The bug man is awesome. The bug man fucking rules. That’s what I told my friends on the bus ride to our fourth-grade field trip to the zoo.

From the seat behind me, Rachel Robinson warned me to watch my language. And I did, because I loved Rachel and intended one day to marry her. Once we got to the zoo, the teacher took us to the lion, spider monkeys, and grizzly bear. They were great. Everything at the zoo was great. But all the while I kept hyping the bug man. The entire fourth grade buzzed with excitement by the time we entered the dimly lit insect house. The bug man towered above us. He had a bald head and thick-rimmed glasses and a potbelly sagging out of a faded green polo shirt. He happily showed us the ant colony and dung beetle and chrysalis where a caterpillar was transforming into a red lacewing butterfly. The bug man was wise. He taught us that swarms of desert locusts eat 20,000 tons of grain in a single day and how the female black widow spider kills and eats its mate.

I was still riding high from the bug man when I caught up with Rachel outside the tiger enclosure. The cat paced endless circles. Straight away, Rachel told me the bug man was gross. Anyone who loves bugs that much must be a real weirdo. Her favorite zoo animals were rabbits. She dreamed of moving to Australia and running a rabbit farm. She asked how I felt about rabbit farming as a career. The tiger kept pacing. He wasn’t a happy tiger. He was anxious and afraid. He wanted to escape the zoo and return to the wild jungle. I told Rachel I would love to raise rabbits with her in Australia.

It was a good lie, and effective. Rachel’s freckled cheeks flushed red. She allowed me to hold her hand. I would do anything for her—even toil on a rabbit farm—but I would never reveal my hidden truth. It would break her. To win her love, I would bury my secret deep beneath the dark ocean of my heart. I was a bug man, and no amount of love or rabbits could ever change me. A bug man is forever.