A Story from the Stage

a high school couple claiming to be "just friends"

Feb 24, 2025

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A Story from the Stage

It was another Evening of Music, Poetry, and Hope.

Matt Doering was to my left and I was to his right.

This was our first show of the year but probably close to our 40th show together.

The show started the way they always do.

Matt opened with a song, a melody reminding us to, “Slow down and look around.”

When it was my turn, I stepped to the mic. Just as I was telling the audience that the two sweetest words are "Welcome home," they caught my eye.

Tanner Olson (hi! that’s me!) on the left / Matt Doering on the right

They sat to the right of the stage, ten rows back or so. A few friends to their left, more to the right, settling somewhere in the middle.

If I had to guess, juniors in high school. He rocked the hairstyle most high school boys have these days. You’ve seen it. You’ve questioned it. It looks a little like a disheveled mop—but one that has been carefully maintained. Every other minute, he shakes his head and runs his hand through the mop to make sure it stays looking like a well-maintained mess.

She sat to his left, arms gently crossed, wearing an oversized hoodie. He whispered to her through the entire show. Every time I looked in their direction, he was talking to her.

I wasn’t angry. Years ago, I might have been, but not anymore. You can’t make people listen to you when you perform.

I was actually cheering for them. I wanted him to keep talking to her.

Every time I saw him lean in her direction, I hoped he wasn’t saying something dumb—but he’s a high school boy, and as a former high school boy, I know the chances of not saying something dumb are pretty low.

I hoped he was making a joke or pointing out something odd about the poet on stage.

“Do you think he uses his hands too much while he reads his poetry?” It’s true. I do.

“This guy sure talks a lot about dogs.” Also true. I mention dogs in at least three different poems.

“Do you think he’s wearing a hat because his hair is falling out?” I thought I was hiding it better.

When the show started, they were sitting at least six inches apart, but as it went on, they slowly moved closer.

This seems to happen as the show progresses. The music, poetry, and stories disarm whatever preconceived notions people carried through the doors. Everyone settles in, slows down, and lets go of wishing they were somewhere else. At least, I hope.

The show was nearing its end when I noticed her arms weren’t crossed anymore.

The high school boy was now only touching his hair every three minutes.

They grow up so fast, I thought to myself.

He continued to lean into her space, whispering with a hopeful smile.

She was making that face that says "stop," but also "please don’t."

Do you remember flirting in high school? What a rush. It was like falling down a mountain, thinking it was a slide.

When I was a sophomore in high school I fell head over heels for a girl in my 2nd period English class. We passed notes to each other and sent text messages on our Razr flip phones that said things like, “Hope u have a g8 nite :]” and “Ur gonna be on my MySpace top 8 4ever <3.” I’d walk her to class and she would wait for me at my locker. Once, while walking down the hallway, our hands brushed and I could have died.

For her 16th birthday, I wrote her a poem and asked her on a date. She said yes. Then she said no.

As it turns out, she met some guy named Chad. He had a car, and his parents had lots of money. That was that. And that is probably something I need to process with a therapist.

After the show, they came up to the merch table and told me how much they enjoyed the poems. I thanked them for coming and asked how long they’d been dating.

They immediately turned red and quickly stepped away from each other.

“Oh, we aren’t dating. No, no,” she said, her tone guilty.

“Yeah, yeah, we are, umm, just friends,” he said, matching her defense, shaking his head as he straightened the mop on his head.

“I believe you,” I said, knowing all of us were telling lies.

He quickly tried to change the subject, picking up a book.

“I think I’ll get this one,” he said, running his hand through his hair once again.

“Great!” I said.

“Will you sign it?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

I grabbed my Sharpie and, in big, bold letters, wrote: