The Right Kind of Boy for a Good Girl

On Teenage Rebellion, Raisin-Free Chocolate, and Fifteen Years of Illusion

Photo by Jessica Mandel on Unsplash

“A good girl chooses a good boy.”

Aunty Ren, Grandpa’s second wife, loved dropping that line. Usually, it came with a heavy, knowing wink. Sometimes, she’d launch into the love story of her daughter, Lyuba. Lyuba was always polite, proper, and modest, so naturally, she made a brilliant match — marrying a man just as decent, hardworking, and kind as she was.

I was at that age where hints and life lessons just bounced off me. My teenage rebellion, though, was wound up and running on pure octane. I’d just snort, laugh off her lectures, and sprint out the door to lose myself in a noisy pack of local kids.

Find myself a good boy? Sounds questionable. But fine, whatever — maybe I’d look into it someday.

Objectively, I had nothing against good boys. They made great desk partners. They were reliable for group projects, and they walked you home after class. Especially when it got dark — because a good boy always sees you right to your front door. It’s just what they do. Talking to them was easy, pleasant, safe. Peaceful, even.

And incredibly boring.

I was supposed to find a good one, but my eyes kept drifting to the bad boys. The ones smoking behind the school, jumping off roofs, and tearing down the street like maniacs on bikes and motorcycles. They swore loudly, made crude jokes, and gripped your wrist tight so you couldn’t run away.

(Writing this at thirty-plus feels strange, even a bit embarrassing. But let’s be honest — at that age, that’s exactly who I wanted.)

Back in the ninth grade, I managed to book two dates in a single weekend.

The first was the son of my mom’s friend. No joke, literally. He was a few years older, already out of school. We took a slow stroll down the park paths. He timidly asked if he could hold my hand. He was incredibly attentive, gentle, and considerate.

That exact evening, I told him not to call or text me anymore. When he asked why, the best excuse I could come up with was: “You gave me chocolate with raisins, and I hate raisins!”

It’s embarrassing to look back on. Painful, too, to admit that it would take me years to finally learn how to look someone in the eye and tell them the truth.

Date number two was a guy my age from social media. Skinny, wearing baggy pants, with tattoos covering his forearms and mirrored sunglasses. Looking at them, I could see my reflection perfectly: the typical good girl in a modest, light-colored dress.

“Let’s hit the stadium and hang out,” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he bolted toward the bus stop just as a minibus pulled up to grab passengers. I chased right after him without a second thought.

It felt wild and bizarre, sitting at the back of an empty stadium surrounded by a bunch of questionably sober strangers. Nobody bought me chocolate, and nobody asked permission to hold my hand. Yet, for some reason, every time he brushed against me, my heart did backflips.

I went out with him all summer. And I discovered corners of my hometown I never even knew existed.

“A good girl chooses a good boy.”

I’d snap back at Aunty Ren, telling her I wasn’t planning on getting married anytime soon. I wasn’t choosing anyone for keeps; I was just hanging out with the guys I liked. If it got boring, I’d find someone else. No strings attached. No marriage lectures needed, thanks.

“Well, say what you want, but Mykyta is a good boy,” Aunty Ren wouldn’t back down. She drove me crazy with that signature, conspiratorial wink of hers.

Leave me alone. I was fifteen. And Mykyta from next door was dull and bland, like a sugarless compote. He followed me around like a loyal dog, just breathing heavily in silence. Who would ever go on a date with a guy like that?

“Hey, are you Mykyta’s girl?”

A tanned stranger on a motorcycle pulled up right in front of me at the bus stop. God knows why. First, he asked for directions, and now, look at that, he’s dragging Mykyta into it.

“We’re neighbors. Just friends.”

“Well, he says you’re his girl.”

I froze, stunned by the sheer nerve of it, and then pure rage boiled up. A whirlwind ripped through me, rattling my bones. I had to clench my fists and grit my teeth. Tellingly, I wasn’t mad at the stranger and his nosy questions. I was furious at Mykyta — the good boy who had attached himself to me way too tightly.

Fat chance. I choose whoever I want.

“So you’re not his girl?” the biker pressed, watching my clenched fists with amusement.

“No!” I snapped. “I told you, we’re just neighbors!”

“Guess I’ll come by tonight then. Watch out for me.”

“Look at Mr. Confident. What if I don’t even come out?”

He flashed that classic, wolfish bad-boy smirk, and my stupid heart did a sudden backflip.

“I’ll honk until you do.”

Aunty Ren eventually divorced Grandpa, so in the end, I never had to justify choosing the bad guy. I hadn’t even meant to choose anyone. Things just spun out of control, picked up speed, and somehow rolled all the way into marriage.

But he wasn’t really that bad, if I thought about it. He tried hard to be gentle and caring. He knew I hated raisins. He knew how to make me laugh. Bold and strong as a lion, he taught me to swim well, run fast, and fight. He even taught me how to ride a motorcycle.

Aunty Ren would have been horrified. Her good girl Lyuba probably never even sat on a motorcycle.

It’s a shame I brushed off her advice so carelessly. Especially the part about how bad boys don’t exactly make reliable life partners. In fact, they rarely do. Only if you get incredibly lucky.

I didn’t get lucky.

We split up after fifteen years together — years that left me completely drained and empty. There were long stretches of months where I couldn’t even pick up a book. A whole decade passed without me writing a single line of prose or verse. There were only rare, fleeting days when I still managed to fool myself into thinking I was happy.

“A good girl chooses a good boy.”

It took me so many years to actually understand that advice. The number of scars and bruises from my own mistakes is countless. But I finally learned the lesson.

Aunty Ren, look at me now. I`ve made my choice.

He wakes up quietly, like the sun slipping over the horizon. He catches my gaze through half-closed, sleepy eyes and smiles like it’s the happiest morning of his life. Those cornflower-blue eyes of his will always make my heart skip a beat.

He doesn’t ride a motorcycle, look for shady corners of the city, toss cigarette butts on the ground, or have tattoos. He likes sketching with pencils, lying flat on his back in the grass, or drinking thick hot chocolate. I never have to ask him to loosen his grip or beg him to listen, or stop shouting. He knows what I need before I even do.

Right now, as I finish writing this piece on the living room couch, he quietly switches on the lamp above my head. I hadn’t even realized how strained my eyes were, typing away on a dark keyboard in the twilight.

My first marriage brought too many scars and gray hairs. Did Aunty Ren see it coming when she tried to graft a little wisdom onto me? I could have learned to love raisins. I could have broken the silence with quiet Mykyta.

But every choice I made, every mistake I stumbled into, eventually led me straight to Him. So really, I don’t regret a thing.