falling in love with jesus and nancy reagan

“Cottage cheese?”

“Yes.”

“Eww!”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yes, that is disgusting,” Mrs. Krause assured us. “But that, unfortunately, is one of the possible outcomes of sexual intercourse.”

Mrs. Krause had just informed us of a lesser-known consequence of sex – vaginal discharge that resembled cottage cheese. She had gone through the gruesome symptoms of sexually transmitted diseases: boils and oozing sores, burning and itching, creepy crawlies clinging to our pubic hair. We listened with mild interest, doodling in our notebooks and yawning off sleep.

Cottage cheese, however, was something half of my class ate every day for breakfast. It was a food product that we actually consumed. To associate a sexual side effect with a beloved breakfast food was just wrong. Was she trying to scare us off of sex or dairy products?

Mrs. Krause was our religion teacher. She was filling in for our health teacher, Nurse Ruby, who was out with the flu. Mrs. Krause seized this opportunity, holding us hostage and terrorizing us with her tales of possible genital woes.

Rumor had it that Mrs. Krause had once been a nun who hadn’t been able to keep her libido tucked neatly under her habit. She wore long, shapeless skirts that blended into the gray walls. Her blouses were loose and buttoned right up to her neck. Her lips were puckered as if she were holding pins between them, ready to sew scarlet letters onto our uniform sweaters.

“That’s right, girls. Sometimes you can get an infection from sex. And that infection will produce thick, chunky discharge, much like cottage cheese, that will be present in your underpants and all over your genitals.”

Our faces curled as if we were smelling spoiled milk. Mrs. Krause spread her legs and bent her knees, looking down and pointing at her own nether regions.

“Your genitals will become swollen and red. A burning itch will consume you. The only way to sooth the terrible itch is to take a bath in oatmeal.”

Great. That made two breakfast foods I would never eat again.

“You know how it is, girls. You’re alone in the basement with your boyfriend. You’re on the couch. It’s dark. Your eyes are closed.”

At this point, Mrs. Krause closed her eyes and traveled to her own basement memories. She swayed back and forth to some imaginary rhythm. The class perked up, leaning over desktops to see what would happen next.

“Things get hot and heavy. Your shirt’s still on, but your bra’s long gone. His hands are creeping up your stomach towards your….”

We all sucked in our breath, looking wordlessly at one another as Mrs. Krause began to pump her pelvis back and forth, hands traveling up her blouse. Her face flushed crimson as a sweat moustache appeared on her upper lip.

“Your privates start to tingle. Your mind is saying no, but your body is shouting yes!”

“Oh, baby. Yes!” Someone moaned from the back of the classroom.

We all snickered and giggled, and Mrs. Krause’s sexual spell was broken. Her eyes shot open. She looked the way I felt in those dreams where you’re giving a speech in front of your class, and you suddenly realize you’re naked.

“Enough, girls! This is not a laughing matter. This is your future we’re talking about here. One lustful night can ruin it all. Do you want your genitals to look like cottage cheese?”

“No, Mrs. Krause,” we responded solemnly.

“Remember what Nancy Reagan said, girls. Just say no!”

“Um, Mrs. Krause?”

“Yes, Jeannie. What is it?”

“Wasn’t she talking about drugs when she said that?”

“Nancy Reagan was referring to whatever is immoral, whatever will crush your soul.”

“I don’t remember her mentioning my soul.”

“Well, it was inferred. So when you are in that dark basement, when your body is begging you to give in to temptation, ask yourself – what would Jesus do?”

“Why would Jesus be in the basement with my boyfriend?”
Before Mrs. Krause’s neck veins could explode, the bell rang and we quickly got up and headed for the door.

“Girls. You are not alone on that couch. Jesus and Nancy Reagan are sitting beside you. Cottage cheese, girls. Remember!”

We filed out of class, one by one. In that instant, the entire class took a silent vow to abstain – from cottage cheese – forever.

“What does it feel like when a guy comes inside of you?’” Nurse Ruby read off of the slip of paper in her hand.

We fidgeted in our seats, desperate for the answer but not wanting to seem too interested. Now that Nurse Ruby was back, we returned to our regular routine. Health class always began this way. Nurse Ruby had each of us write an anonymous question about health or sex (the questions were always about sex), on a piece of paper and drop it in the question box. She would then answer a few questions honestly and openly. It was the best ten minutes of every day.

“Well, let me see. It doesn’t hurt or burn. A little squishy, maybe. Very quick, like a squirt. Warm and wet. I hope that answers it for you.”

Nurse Ruby was the mother we all wished for. She was patient and calm, never shocked or repulsed by our questions. She responded to each question as if she were simply telling us the time. Our own mothers would have dragged us to confession by the hair, showering us in holy water and demanding the demons be gone from our damned souls.

Most of our questions dealt with sex and how not to get pregnant. Would douching with Coca Cola after sex prevent pregnancy? (No.) Could you get pregnant if you jumped up and down after sex? (Yes.) Were you still a virgin if you had sex while on your period, and could you get pregnant while you had your period? (No, and yes.)

Nurse Ruby showed us our first actual illustration of a penis as if it were the periodic table. I had seen my fair share of penises – after all, I had a brother and three years worth of professional babysitting and diaper changing. But those were itty-bitty penises. These illustrations were of full-grown men, with wiry hair and bulging veins. It was like the difference between a Chihuahua and a Great Dane.

Nervous giggles sizzled through the room like electricity. Some girls covered their eyes while others strained to memorize every detail.

“That’s it?”

“It’s not what I expected.”

“It’s so ugly.”

“That thing’s not getting inside of me.”

“I thought it would be bigger.”

“The good ones are.”

“It’s not the size of the wave. It’s the motion of the ocean.”

