(I know that's not a word, but a female poet is called a "Poetrice," so why can't a female potter be called a potterice? Thus I have decided to invent The Potterice.)

We were in high school in a town that was surrounded by lots of trees and big shuttered houses with too much money inside, winters that were very cold and driveways that were always shoveled. I never really felt a connection to anyone at this point in life except maybe a female friend from church who was quick to remind me that, "Homosexuality is a sin, “ so that was a very short-lived crush. I can tell you that; Not to mention quite the love buzz kill. I never knew what it meant to be in love. I saw the others with boyfriends holding hands at the football game and grinding on each other's legs during the Middle School socials. Heck, I even got in on some of the grinding action, which I now know was the need to feel wanted and not out of feeling happy to have a sweaty seventh-grader grind on your leg. All the girls liked all the boys so much, but I always had to force it. There was never anyone or any feeling that grabbed me by my toes and swung me up and down until butterflies swirled around, and smiling was the only option for a facial expression. I wanted to feel love and know what it was.

It all started in art class. She was older than me, and I was new to how the whole, "fresh-meat-freshman," thing worked. I didn't realize anything at first. Such as the rules of the hallway, how to use the bathroom pass, how to open my locker. That I could be so enamored by another female classmate. When I first started watching her, it was all so innocent and more for observing. Because I wanted to be very good, better than everyone else, and she was the best at making pottery. I would watch her hands glide in and out of the wet clay, trying to understand how she was able to make such beautiful pieces of functionality and purpose. She could make plates, vases, bowls, a lampshade, coasters. Really she could make anything out of clay.

I was invited to sit with her and some of the older girls who were sweet and sincere and didn't mean any harm when they said things. (Which I'm sure you understand is confusing if you grew up with passive and cruel girls who would say a compliment but mean it as an insult. Then they would gang up on you and talk about you behind your back for the next eight years of your teenaged life. Which then would follow you for the rest of your life and cause you much emotional damage. I think I'm projecting again.)

I was quiet at the beginning of those days. Trying to understand myself, the emotions that would spurt up out of nowhere, not having any reason as to why they were there.

"Hey! It's Extra Sensitivity again! I was really bored and just wanted to crash whatever party this was during your fourth-period class to say what's up! And remind you that the tone your math teacher uses is really mean and you should make your eyes water and maybe cry! Ok, that's all for now. Bye!"

The art class turned into my haven, a place and moment of comfort and joy. The girls were always so softhearted. So nurturing. Some were seniors, some juniors. I was the youngest out of all of them. I would listen to their banter and laugh effortlessly at their jokes. They were so smart and witty. We spoke the same sense of humor. Once I felt comfortable, I would comment here, add in a tiny sentence there. The craziest thing is that they listened to me. They wanted to hear what I had to say and thought it was funny. Yes, art class became my favorite part of the day.

All the girls were so kind, yes, but she was different. There was something so different and frightening yet familiar about her all at the same time. I would panic as soon as I heard her voice or saw her sitting there at the table, putting on her apron. A slight redness would make itself known on my chest, something that I soon explained was a "clay allergy." The days blended into weeks, and before I knew what was happening, I would watch her hands covered in the red wetness of the clay, and something began to warm within. It was a feeling I hadn't entirely understood or felt before. Her hands were not just showing me how to make a mug, but they were igniting a fire all over my skin.

"No, no," she would say laughing kindly, as my hands would run amuck within the muck and result in my small bowl flopping inwards until I was left with a large clump that kind of looked more like poop than anything else.

"This is how you do it." She said and sat next to me, almost behind me, sort of like the scene from Ghost, but inside of a worn-down high school art classroom without the music and sexy lighting.

Her hands slowly slid on top of my own as she guided the correct rhythm needed to create a clay masterpiece she had done so many times before. At this moment, I could feel her breaths against the back of my neck and the trueness of her heart beating somewhere near my back. I tried so hard to concentrate and follow her hands, hear her instructions to transform my piece of clay poop into a practical piece of clay art. Yet all I wanted was to bring her hands towards my chest and wrap her arms around me. I wanted to be every piece of clay she'd ever touched, and transform myself into the redness and wetness she handled every class.

"See you are getting the hang of it!" She smiled with pride and returned to her clay station as I sat for the next few minutes staring at the swirling goo in front of me, imagining that it was her heart. And as I handled it with the utmost care, my jumbled lump became a somewhat operative bowl-like mug thing that would fantastically forever symbolize the first time I fell in love.