or an admirer to offer us more ice cream than we could eat in a week.
You’re probably a little surprised to hear me talking about admirers at such a tender age.
Unfortunately, or not, as the case may be, this vice seems to be rampant at our school.
As soon as a boy asks if he can bicycle home with me and we get to talking,
nine times out of ten I can be sure he’ll become enamored on the spot and won’t let me out of his sight for a second.
His ardor eventually cools, especially since I ignore his passionate glances and pedal blithely on my way.
If it gets so bad that they start rambling on about “asking Father’s permission,”
I swerve slightly on my bike, my schoolbag falls, and the young man feels obliged to get off his bike and hand me the bag,
by which time I’ve switched the conversation to another topic. These are the most innocent types.
Of course, there are those who blow you kisses or try to take hold of your arm, but they’re definitely knocking on the wrong door.
I get off my bike and either refuse to make further use of their company
or act as if I’m insulted and tell them in no uncertain terms to go on home without me.
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