“Ladies, calm down,” Nurse Ruby interjected. “The size of a man’s penis is no more important than the size of your breasts. It’s what a man does with his penis that matters.”

I had never been so confused. What did she mean? What was a man supposed to “do” with his penis? I thought it was simple, like those illustrations that showed how to put a model airplane together. Put Peg A into Slot 1. What else was Peg A supposed to do? Flip burgers? Change a light bulb? Shovel snow? How many different ways were there for Peg A to get into Slot 1 anyway?

“What’s the matter with you?” Mom asked when I dragged into the house that afternoon.

“Nothing,” I responded on my way to my room.

I had barely been able to look at Mom, or Dad, after what I had heard. It was horrible. I didn’t know if I could look either of them in the eye ever again.

One night a few weeks before, I had woken up, needing a drink of water. Just as I was about to get out of bed, I heard Dad groan the way he did when his back went out. I wondered if he would need the heating pad, which was buried under my bed. As I was searching for the heating pad, I heard Mom and Dad’s bed creak like Erin was bouncing on it. I froze, feeling my blood run cold throughout my body. Every hair on my head stood on end. The creaking became more insistent and Dad’s grunting became louder. And then, I heard it.

“Oh, John. It feels so good!”

Mom only ever sounded like that when she was eating cheesecake. I doubted she was eating cheesecake while Dad was jumping up and down on the bed.
Mom continued to moan as Dad grunted like he was pushing a Cadillac up a hill. I wished I could pound myself in the head with a hammer to cause amnesia, or pour acid into my ears so I wouldn’t hear those horrible noises anymore. I burrowed under my blankets and pinned two pillows over my head, humming the Star Spangled Banner to drown out the sounds.

I knew my parents had sex. Of course they had had sex – they had three children. But, up until that moment, I had honestly assumed that they had only had sex three times! I mean, they didn’t ever hug or hold hands. Dad didn’t even call Mom by name. He whistled at her whenever he needed to get her attention. I wasn’t naïve. I knew other parents had sex. My friends had told me stories about walking in on their parents, or finding secret books and tapes stashed under mattresses. But my own parents? Why did they have to have sex?

Coming home from school that day, I was still traumatized by knowing, and hearing, about my parents’ sex life. There was no way I could ask Mom the questions I had brewing in my head after Health class. She would automatically assume I had asked so I could put the answers to practice. No, that wouldn’t do. There was only one solution – I had to slip my question into Nurse Ruby’s question box.

I wrote and rewrote my question that night, trying to disguise my handwriting so Nurse Ruby wouldn’t know the question had come from me. I constructed big, fat letters with hearts over the i’s, unrecognizable from my usually neat and restrained penmanship. There was no way Nurse Ruby could identify the author of the note now.

The next day, I raced into Health class before any of the other students arrived. I placed my note on top of the others in the question box and ran to my seat. As the other students took their seats around me, I tried to slow my breathing and calm my pounding heart.

“Morning, girls,” Nurse Ruby smiled.

“Morning, Nurse Ruby,” the class responded. I moved my lips, but no sounds came out. My mouth was a parched desert.

“Let’s see what the question box has for us this morning.”

Nurse Ruby reached her hand into the box and pulled out a note – my note! I could tell it was mine: I could see the purple ink through the white paper. (I had used one of Erin’s purple pens to further cloak my identity.) My heart pulsated in my ears so loudly I was afraid I wouldn’t hear the answer to my question.

Nurse Ruby smiled as she unfolded my note. As she read my question, however, her face rearranged itself into a question mark. Creases folded over her forehead. Her nose wiggled like a rabbit’s. Her lower lip worked itself up and down as she scanned the question again and again.
Nurse Ruby flipped my purple-scripted paper over, staring at its blank back. She searched the classroom with her worried eyes, and then studied the question once again.

“What’s it say?” someone asked.

“Just read it. We can take it.”

“Yeah, we wanna know.”

I squeezed my hands together and sent up a fervent prayer: please God, don’t let her read my question out loud. Please send a 40-day flood or a plague of locusts or even a good old-fashioned fire drill, but don’t let Nurse Ruby read my question out loud!

“I’m sorry, girls. I’m just not understanding this question. I’m trying to think of a proper response, but I don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe we can help.”

“Yeah, we can figure it out.”

“Just read the question!”

“All right, here goes.”

Nurse Ruby’s usually composed manner was crumbling somewhat. It was clear that I was an even bigger freak than I had feared.

“The question is: ‘what does a penis do?’”

“Like, what is its profession?” a girl asked.

“It gets you pregnant.”

“Gives you herpes.”

“Keeps you up all night.”

A wave of laughter rippled across the classroom. My own manic giggles swelled up and overpowered the voices around me. My cackles were louder and lasted longer than that of the girls around me. I had joined in so as not to be suspected as the author of the note, but now my uncontrollable outburst was drawing unwanted attention to me.

“Oh, that’s funny!” I gasped, tears pooling in my eyes. “What does it do? Who wrote that? Come on, ‘fess up!” I chuckled as the others’ laughter subsided.

“All right, Noreen. Settle down. We don’t want to embarrass whoever wrote the note. I would just ask that the girl who wrote it rethink the question and submit it again. Next question.”
I exhaled a mouthful of air, and my heart settled back into my chest. My relief at not having been found out was quickly replaced once again by my confusion over a penis’ capabilities. I decided that the question box was too risky to try again. I would just have to live with not knowing.

