It was the summer before college, I had never been on a date before, and I decided to try out a new, more forward approach. I spent weeks flirting with Brad, which largely consisted of my laughing hard at his monkey impression and his hopping around more vigorously in gratitude. When I strategically mentioned that I do yoga, he asked if I’m “super flexible,” and I said, “Hrrm, no. I would say I have standard levels of flexibility,” which even my mother, who had no interest in getting me laid, thought was a missed opportunity.

Still, there were days at the store when I suspected he was talking to me more than was absolutely necessary, or looking in my direction more than was required for the job. I began to think that perhaps my “flirting” was working.

One day, I brought a stack of jeans back to the stockroom, where I found Brad perched on a ladder, chatting with a few of our other coworkers.

“Hey, Olga,” he said. “Would you go out with me?”

All of my blood rushed to the very center of my mouth. No one I liked had ever asked me out before, and now it was happening, just like Seventeen magazine promised. Granted, I didn’t think it would take this long, but better late than college.

In fact, I thought, maybe this was finally happening because it was that liminal summer before college, when kids were trying on cosmopolitan identities. He was willing to date an immigrant. He was willing to meet my dad and hear all about his Siberian fur rug. He was willing to do that, for me.

I had heard Brad talk about art once. Maybe he would take me to an art museum. I had visions of us riding public transportation and wearing tweed, like city people.

It was important not to seem too excited.

“Sure!” I said, not quite as coolly as I’d hoped.

My life was finally beginning.

I remember a longer-than-normal pause. I remember thinking it was odd that he had chosen to do this in front of so many other people. Then I remember him saying the thing that made my heart plummet through the floor

“I’m just kidding,” he said.

He and everyone else in the stockroom broke into giggles.

I felt like inside me a vacuum seal had broken and the air was rushing in too fast. My skin was expanding, and soon it would burst.

“Okay,” I said. I walked back out to the main floor completely coated in an icy sweat. I took my place behind the register.

Not long after, a female coworker was either sent out to see me by the others or was driven out by her own guilt.

“We were just messing around,” she said.

I had to pretend not to be humiliated.

“Of course,” I answered.

“I hope you don’t take that serious,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Why would I?”