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Love Hurts
By Stephanie Kemp (and Nazareth)








One Friday in 1981.
A Junior High School in Michigan

It was the best day of my life after the best week of my life.

I was standing on the risers in Mrs. Brack’s Honors Choir class learning how to sing “Feeling Groovy” in French (“C’est bon la vie”) when I heard two girls talking about Mick C.

He was in love.

With me.

I knew this because the girls were talking about the Friday Night Special from the week before - the night that Mick C asked me to dance to “Lost in Love” by Air Supply and then again (again!) for some “Sailing” with Christopher Cross.

It was the same night that he wore his perfect Levis and brought his perfect smile (including 2 bold incisors) and aimed it all squarely and only at me. I remember this because we were the exact same height and because we couldn’t stop staring at each other, as he latched his hands around my waist and I looped my arms around the back of his neck, making sure I didn’t choke him while feeling grateful I had decided to wear my new belt with the shiny buckle instead of my old one with the horse heads. (I also had 2 bold incisors and wore only Levis.)

“C’est bon la vie” was clearly an understatement.

My sister had secretly arranged the dance for me, because she knew I loved him and because she was his friend. They were in 9th grade, I was in 8th. This arrangement was a big deal, and had to be kept on the down low - that’s why she was whispering to him during “Ring My Bell.” (I knew this because she had to scream her whisper and my cousin overheard everything - telling me immediately so I could race to the bathroom and put on my Bonnie Bell Lip Smacker before the next slow song started. I was grateful I brought the watermelon one.)

I never fell asleep that night but did spend the next week singing, “Think of Laura” in my head, changing it to “Stephanie“ and feeling alternately furious and heartbroken that Christopher Cross made me and Laura die in the end.

Especially because at least one of us was finally getting married.

This is what was running through my whole heart when Mrs. Brack snapped her fingers in front of both of my eyes and asked (again!) if I could “please properly pronounce ‘C’est bon la vie’ for the class.” (I had started studying French in 7th grade, and was very good at pronouncing very simple one syllable words.)

As the rest of the singers worked on their lumpy four (single) syllable (foreign) choral refrain, my mind was already racing ahead, trying to translate:  “Hello lamppost whatcha knowing,” when I saw a note on the floor under Carol B’s chair that had my sister’s handwriting on it.  

It was folded up and addressed “To: Kristana,” her best friend.

I could think of nothing worse than having someone find my sister’s note (unless it was my note) on the floor of a classroom, so I picked it up to give to her after school.  I knew better than to read it, because I was well raised and because the last time I read one of my sister’s notes she punched me. (Or maybe that was me, punching her when she wouldn’t let me wear her Olaf Daughter clogs to Midnight Madness.)

But then I read it………How could I not?  It was obviously about me and Mick C.


I was wrong.


It was about her and Mick C. They had been dating for 3 weeks. The dance was supposed to make me feel better because “no-one liked me” that year and because I hadn’t had my “first real (or any) kiss yet.”  My sister didn’t want me to find out from anyone else, but she didn’t know how to tell me herself. (Plus, she “sort of already liked Scott X, so maybe it would all work out.”)

My sister told Kristana all about this…………..in the letter.

That I found on the floor in honors choir while trying to sing about feeling groovy.


In French.


Through burning cheeks and fire blasted tears, I realized that it’s true what they sing (in any/every language):  

“L’amour fait mal.”  

Especially when there is more than one syllable.

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Ps. This story woke me up at 5:05 am on November 29, 2023 in Los Angeles, California.

I will write about it properly after I find my glasses.

And then I will make my daughters (and/or any other person who has ever been a teenager on the planet Earth) read it, even though it might be a little too late.


Pps. I found my glasses, but think I need to move on....especially because everything worked out in the end. 

(And because my sister gave me her clogs........right before I met the Dans.)