School wasn’t all about sex ed. I learned that cramps could get you out of Algebra and onto a cot with a hot water bottle and a mid-morning nap. Mr. Guerrero, our Spanish teacher, could be talked out of a quiz if asked questions about his family home in Spain. Cool Ranch Doritos on a Kaiser roll was the cheapest, and tastiest, meal in the cafeteria. Walking on the wrong side of the stairs would get you punched in the shoulder by a jaded upperclassman. Punching a jaded upperclassman in the gut after she punched you in the shoulder would get you both detention.
I made another discovery that I did not think was safe to share with anyone: I was absolutely, head over heels, running through a field of wild flowers in love - with high school. I cherished every several-hundred-page textbook that I lugged around each day. I daydreamed about the symbolism in The Great Gatsby the way other girls pictured their prom dresses. I loved cramming for exams on the bus and reading late into the night, knowing I would be exhausted in the morning from having done so much homework. I shined the pennies in my loafers and proudly wore my nametag. I was, in fact, a closeted nerd. And nothing could have made me happier.

Nothing, that is, except for having a boyfriend. For the first time in my life, I felt like a normal girl. I had a boyfriend who kissed me on the lips, with tongue, and it wasn’t on a dare. I had someone who actually thought I was pretty. All of the other girls seemed so Barbie doll perfect, with porcelain skin and lipstick that never seemed to smudge. I had seen girls reduced to puddles over a single little pimple visible only through the lens of a NASA telescope. What must they think of my toad-like complexion?

Making friends with girls had always been difficult for me. Boys were easy – I knew how to throw a baseball, catch a football and climb a tree. I might come home bruised and scraped after a day of roughhousing with the boys, but girls could gut you with their razor sharp tongues. I knew what I looked like, and no amount of eyeliner or blush could hide it. So, I looked for our common ground and stood firmly on it.

When meeting a girl for the first time, I brought up Steve almost immediately to seem (and feel) normal. I practically introduced myself by saying: “Hi, I’m Noreen-I-have-a-boyfriend-he’s-the-greatest.” Or, if a girl were talking about a movie she had just seen, I’d add, “Oh, my boyfriend Steve wants to see that.” A girl eating a slice of pizza would prompt me to say, “My boyfriend Steve just loves pizza. It’s his favorite food in the world.”

I felt like a fraud. I had become one of those girls, the ones I had always despised, the ones who only talked about their boyfriends. But surprisingly, it seemed to work. I rolled my eyes with the other girls who complained about their boyfriends’ disgusting habits and annoying taste in music. I could go on double dates, and rest my head on someone’s shoulder in a darkened movie theater. Slowly but surely, I settled into my pockmarked skin and walked a little taller in my penny loafers.

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beware of cherry poppers

We met on the corner – a permed and penny-loafered street gang. Khaki skirts hung uniformly to our knees. Brand new pennies shone in our loafers. Navy socks reached right up to our kneecaps. Powder-blue button down shirts were tucked dutifully into our skirts. Pressed blazers proudly displayed our school’s crest. We were ready for our first day of high school.

“Say cheese!” Tara’s mom demanded.

“Mom!” Tara grumbled, disgruntled that hers was the only mom to insist on showing up and snapping photos. The rest of us grunted along with her.

We shook out our hair and applied last-second lip-gloss. Insisting on tough girl poses, we scrunched up our faces and pumped our fists at the camera.

“Girls, please. At least one where you look like ladies.”

We complied, giving Tara’s mom one shot where we didn’t look like wayward Catholic school delinquents. Satisfied with the shot, Tara’s mom tucked her camera into her purse and headed over to the five of us.

“You girls, sit together on the front of the bus near the driver. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your legs crossed on the bus.”

“Why do we have to keep our legs crossed?” Kris challenged.

“So no one can see, that’s why. Behave like ladies, and you’ll be treated like ladies. Keep your purses on your laps. You know how those public school kids are. If anyone bothers you, just call the police. 911!”

“Mom! We know the number to the police. We’ll be fine,” Tara insisted.

“Do you want me to drive you? Maybe I should just drive you. Let me get the car….”

“No! We’re going now. Good-bye.”

“Okay,” Tara’s mom relented. “I guess it’s all right. I’m so proud of you girls!”

Tara’s mom squeezed us to her oversized bosom and suffocated us. She then made adjustments to our uniforms – tucking in Jackie’s shirt and straightening Melissa’s skirt.

“We’re going to miss the bus,” I warned, not wanting to be late on the very first day.

“Okay. Be good. Be careful. Remember everything I said. 911!”

We waved good-bye and made our way towards the bus station.

“No offense, but your mom’s a little nuts,” Kris said.

“I know. She thinks we’re all going to be raped or killed on the first day,” Tara said.

“I’d rather be killed than raped,” Jackie admitted.

“What?” Melissa asked.

“Yeah. I couldn’t live with that. Knowing someone stole my virginity. I’d rather be dead,” Jackie explained.

“Not me. I’d rather be raped. At least then you get it out of the way, and it’s not even your fault,” Kris reasoned.

“You’re sick,” Jackie said, looking disgusted.

“No, I’m not. If you do have sex before you get married, then you’re a slut. But if you get raped, it’s not your fault. So you’re not a virgin anymore, and you can start having sex for real whenever you want to. But no one can judge you, cause you got raped. Besides, once you start having sex you have to keep doing it. It’s just natural.” Kris explained.

“Who told you that?” I asked.

“My sister. She’s been having sex for years,” Kris said.

“Yeah, but your sister’s a slut,” Melissa added.

“True. But that means she knows what she’s talking about,” Kris reasoned.

“Rape and sex are not the same thing,” Jackie admonished. “So if you have sex after you get
raped, before you get married, you’re still a slut.”

“You are such a prude!”

“Can we change the subject?” Tara suggested.

“Sure. Whatever. Jackie started it anyway.” Kris shrugged.

“Did not!” Jackie defended.

“Yeah you did. Miss ‘I’d rather be dead than raped’.”

“Let’s just forget it. Okay?” Tara looked about nervously. Her mother’s paranoia must have sunk in somewhat.

“Fine. Forgotten. Next subject.” Kris offered.

