I'm sorry, David Cassidy: You became the obsession of my seventh-grade English class

Editor's note: This story was written before David Cassidy's death and published  Monday on NorthJersey.com.

Hopefully, it's not too late to apologize to David Cassidy. Because I do apologize. 

The beloved 1970s "Partridge Family" heartthrob, now in a Florida hospital in critical condition, may never know the abuse I once heaped on him as a smart-alecky seventh-grader. 

More importantly, I apologize to the seventh-grade girl — I'll call her Janice — who suffered collateral damage. To her credit, she gave as good as she got.

Back in the early 1970s — as those of you old enough will recall — David Cassidy was everywhere. His picture alternated, month after month, with Bobby Sherman's, on the cover of 16 Magazine and Tiger Beat. His poster adorned the bedroom walls of teen and pre-teen girls. His singles, like "I Think I Love You," were on every jukebox.

READ MORE:David Cassidy remains in hospital with organ failure

PHOTOS:David Cassidy through the years

But the place where David Cassidy truly dwelt, above all others, was in the fantasy life of Janice.

David Cassidy was her ideal, her obsession, her favorite talking point. David Cassidy was dreamy. David Cassidy was talented. Someday, she was going to meet David Cassidy.

I think I mentioned I was a smart-alecky seventh-grader. To me, this was all icky.

One day, our English teacher asked us to write a short story. We would read them aloud in the next class. The day arrived, and Janice read hers. It was "A Visit from David Cassidy."

"David Cassidy came to our school one day," it began. Or words to that effect.

He is immediately smitten with Janice. He takes her on a dream date. At one point — the only specific detail I remember — he takes her shopping for a "steady" ring at Britt's (a discount store of the period, the equivalent of Kmart).

The pathos of this story is obvious to me, now. But it wasn't then. I just remember thinking, "David Cassidy? Are you kidding?"

The next day, the English teacher had another announcement. The short story exercise had gone so well, she said, that she now wanted us all to write another short story. These, too, would be read aloud.

The next class, I read my own story. It was "The Return of David Cassidy."

"David Cassidy smashed his Ferrari into the side of the gymnasium, but remembered to throw away the whiskey bottle before the police arrived," it began. Or words to that effect.

SCANDAL:Charlie Rose suspended after sexual-misconduct allegations

NOT JUST HOLLYWOOD:Men facing sexual misconduct claims since Weinstein

David Cassidy, in my story, was a loutish, obnoxious, money-hungry jerk. Everybody in the school hates him. Eventually he is lured out into the woods by the entire seventh-grade class, which promises him that a cache of buried money can be found under a particular tree. The story ends with helicopters circling, and the search party declaring him missing, presumed dead.

The next class, Janice was back with a new story, "The Revenge of David Cassidy." 

In it, David Cassidy is dishy, dreamy, adorable. I was the jerk.

And now, everyone in the class got into the act. David Cassidy stories were all anybody wanted to write. In some, David Cassidy was the hero. In others, the villain. In some, I appeared. In some, Janice appeared.

As the weeks went on, the stories got more and more fanciful: David Cassidy on the Moon, David Cassidy Private Eye. David Cassidy, it turned out, had unlocked some deep vein of creativity in the entire seventh-grade creative writing class. He was an English teacher's dream. It must have been a month and a half before the cycle petered out.

Shortly before the end of the school year, the teacher asked to collect our David Cassidy stories.

"Why?" we wanted to know. We assumed she was going to burn them, before libel lawyers got wind.

"I'm going to put them in a package," she said. "And I'm going to send them to David Cassidy."

Years later, after I had become a reporter, I had a chance to interview David Cassidy. 

After asking all the usual questions about "The Partridge Family," about his stepmother, Shirley Jones, about the pleasures and perils of fame, I finally got the nerve to ask the question that was most important to me.

"Do you remember," I asked him, "ever getting a package of stories from a seventh-grade class, around 1972? A package of stories about you?"

He did not. 

And really, that's probably for the best.