly I give up.
But I do hang on to the feeling that I am someone's "one in a million", and start to believe it.
*
"Sometimes it's like someone took a knife baby edgy and dull
and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my soul..."
*
It's 2003. Periodically over the next several years, I've idly wondered who that admirer was. I’ve enjoyed telling the story to people I met in college and afterward, and they all were excited about it - and incredulous I never found out who it was.
I also finally met boyfriends in college and after, and found that Sue and Kathy were right - both about the guys back home and the guys who'd finally be interested in me. I'm the center of their attention - I hear one lover tell me words far sweeter than ever were on those notes, I see another tell me with just a look and a brilliantly warm smile that I'm the center of his world. I also learn that being the center of someone's attention isn't always the point, nor is it always enough.
But once in a while "I'm On Fire" comes on the radio and I remember what it was like to first feel admired, what it was like for the first time to feel that yes, I was special. I wonder who that was who had given me that gift.
I'd been periodically poking my nose into one of those reunite-with-your-classmates web pages. I decide one day, finally, that what the hell, I'll see if I can find anything out. I post a message in the message boards for my school explaining the situation, and asking if anyone had any information for me.
That night, I get a very sheepish call from my friend Sue. Sue and I have kept in touch after high school - I was her maid of honor, she came to visit me on the occasional birthday - and sometimes when we call, we talk for hours at a time. This call, however, is short. "Um, I saw your post," she began. "I have to tell you something."
She tells me everything. Where she got the money to pay for all the roses. How she swore the florist to secrecy. How she got the initials “A.N.” from “Anthony Nelson” -- Huey Lewis’s middle name and Prince’s last name. How she’d planned it all in part for the fun of it, to pull off a big stunt, but mostly because I needed the cheering up. How she started singing "I'm On Fire" each time I came into class with the roses and everyone was wondering what was going on, because that was the only way she could stop herself from telling me it was her. She'd kept from telling me because I was so happy about the roses, and she thought I'd be mad at her if I ever found out. She'd actually thought I'd forgotten all about it, but when she saw the post online, she realized I needed to know. Then she begged me not to be angry with her.
I reassure her that I’m not. What's strange is, I mean it. As we talk, I realize that even knowing that it was her all along, doesn't change the way I feel about what happened. We talk some more, me reassuring her that no, I'm not mad, but the whole time I'm wondering why knowing what really happened is having no affect on me. We hang up and I still wonder.
I finally realize that it's because the fact that I felt special for the first time hasn't changed. It may be that I feel special for a slightly different reason, but it still is a situation in which someone cared enough about me to put me at the center of attention. It may have been a best friend, too, but she still did something to remind me of the possibility that, when you least expect it, you could be inspiring someone to fall for you simply by being you. Everyone, sooner or later, inspires that kind of attention from someone somewhere; everyone can be someone's beloved.
I go get "I'm On Fire" and put it on for a listen. It still reminds me of that surge of hope I felt then, that feeling that "hey, someone could be singing this about me finally." We all have the capacity to inspire someone. You may be single now, but at some point someone will look at you and will like what they see so much they will want to sing to you and send you roses. And even if it's happened before, you forget it's possible until someone comes along and reminds you. Even if nothing comes of any of it afterward, the reminding is so sweet, and comes to everyone.
*
"Only you can cool my desire
Oh, I'm on fire."