The truth was, we were all a little nervous. We had lived in Hoboken our entire lives. We knew the cracks in all of the streets and the kids in each school. Mothers were perched in windows watching our every move. If we committed any kind of sin, it was reported back to our mothers before we even got home.

This was our first time out of Hoboken without the supervision of parents. Our high school was in Jersey City, a dangerous bus ride away. In reality, Hoboken had more than its share of drugs and gangs and perverts. I had come home on several occasions bloodied and beaten from street fights, but at least I had always known the kids who had kicked my ass. Getting a black eye and a fat lip from a stranger seemed entirely more ominous.

“What do you think it’ll be like?” Tara ventured.

“I heard all of the seniors drive Jaguars,’ I offered.

When Mom and I had attended the open house the previous year, we were both intimidated by the mothers in fur coats and their daughters wearing diamond earrings. I had said a prayer of gratitude for our uniforms. My Sears wardrobe could never compete with their designer duds.

“I heard the public school kids will shoot at us if we get too close to their campus,” Jackie nodded solemnly.

“That’s bullshit!” Melissa shot back.

“I heard the nuns check to see if you’re a virgin,” Kris cackled.

“What?”

“How?”

“You know, with their fingers. To see if you still have your cherry,” Kris explained.

“That’s sick!”

“I don’t get it. How do they know if you still have your cherry?”
“If you bleed when they stick their fingers up you, then they know you’re a virgin. If not, then you’re a slut,” Kris said.

A barbed knot of terror sat in my chest. I knew, for a fact, that I had already popped my cherry.
And it had had nothing to do with a boy.

I was riding Tony’s ten-speed up a steep hill, straining with the effort. My foot slipped off the pedal and I landed hard on the metal bar between my legs. A searing heat traveled from between my legs right up to my eyeballs. In that instant, I was certain that my spleen, or some other mysterious organ, had been dislodged.

Once I could finally move again, I walked the bike back to Tony as if I were straddling an elephant.

“What the hell happened to you?” he snorted.

I ignored him and wobbled on home. A throbbing wetness had settled in between my legs. I hobbled past Mom and into the bathroom, where I carefully lowered my pants and discovered that I was indeed dying.

“Mom!” I wiggled out of the bathroom with my pants still around my ankles. “I think I broke something inside. Look!”

I pointed to the bright red evidence on my underwear.

“Noreen! What is wrong with you? Pull up your pants! It’s just your period,” Mom chastised as I pulled my pants back up.

“It is not my period! I hurt myself,” I said, highly insulted. At 13, I had already had my period for a full four months. I knew what that looked like. This wasn’t it.

I explained the accident as quickly as I could, not sure when I would slip into unconsciousness from the blood loss. Mom listened silently to my story, then flipped through her phone book.

“What are you doing? Who are you calling? Don’t tell anyone!” I shouted as Mom picked up the phone.

Much to my horror, Mom explained the situation to some stranger on the other end of the phone. I wasn’t sure if I would die from blood loss or embarrassment.

Mom hung up the phone and grabbed her purse.

“Let’s go. The doctor said you can come in now.”

“Am I gonna die?”

“No, you’re not gonna die.”

“Then, I don’t think I really need to go. See? I feel better already,” I tried to convince Mom by tenderly walking across the kitchen.

“Come on. She just wants to check you.”

“She? Dr. Amato is not a ‘she’.”

“We’re not seeing Dr. Amato. We’re seeing Dr. Alice.”

“Who’s Dr. Alice?”

“My gynecologist.”

“Why do I need a gynecologist? I’m not having a baby!”

My voice mimicked the hysteria of a hyena. I never should have told my mother what had happened. I should have gone straight to bed, pulled the covers over my head and died quietly in my sleep.

“Gynecologists aren’t just for having babies. You hurt your private parts. That’s the doctor you see for that. Let’s go!”

I complied and followed Mom out the door, praying that no one would see my shuffle of shame.
We entered the waiting room, where pregnant women were marooned in plastic chairs, their big bellies anchoring them down. Mom checked in with the receptionist, who said we could go right in. Expectant mothers stared curiously at me.

“I’m not pregnant,” I explained. “I hurt my private parts,” I whispered, my hands resting over the throbbing area by way of explanation. I hoped that the babies they were carrying would never know the horror of this experience.

“Take everything off and put this gown on,” the receptionist instructed once we were inside the exam room.

“Everything?” I asked.

“Yes. Bra and panties off.”

“What about my socks? Can I please leave my socks on?” I pleaded, panic creeping into my voice and shaking my words. For some reason, it suddenly became very important that my socks not leave my feet. That way, I reasoned, I wouldn’t be completely naked in front of a total stranger.

“Yes, you can leave your socks on,” she nodded and left the room.

Mom sat in a corner chair as I crept into the bathroom to change. Once wearing my barely-there paper gown, I rejoined Mom and sat on the exam table. I shivered from the sub-zero temperature in the exam room, hoping that I wasn’t bleeding all over the crinkly white paper covering the exam table.

“What the hell’s that?” I asked Mom, pointing to two metal cups at the end of the exam table.

“Noreen! Watch your mouth.”

“Sorry. What the heck is that?” I rephrased, pointing in horror.

“Those are the stirrups. You lay back on the table and put your feet in them while the doctor examines you.”

I didn’t have time to swoon from this information because the doctor burst into the room like a cyclone.

“Okay. Up on the table. Feet in the stirrups. Come on. You’ll be just fine. Let’s get in there and take a look.” Dr. Alice barked as she positioned me on the table.

I did as she asked, but I kept my knees crazy-glued together.

“Let’s not make this harder than it has to me. Open up your legs for me. Mom, maybe you can help out here.”

“Noreen, open your legs for the doctor. It won’t hurt,” Mom lied.

