If You Were My First Love I'd Never Let You Go
by Victoria Storm
No matter who we are, where we’ve grown up, how hard puberty hit, or how long we thought it was still cool to yell “NOT” at the end of our sentences, love eventually comes for us all. It first came for me, as for many of my teenaged peers, in the basement of that friends house whose parents always let you hang out in the basement.
It’s amazing to me that people still let their children in basements, like they don’t even know that’s where virginity goes to die. But no one’s virginity was at risk that night, I was sixteen and my well-churched friends and I, on a routine Saturday night sleepover, gathered around the TV and popped Never Say Never into the DVD player.
Now, this was senior year, and while my friends were graduating from teen sensations to more mature loves like Usher and Will Smith (actually looking back maybe it was more of a race thing?) I had just fallen off a cliff of the First Real Popstar Obsession. What chance did I have? It was bigger than his hair and his guitar savvy. It was his heart. It was that smile. It was the way I was reduced to tears every time I heard One Less Lonely Girl even if I was in a Kohl’s.
I was printing out pictures of young Justin and taping them inside my locker, spreading the word like gospel. My young mind was utterly convinced if everyone took the same hit I had they’d want to meet back up with me for more crack.
I was the yearbook editor (can you feel those nerd points clicking together?) and March 1 was Justin’s 18th birthday. A huge birthday, we had to celebrate. My comrades and I covered the walls of the yearbook office with black and white photos of Justin from the printer they never should have let us have access to. It was TEEN PARADISE, every depiction we could find of our one true love. I made purple cupcakes (Justin’s color) and wrote JB on all of them, cause if I know anything it’s how to stick to a good theme.
But the morning of March 1, disaster struck. We were locked out of the yearbook office and the only way to get in was to call the Vice Principal. We have officially cemented that my senior year I was America’s Biggest Nerd, and this guy was the kind of Vice Principal that befriended the “troubled” kids to keep them on the straight and narrow and left us nerds out to dry. I was terrified of him. But that day he was my only hope, and as he unlocked the door he looked down and smirked, “JB — are those for Justin Bieber?!” Seventeen-year-old Victoria, eyes wide, knew that he was about to open the door into teen paradise, and I didn’t want to be there to watch it happen. He wiggled open the door, made eye contact with the 563 Justins that lined the walls, and promptly ran out of the room – presumably to call a faculty meeting at my expense.
Like every first love, I was destined to get hurt, and destined to never forget it. On March 26, 2012 I rose early, sitting down at my computer at 6am in a moment I’d been waiting for for weeks. Justin’s newest single Boyfriend had just come out, and when I bought it and played Justin’s reinvented sexy, devil-may-care voice through my headphones, it felt like a new beginning. But this was nothing but the beginning of the end.
2012 was a bad year for Justin. While I was going to college and trying to figure out if it was still acceptable to have a teen pop sensation as your cell phone background, he was breaking up with Selena and beginning a spiral that would end in a DUI arrest the next year. As he got further and further away from the man I knew and loved, I had no choice but to distance myself. I couldn’t let him hurt me anymore, and one spring night in a fit of passion, I finally unfollowed him on twitter.
Even if what we had couldn’t last, you never forget your first love. Justin and I are still friends, and we’ve grown up now, of course we’d make conversation if we saw each other in public. But when I see new girls posting pictures of him, calling him JB and referring to him as their boyfriend, I can’t help but smile. True love is just wanting him to be happy.