Think You Know Embarrassment? Meet Me in High School

How high school me almost got cancelled over an eraser

In high school, I had a crush on Uwase (not her real name—just a name for the story). I liked her for a very simple reason: she smelled nice. Don’t think perfume-nice, think fruit-nice. Like apples and mangoes and something vaguely tropical that I still haven’t figured out—maybe I never will. On top of that, she was the most beautiful girl in our class, which, to my teenage brain, felt like more than enough justification.

The problem was language.

I had gone to a French school in primary, so my English was… meh. Over the holidays, I tried to fix that by binge-watching every Disney cartoon I could find in English. I genuinely thought that would make me fluent, but I was wrong. Also, whether you like it or not, Shrek is way better in French—go argue with a donkey.

One day in class, I needed an eraser. Okay, I didn’t actually need one—I already had one—but I felt brave that day, and it seemed like a perfect excuse to talk to her. Low stakes, or so I thought. A harmless way of shooting my shot. I stood up, walked over with all the confidence a confused teenager could gather, smiled, and asked:

“Can I borrow a rubber?”

She froze.

And gave me a what-did-you-just-say-to-me look.

Her expression shifted from confusion to something close to disgust. She stared at me like I’d just asked a deeply inappropriate question disguised as stationery—less school supplies and more voulez-vous-coucher-avec-moi-ce-soir. Panic set in immediately. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong, but I knew, without a doubt, that it was bad.

So I did the only thing my brain could come up with.

I started miming.

I started rubbing my hands together in the air, miming an eraser on imaginary paper. Aggressively. Desperately. Like someone trying to explain fire to a caveman using only vibes and panic.

She stared for a second longer, then her face softened.

“Ohhh,” she said. “An eraser.”

“Yes!” I said, relieved, even though I had absolutely no idea what an eraser was. I just knew that was the correct answer.

She handed it to me. And of course, I didn’t dare say another word—I’d already done enough damage. I walked back to my seat, heart still racing, then leaned toward my friend Manzi (again, not the real name—just a name for the story) like someone seeking witness protection.

“What’s a rubber?” I whispered.

He looked at me, smirked, and said, “For some people… that’s a condom.”

Everything clicked.

Her face. The freezing. The disgust. The miming. All of it.

I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I didn’t look at her for the rest of the day. Or the week. Or possibly the term.

Later on—years later—we ended up dating. That, however, is another story.