I cracked my knees apart slightly, and the doctor took this opportunity to spread them wide against my will. I heard the snap of latex gloves and the plop of something squishy being squeezed out of a tube. Holding my breath, I braced against the icy cold invasion of something wet sliding into me.

It felt like the doctor’s arm was inside of me elbow deep. The pressure was so great I expected an alien to rip through my abdomen and spit my guts out. I whimpered and squirmed, tiny tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes.

“Uh huh. Yep. Okay. That’s what I thought,” Dr. Alice nodded as her slimy gloved hand made a sucking sound pulling out of me.

“What? What is it? Am I okay?”

“Can she have children?” Mom worried.

“She’s fine. She just broke her hymen,” Dr. Alice explained.

“Oh,” Mom sighed.

“Oh my God! What do you do for that? Do I need surgery? Will I have to wear a cast?” I asked, unable to picture how a cast would fit around my girl parts. I had never broken anything before, though I had secretly wished to break my arm. I wanted to ask boys to carry my books and have all the girls sign my cast, decorating it with hearts and flowers. I didn’t think this would be the kind of cast anyone could sign.

“Oh, Noreen!” Mom snorted.

“What?” I asked, angry that Mom found this funny.

“Every girl breaks her hymen. Some girls break it during sports, like bike riding. Other girls break it during their first sexual experience,” Dr. Alice said as she prepared to leave the room.

“You mean, I popped my cherry?” I asked, finally understanding. It wasn’t what I thought it would be. For some reason, I had always expected to hear, well, a pop when my cherry popped. It had been strangely silent.

“Where did you hear such a thing?” Mom demanded.

“Yes. That’s another way to put it,” Dr. Alice admitted.

“So what do I do now?” I wondered.

“Nothing. Go home and rest if you feel sore. You’ll be fine by tomorrow. Anything else?” Dr. Alice asked with the door already opened.

“No. Thank you, doctor.” Mom said, as Dr. Alice flew out the door as quickly as she had blown in.

And just like that, my cherry was gone.

“Noreen! I asked you where you heard that term?” Mom demanded.

Though moments before I had prayed for my very survival, I began to wish that my condition had indeed been fatal.

“Well, can’t you lose your cherry in other ways?” I asked Kris tentatively.

“Like what?”

I don’t know. Riding a horse. Or, a bike.”

“That’s bullshit!” Kris shouted. “That’s what slutty girls say to cover up the fact that they’ve had sex. There’s only two ways to pop your cherry. A finger, or a big, fat penis!” Kris said with finality.

I could never let Kris know that I was without a cherry. She was very unpredictable, and there was no telling whom she might snitch to. If that information got into the wrong hands, my high school career could be over.

“So, the nuns pop our cherries,” Melissa clarified.

“Yup!”

“Perverts!”

“That’s disgusting!”

“Not to them,” Kris said. “They’re mostly lesbians anyway.”

“Isn’t that illegal?” Jackie asked.

“Being a lesbian?”

“No! Popping kids’ cherries.”

“Nothing the nuns do is illegal. The pope has his own army for Christ’s sake. Nope. We’re on our own with the nuns,” Kris lamented.

We walked quietly the rest of the way, each pondering our fate at the hands of the lady-loving, cherry-popping nuns. From the worried looks on my friends’ faces, I suspected that I was not the only cherry-less girl in the group.

We boarded the half-empty bus and marched straight to the back, against the advice of Tara’s mother. There were no boys on the bus to distract us, and we let out a collective sigh of boredom.
Our first day of high school was a late opening, with orientation and a picnic. Seniors had been assigned to each of us to act as our big sisters, showing us around and answering any questions. They would also bring us lunch for our first day. I had been too nervous to eat breakfast, and I was weak with starvation. My stomach churned as the bus carried us into the mysterious unknown of Jersey City.

We rode in silence on the bus, staring out the windows and wondering what our first day would bring. As we neared school, we all jumped out of our seats and peered out the left side of the bus. There it was – the boys’ school! We gaped as if we were on safari, spying giraffes in their natural habitat.

“Oh my God! They’re so cute. I love their ties and blazers!”

“I didn’t know they could smoke right in front of school.”

“I wonder if we can smoke.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I’ll start if we can do it right in front of school.”

“Does anyone see Steve?” I asked, pushing my nose closer to the glass.

“Yeah. There he is.”

“Where? Where?”

“Right there. See? He’s sucking that blonde girl’s face off,” Kris said.

“What? Where?” I shouted frantically, ready to jump off the bus and rip both of their throats out. It took me ten whole seconds to realize that Kris was smirking and making kissy noises at me.

“Real funny,” I admitted.

We gathered our book bags and rang the bell to get off the bus. Walking in a tight knot, we headed down the block towards school. We immediately became lost in the throng of girls who had also been bussed in from all over the county. Swimming in a sea of estrogen and adrenaline, I allowed myself to be carried on the current and guided into school. I clung to my friends as if they were a life raft. I felt the reassuring pressure of their fingers on my arms and was comforted by our mutual terror.

I had fallen in love with the school the minute I had seen it. The building was a converted men’s club. It looked more like a large home than a school. The science labs sat in the sunken space of the former swimming pool. Madonna Hall, the teachers’ lounge, was off limits to students. Its velvety chairs and fireplace beckoned me from the hallway. There were no classroom numbers; each room had a name, such as Elan or Saint Aquinas. This did make navigating around the building more difficult, but what it lacked in practicality it made up for in charm.

The high-pitched squeals of teenaged girls in the packed cafeteria echoed like monkey chatter in the forest. One by one, my friends were sucked away and assigned to other groups of girls. I soon found myself alone in a circle of unfamiliar faces. My heart pounded against my immaculately ironed uniform shirt as sweat soaked my armpits. The cafeteria broiled with a hot desert heat, but I didn’t dare take my blazer off. I would rather melt into a puddle of my own perspiration than show any sign of nerves on the first day.

