Romeo, Juliet and the Tragedy of Ben Holmes

 

It was on a silent car ride to a hike up the Boulder with my mother when I first questioned the definition of the word née. I had just woken up from a rather disturbing nap in the front seat—mouth hanging open, neck painfully craned, perspiring bum glued to the leather seat—when the word popped in my head. I couldn’t remember where I had first seen it, only that I didn’t know what it meant. I yawned, peeled myself off of the seat and asked Mom.

She didn’t know. She’d never heard it before.

So I did what any other resourceful teenager would: I asked Siri.

 

née [ney]

adjective

born (placed after the name of a married woman to introduce her maiden name): Madame de Staël, nee Necker.

 

Oh. I wonder where that came from.

I sat in silence, watching the golden landscape roll by, wondering if I would ever be able to use that term in reference to myself.

 

Macy ???? , née Ricketts.

 

Even with the question marks in place, it sounded classy.

 

The Safety Net

 

When I was in kindergarten, my best friend was a boy by the name of James Simmons. My kindergarten self had rationalized that, if I never found a boy who wanted to marry me, I could always come back to Livingston and marry James. He would make a fine husband—he could spell his name, kick a soccer ball and was great with Lincoln logs. I was sure he wouldn’t mind if I married him.

Macy Simmons, née Ricketts.

 

The Tragedy of Ben Holmes

In sixth grade, Halley, who sat in the desk next to me in pre-algebra, asked me who I had a crush on. Having a crush, in those days, was the kosher thing to do. I was embarrassed to realize I hadn’t selected a worthy gentleman from the rather shallow pool of twelve-year-old suitors. I carefully scanned the classroom as all of the students started on their homework problems. My eyes came to rest on a boy three rows behind me named Ben Holmes, who was blissfully unaware of my inquiring gaze. Ben was five foot two, had brown eyes and brown hair, and carried with him at all times a rather vacant expression. He was perfect.

Thus began a three-year infatuation with Ben Holmes from Pre-Algebra. Any time the topic of crushes came about at the school lunch table, I had poor Ben’s name on auto reply.

 

Who do you like?

Oh, me? Ben Holmes. Shhh. Don’t tell anybody. It’s a secret.

 

By December, the whole of sixth grade knew of my romantic feelings for Ben Holmes. Except Ben, of course.

 

(Note: There was a brief stint in the spring of sixth grade when a boy named Chris Johnson, who sat in front of me in science, fell in love with me the day I demonstrated my talent of being able to burp on command. A few days later, he asked me out and presented me with a fine piece of jewelry. I initially said no, but kept the necklace because I had accidentally broken it while attempting to put it on. One month later, I changed my mind. Chris Johnson and I dated for exactly six hours, but broke up after school upon deciding our dads would not approve of our relationship and it would be best if we both saw other people.)

 

Ben Holmes, however, was a part of my daily life throughout middle school. In my imagination, he was my first love, my Adonis, my almost-boyfriend. In reality, the only time he ever spoke to me was when he would hiss please move your head I can’t see the board under his breath. I loved it when he whispered sweet nothings in my ear.

 

Macy Holmes, née Ricketts.

 

My three blissful years of faux romance with Ben Holmes from Pre-Algebra came to an abrupt and tragic end when he left me for another woman while we were playing badminton in eighth-grade gym class. I was shocked that he wanted to be on her team instead of mine. I was obviously the better badminton athlete. I saw the Other Woman smirking at me from across the net. I quickly demanded for Bobby Morgan to be on my team. We won easily. My victory was tasteless as I saw Ben shrug, take the Other Woman’s hand and walk off the court nonchalantly.

I cried a few tears of nostalgia into my pillow that night. The next day I figured I had better find a new née.

 

Finding a New Née

 

There are benefits to being fabulously single. I am in what some consider the prime of their lives (I, however, am saving the prime of my life for when I am very very very old), and I can go on dates with whatever flurry of Joes, Johns or Jameses come my way. So far, none have proved themselves worthy of née.

One day, during a field trip to the National Institutes of Health laboratories my freshman year (13^th grade, mind you, not ninth), a fresh, bright Ph.D. from Alabama informed me of the importance of having a five- year plan. I was alarmed upon hearing this. I don’t even know what I’m going to eat for dinner tonight, and you’re expecting me to have a five-year plan?

 

After pondering this information for some days, I concocted this piece of art:

 

Macy’s Five(ish) Year Plan

 

Summer 2014: Go to Glacier National Park. Do some research. Measure some plants and slide down some snowfields. Sit on the edge of Lake MacDonald with a lemonade, a book and a pedicure. Meet a grizzly bear researcher named Edward and embark on a three-week summer romance (purely intellectual, of course). If no Edward, pass go and collect $200.

 

School Year 2014-2015: Communications department heads will love my blog and demand I expand upon my experiences by drafting a book of essays. In the meantime, I will do my homework and play guitar and flag football and meet more Edwards.

 

Summer 2015: Get an internship at MIT. If no MIT, go home and work at the French restaurant where the dining room tortuously smells of melted butter. Submit my book to publishers. More Edwards. Pass go and collect $200.

 

School Year 2015-2016: More of the same. Collect $$$ and book advances. Begin Rhodes and Goldwater scholarship applications.

 

Summer 2016: Research in a foreign country. Write book. Meet famous people. Meet Juans (Spanish) Pierres (French) and Torin Wallace (ethnicity unsure, but swoon-worthy nonetheless).

 

School Year 2016-2017: Draft second book. Book will be on my experiences abroad the prior summer. General public will rave about the sneak peeks I post online. Graduate. Be a Rhodes scholar.

 

Summer 2017: Grad school at Oxford. Meet Harrisons and Georges galore. Remain fabulously single. Publish second book to raving reviews.

 

The entirety of my five-year plan is optional and transient. I feel it is important to use it as a guideline, but to not rely on certain petty details such as Rhodes or Juan. However, the plan does require me to remain fabulously single for quite some time, lest an unplanned née ruin my plans to travel, or to meet Torin Wallace.

In the meantime, I am perfectly happy with being Macy QuestionMark née Ricketts, a.k.a. Macy Ricketts, a.k.a. me.

 

–mkr