Something changed partway through third grade. It became acceptable, even desirable, to hang around with boys. Not that I hadn't always had crushes. In first grade I tried to kiss a boy named Robbie, who cruelly rebuffed my advances (he ran away). In second grade, I was inexplicably fascinated by a boy named Tom, who talked in a raspy voice and beat all the other kids at kickball. But in third grade there was Zach. Little, sarcastic Zach, with his freckles and his sandy-blond hair. I had never seen his kind of attitude before, and was fascinated by it. Needless to say, this would not be the last time I dated a smart-ass.

Zach and I shared a passion for baseball cards. This was back when I watched baseball regularly, back when movies like The Natural and Tigertown were the epitome of cool for me. More than anything, I wanted to be a baseball star and make a triumphant slow-motion run around the bases with the lights flickering and shooting out sparks over my head. This scene, which I played over and over in my head, would be my all-consuming sports fantasy (at least until I saw Chariots of Fire and decided to become an Olympic runner). Somewhere through the years my interest in baseball waned, probably because I realized that girls weren't allowed to play major league ball. But third grade was a purer age, when gender was just another physical characteristic—like having red hair—and didn't make or break your dreams.

So I collected cards and brought them in to trade with Zach, who sat in front of me in class. Zach only collected cards that were in "mint" condition, and he showed me how an unsatisfactory card could be pressed flat inside a heavy book. This was a kind of alchemy he'd learned from his big brother, and allegedly, it transformed a creased card into a mint one. Of course, we'd had the wool pulled over our eyes a bit on this point. But it didn't really matter. As long as we thought the cards were worth something, we were having fun.

When we weren't talking baseball stats, Zach and I were talking about our favorite television show, The Dukes of Hazzard. Zach was going to buy the General Lee, and I was going to get a Jeep, and we would drive around all day running ramps and laughing while Cooter tried to catch us. It would be a blast. And so we hashed out our plans every day before school started, with him turned around in his chair and leaning on my desk. Sometimes we sang the opening song, until the other kids told us to shut up:

"Making their way the only way they know how, That's just a little bit more than the law would allow."

I'm not sure when this buddy situation turned into him being my boyfriend. This was before girls and boys parsed each other's words like miniature linguists, examining each phrase under a variety of lights and conditions, trying to divine the truth hidden within. There was no strategizing in third grade, no self-consciousness, no sweaty palms leading up to an agonizing question that meant the difference between life and death. It probably happened some lazy afternoon while cutting construction paper in art class. We were probably passing the glue back and forth, and simply decided to become boyfriend and girlfriend, the same way we decided to eat the lasagna on our lunch tray rather than the creamed corn.

I remember some of the girls looking at us with envy. Zach was pretty cute, after all. But honestly, how could they compete? I had it all: the brains, the understated good looks, the magic bracelets that were actually rubber bands. Most importantly, Zach and I actually had stuff to talk about. I figured the other girls—with their Barbie dolls and their EZ Bake ovens—could just eat their hearts out.

Our relationship didn't change much after he became my boyfriend. We still talked about baseball and Mama's Family and the antics of Bo and Luke Duke. I do remember once though, on a class outing to the roller rink, when Zach and I held hands. We were stumbling around the rink together, doing our best to avoid the obnoxious older kids, who were always skating backwards or squatting down with one long leg jutting out in front like crumpled storks—practicing for the limbo competition. When we played the four corners game, Zach and I went to the same corner until we were both ousted by more experienced players. And when it was time for the couples skate, we wobbled around together some more, giggling and making fun of the other couples for as long as the song lasted. In third grade, this was true love.

I wrote about Zach in my diary, which meant he was at least as important to me as The Goonies and Star Wars, my other favorite topics. But that summer when my family moved, I never quite got around to telling him.

Sorry, Zach, wherever you are. We'll always have third grade.