“Hi, I’m Rebecca. What’s your name? What college do you want to go to? I can’t decide between Harvard and Yale, but my parents say that’s okay I have time and they’re right so why worry about it right now, right? So who are you what’s your story where are you from? Did I mention my name is Rebecca? I think we should be friends. I can just tell about people. My mom says I have a gift for reading people. I got it from my Aunt Ida. She’s a sensitive. Do you know what sensitives are? They’re like, really in tune with the world around them, and they just know things. Anyway, my mom says I’m like that – a sensitive. Wow. You sure are quiet. Are you shy or something? I’m shy, too. It’s hard for me to open up to people. But like I said, I have a sense about you.”

“Uh, uh….” I stuttered as Rebecca stared expectantly into my frantic face. She was so petite I thought she would look perfect on the dashboard of my father’s car, right next to his St. Christopher statue.

“I’m from Hoboken,” I offered, not knowing where to start.

Rebecca’s words banged around my brain like marbles. Was I supposed to know my college preference on the first day of high school? Was I smart enough to be in school with girls who were smart enough to get into Harvard and Yale? What if Rebecca attached herself to me like a jellyfish, and I would be stuck with her as my only friend for the next four years? Did I want to be associated with someone as potentially popularity-killing as Rebecca? What if Rebecca was indeed a “sensitive” and she could read my thoughts this very second?

“Hoboken, huh? My dad took me to a dentist there and someone stole all of his hubcaps,” Rebecca stared at me accusingly.

Maybe Rebecca wasn’t that sensitive after all.

Before I could respond, a bell clanged in the cafeteria, and a teacher advised us to file out into the Senior Lot for our picnic. I turned quickly and dashed away from Rebecca, before she could start pointing me out as the girl who probably jacked her father’s hubcaps.

The Senior Lot was a sad little plot of dead grass that was forbidden to anyone but seniors. Freshman girls milled about like cattle waiting to be roped as our senior big sisters sought us out by our uniform nametags. I watched as one freshman after another was introduced to her big sister.

“Anna? I’m Liz, your big sister. Welcome!”

“Loretta? I hope you like baked ziti. My mom made it special.”

“Hi, Julie. I bought you this locket. It’s exactly like mine. Now we’ll be sisters forever!”

There were hugs and balloons, ham sandwiches and whole pizza pies. Girls who had been strangers seconds before were bonding over BLT’s and swapping make-up tips. My stomach
rumbled in neglect as I realized my own big sister was nowhere to be found.

“Mary? My name’s Mary, too! Wow, we look so much alike! We could be twins!”

Senior Mary and freshman Mary squealed in delight at their identically adorable appearances. Both had bouncy brown curls and big doe eyes. A smattering of freckles sat like constellations across their cheeks. Their perfectly pink lips looked like the bows on top of neatly wrapped presents.

“Mary, Mary, why you buggin’?”

Girls all around the Mary’s began singing the Run DMC lyrics over and over again. Mary and Mary giggled and joined in the chorus. By virtue of having the same names and identical appearances, they had each garnered the immediate affection of the entire freshman and senior classes. I hated them both, immediately and passionately, as they dug into their identical turkey and swiss on rye sandwiches.

I sat down on some dead leaves, drunk on the aromas around me. Melissa noticed my state of starvation, and came over with an offering.

“Want some banana bread? My big sister made it for me. Alexandria. Have you ever heard a name like that? Say it out loud.”

Melissa stared at me expectantly. I realized she was serious.

“Come on. Say it out loud. Alexandria,” Melissa rolled the name off her tongue as if it were chocolate.

“What? No!” I responded.

“Just say it. It’ll make you feel better. Alexandria.”

“Alexandria,” I said with a flourish.

“So exotic! I gotta get back. Alexandria’s going to tell me all about her summer in Greece. Greece! Can you believe it?”

“No, I can’t believe it,” I murmured, munching on the moist banana bread Melissa had shoved into my hand before hopping back over to Alexandria who summers in Greece.

While scanning the crowd for my big sister, I noticed nuns perched like crows all around us. I shivered, wondering which were the cherry poppers in our midst.

“Oww!”

“You’re stepping in my potato salad!”

“Watch where you’re going!”

I strained my neck to see who, or what, was causing all the commotion. She was tall and rail-thin, with corkscrew curls that stood out from her head like the snakes on Medusa’s head. Coal-black eyeliner framed her absent eyes. Headphones were bolted to her heavily pierced ears, and their cord disappeared down her shirt. Her uniform was a tattered mess – untucked shirt, torn blazer and socks that were neither uniform nor touching her knees. Her combat boots stomped over the picnic lunches in her path. I recoiled in fear.

“Are you Noreen?” she asked, clearly bored with me already.

“Yeah.”

“Well, looks like I’m your big sister,” she huffed, plopping down next to me. She smelled like clove cigarettes.

“Oh, okay. That’s great. Really great. I’m so relieved. You should see some of the big sisters my friends got stuck with. Eww. But you’re great. I mean, I don’t know you, but you seem great.”

“Great.”

“Great. Um, what’s your name?” I ventured, sweat turning my uniform into a swamp.

“Trish.”

“Trish. Wow. What a great name. It’s really - great. My name’s Noreen.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I spied her empty hands and realized she had not brought a bag with her. She noticed that I noticed. I tried to look away but it was too late.

“Shit! This was supposed to be a lunch, right? I was supposed to bring you lunch,” she realized with mild irritation.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess,” I smiled and shrugged. My stomach chose that exact second to shout out the truth of its hunger.

“Sorry. I forgot. I didn’t bring you anything. I don’t really do lunch,” she explained.

