Peter Jaffe Never Kissed Me (Even if I Told My Diary That He Did)

Scribbled in my tattered diary in bright pink glittery ink, in my very 7th grade handwriting on the day labeled (in gold letters) March 7, 1970, are the words "Peter Jaffe kissed me."

Peter Jaffe, in his forest green turtleneck sweater and his straight, smooth hair combed low over his right eye, was not only the very best looking 8th grade boy at Berkeley's Willard Junior High School, he was also the extremely talented concertmaster violinist of the school orchestra. As a lowly 7th grade flautist, I dared not speak to Peter -- but I knew everything about him, from his class schedule, to his favorite lunch food in the school cafeteria, to his home address and bus route number.

I adored and idolized Peter and would run from my third period science class to fourth period orchestra, just so I could hear him warm up, playing lively scales and excerpts from really difficult pieces that he practiced for his roll as concertmaster to the regional youth symphony. Sometimes Peter was asked by our conductor and teacher, Mr. Weyerhauser, to be a guest conductor and on those days I could barely contain my adoration for him, as he would smile (oh, if only it were at me!) as he raised his baton, his entire head of hair flowing, almost in slow motion, from side to side.

Yes, Peter Jaffe was just about as close to perfection as one could be, and even when the end of the year approached and I knew he'd be going on to high school, my crush had not waned. But the next year we moved an hour away and my thoughts slowly moved on to other boys -- boys who I did talk to, and a few of whom eventually did kiss me.

Years later, between college and graduate school, when I worked at a bank near the Stanford campus, I came across the name Peter Jaffe while filing checks, and my heart immediately skipped a beat. Could it be the same Peter? That night I flipped through a friend's Stanford Student Directory and there it was: Peter was a student in the school's music department! The next day, as I was preparing to send monthly statements (which we did by hand then), I scribbled a note to Peter. It began with "You probably don't remember me..." I slipped it into his statement, along with his checks and hoped that he'd read it and come into the bank to finally (finally!) speak to me, if only to say hello.

He never did.

Years passed. I married, had four children and watched them grow up. One day, just two years ago while I was visiting my father, he asked, "Didn't you know a violinist in junior high school named Peter Jaffe?"

"Well, I knew of him. And I had a massive crush on him. But I don't think I ever actually even spoke to him," I finally admitted. "Why?"

"He's coming to town next week, conducting a chamber group," said my father, who volunteers with his town's symphony and music programs. "Would you like me to say hello for you?" he asked as he handed me a long bio on Peter Jaffe who, it turns out, is now the conductor of a city orchestra in California. ("He lives with his wife and twin sons...")

"Yes!" I replied. "And give him this!" I scribbled another note, 20-some years after the first one. "You probably don't remember me..." it began.

My father handed Peter the note during intermission, but I never heard from him.

I have a feeling that as he read both notes, he was thinking, 'Whhhhoooooo? Who is this Carol person?'

Which is just so deeply insulting, considering that, according to my faithful and trustworthy (and fantasy and imagination-laden) diary, he kissed me on March 7, 1970.