“It’s cool. I don’t always do lunch either,” I lied. I hadn’t missed lunch since the week I had had strep throat in first grade.

Trish rummaged through her pockets and pulled out an assortment of items: wadded up tissues, two cassettes, a Zippo, and a melted mound of what once might have been candy.

“Here! I thought I might still have these. Want one?”

Trish offered me a handful of red and green and yellow balls, clinging together in a sticky mess. Navy lint dotted their surface.

“Um, what is it?”

“Life Savers, maybe? I’m not really sure. They’ve probably been in my blazer since last year.”

Trish dumped the mound into my palm and it stuck to me like fly paper. I kept my palm open and my hand outstretched, begging for a vulture to sweep down and steal it away from me.

“Thanks. Maybe later. I had a big breakfast. And some of Alexandria’s banana bread.”
Should I have mentioned that I had eaten the bread of another big sister? Had I already broken some code of big sister/little sister loyalty? Thou shalt not covet the baked goods of another big sister?

“Okay. Cool.”

We sat in unbearable silence while the girls around us shared secrets, complimented each other’s hair and licked the last crumbs of lunch off of their fingers. I wondered if I could scavenge the sun-damaged grass for any forgotten morsels.

Suddenly, it bubbled up in me and I struggled to swallow it down. This had happened to me before, in other equally tense situations, and it had always had disastrous consequences. A panic rose in me as I realized there was no stopping the eruption that was racing up my throat and out of my mouth. I was about to have what my father called “verbal diarrhea”.

“So, do you have a boyfriend? I have a boyfriend. His name’s Steve and he’s really sweet. He’s actually going to meet me at the bus stop after school. How do you like it here? It seems like a really great school. I love it here already. There are lots of opportunities here. Clubs, sports, stuff like that. What clubs are you in? Do you play any sports? I played softball and basketball in grammar school. I want to try out for softball here, but not basketball. Everyone thinks I’d be good at basketball because I’m tall. But I’m not. I mean, I’m tall, duh of course I’m tall, but I’m no good at basketball. I’m just tall.”

I talked and talked until my voice gave out. My speech was met with a wall of silence. Just a while ago, I had run from Rebecca in revulsion after her verbal tirade. Now, I found myself drowning in my own self-made tsunami of words.

“Look. I’m really not good at this. Making conversation, being a big sister. Do you mind if we just sit here and not talk?”

Before I could answer, Trish clicked on her tape cassette, and I detected the low buzz of music coming out of her headphones. At that moment, I realized that she would forget about my very existence exactly five minutes after our foodless farce of a picnic.

I took a second look at the candy piled in my palm. Against my survival instincts, I popped the mysterious clump into my mouth, and was pleasantly surprised. Once I got past the lint, the juicy sweetness filled up my mouth and quieted my hunger somewhat.

The big sisters and little sisters around me were exchanging phone numbers and making future lunch dates. Trish had failed to bring me a card or a balloon or even a breakfast muffin. There was only one thing I wanted from her. A single question had been burning in my brain all day. She had to answer it for me. She owed me that much.

I tapped her on the shoulder, and she reluctantly pried the headphones from her ears.

“So, Trish.” I began. “Which nuns are the cherry poppers?”

Continue reading...

how second base led to my first boyfriend

The air was thick with pollen suspended in the rays of the setting sun. The sweet smell of barbecue settled inside my nose. Fireworks fizzled and popped around the neighborhood. Summer was coming to a close.

“Guys, guess what?” RJ cackled, his voice a rusty razor.

“What?” Alex asked.

“Last week, in the pool, Noreen let me feel her up!”

“Did not!” I defended, smacking at RJ’s face but only grazing his grime-encrusted neck.

“You know you did. You sat on my lap in the kiddie pool and I reached up and tweaked your nipples.”

“Cool!” Alex pumped his fist at RJ in approval.

“Liar!” I screeched.

“Nuh uh! I pinched ‘em, and you let me.” RJ maneuvered his fingers like he was turning the dial on a car radio.

“They’re big and hard like dice. And then you let me squeeze your boobs. They felt smooshy like a roll of Charmin. Oh, man….” He opened and closed his fists just inches in front of my breasts.

“Stop it!” I shouted, swatting away his sweaty palms.

“Come on. Gimme another squeeze!”

As RJ lurched at my chest, Steve stepped in front of me and pushed RJ’s pudgy little frame into a parked car.

“Ow!”

“Leave her alone, fuck face,” Steve commanded as he saddled up to me.

“You okay?” he asked, flashing deep dimples at me. I wanted to push my pinky into them and see how far in I’d get.

“Uh huh,” I squeaked, as Steve slid his arm around my shoulder. Was this really happening? The only other time a boy had put his arm around me was in a football huddle.

Warmth spread out through my shoulders and oozed down my body like melting chocolate.

Steve pulled me closer to him, and I cuddled into the crook of his arm. I had to suppress a giggle of glee as I realized how perfectly we fit together. He was just the right height for me to comfortably rest my head on his shoulder. Should I do that now? Would it be weird to walk that way? How about my arms? Should I throw my right arm behind his back and let it rest on his hip? I scanned the streets for couples, hoping for a clue as to what to do next. But we weren’t a couple, were we?

Moisture collected on my skin like the sweat from a soda can. Could he feel it? Would he pull away in disgust? I began to breathe like a woman in labor, keeping my arms rigid at my sides so I didn’t screw this up.

“You’re a liar, and you know it!” RJ’s Doritos breath was back in my face. I huddled closer to Steve’s chest.

“I’m not gonna tell you again. Leave her alone.”

Steve grabbed RJ’s collar with his free hand and shook it hard. He didn’t even break his stride or lessen the pressure of his arm on my now-soaked shoulder. RJ sulked and mumbled, dropping back behind us and snickering to Alex, who was enjoying the spectacle.

I glanced at Steve, reassured by his wide smile and the heat of his body against mine, making me feel feverish. I knew, in that instant, that he would be my first boyfriend.

The thing is, I had let RJ feel my boobs in the pool. I don’t know why. I hadn’t even kissed a boy, and yet I had let this crusty little creeton feel me up. RJ was almost two years younger than me, and a whole head shorter. Did that make me a pervert? If word got around that I had let RJ touch me, I feared that mothers everywhere would clutch their young sons to them, terrified of the dangerous older lady who wanted to look at their sons’ boy parts. I had to keep this under wraps.

It had started innocently enough. RJ and I were wrestling in the kiddie pool, and he suddenly pulled me onto his lap. I could hear a wheeze in his chest, and I asked if he needed his inhaler.
“Nah. I’m cool,” he insisted, taking a deep breath. “Let’s just rest for a minute.”

We floated like that for a while, and I felt the weight of his hands like pockets on my hips. His fingers slowly inched their way towards my waist and waited there. I rested my palms over his hands, wondering where they would go next. His fingers crawled up my ribcage like caterpillars, and my hands went limp and floated lifeless to the surface of the pool. I stared straight ahead and held my breath, blinking away the blinding glare of the sun reflecting off the water. I pretended it wasn’t happening, waiting to see how far RJ would go, and wondering why I wasn’t stopping him.

A little girl drifted by on a raft that looked like a dragon. Wet pigtails dripped above both of her ears, and she flashed a wide grin at me. I flushed with shame. Did she suspect our underwater activity? How could I set such a horrible example for the children in the kiddie pool? I should be banned from the pool forever. What was wrong with me? My Catholic school training had been complete. At this stage, I should be screaming rape and bending RJ’s fingers backwards while chanting Hail Mary’s. But a burning sensation below my belly button said, wait. Now, just what is this?

RJ’s fingertips grazed over my nipples, almost accidentally. I felt something poking me in the back like a billy club, and realized it was his erection. When I didn’t react by wrenching off his penis and tossing it into the deep end of the pool, RJ became more brazen. He poked my nipples with his fingertips, as if checking to see if they would bite. The sounds of splashing and laughter faded into the distance. My heart thump-thump-thumped in my ears as electricity rippled through me.

My nipples fought against the fabric of my bathing suit as RJ pinched them. It hurt, almost, but in a way that wasn’t quite pain. He finally cupped both of my breasts in his pudgy bear claws and pulled me tighter towards him. A tormented moan escaped his lips. My brain felt like cotton candy and I had trouble focusing my eyes. I was certainly destined for hell.

And that’s when I saw him. The lifeguard was poised in his tower, biting his whistle between his teeth. He was glaring directly at us and reaching for his megaphone. His toned and tanned chest glistened with sweat. Bicep muscles bulged as he slowly brought the megaphone to his sun-chapped lips. My sexual deviance was about to be broadcast to everyone. I would be chased out of the pool, pelted with nose plugs and goggles, while mothers covered their children’s eyes from my hardened-nipple shame. I tried to pry RJ’s hands off of my breasts, but they were crazy-glued to my bathing suit.

Three sharp whistles assaulted my ears as a sudden wave knocked me off RJ’s lap. I slipped underneath the surface, sucking in chlorinated water and sputtering like Dad’s old Chevy. A bony elbow rammed into my throat as a talon-like toenail tore into my shin. Not knowing which death would be worse – one of shame or the other of drowning in a four-foot deep kiddie pool – I resurfaced and greedily sucked in air, ready for my public execution.

“Out of the pool! Now!” the lifeguard barked, pointing angrily. I shielded my eyes from the white sun spots dancing in front of me and stared at RJ’s mammoth back.

“No cannonballs in the kiddie pool. You three – out now!”

I looked to my right and saw three sunburned boys holding their reddened bellies and spitting water at one another. RJ waded breathlessly in the water, his chest rising and falling with effort, waiting for me to return.

What had I done? I awoke from my nipple-pinching stupor, doggie paddled my way over to the ladder and pulled myself out of the pool. My legs felt like licorice as I sprinted to the shaded safety of my towel. I hid behind my wet bangs, waiting for the revving of my heart to slow down and settle back into my chest.

RJ shifted uncomfortably in the kiddie pool, surveying his surroundings. When he was finally able to get out of the pool, he lumbered over to his mother and huddled close to her lounge chair. I watched as she patted his back and handed him his inhaler. RJ shook his inhaler and took two long pulls from it, waiting for the air to enter his lungs. His mother looked concerned, as the inhaler didn’t seem to be working.

“Come on, breathe!” I whispered from my towel, wondering if I had just killed RJ. Could the excitement of fondling real breasts have caused his lungs to seize up? Having just had my first remotely sensual encounter, I wasn’t certain of my own power.

Finally, the color returned to RJ’s cheeks and I sighed a deep breath of relief. His mother handed him a soda and a sandwich, and he bit into the bread greedily. I was happy to see that my breasts had not produced fatal effects.

It happened a week after Steve had defended my honor against RJ. Steve and I walked to the playground in the bright midday sun. His arm brushed up against mine. It felt like a thousand ladybugs crawling up and down my arms.

“Wanna sit on the swings?” he suggested.

“Okay.”

We approached the swings in the shapes of animals that I had been riding on since birth. There were four – the caterpillar, the squirrel, the bird and the skunk. As kids, we would race to the swings, trying to reach our favorite animal first. No one ever wanted to sit on the skunk. It was always empty, unless some unsuspecting new kid came to the park and made the mistake of sitting on it. Then, the rest of us would shun the new kid, insisting he smelled like farts for having sat on the stinky skunk.

“Which one’s your favorite?” Steve asked as we approached the swings.
“The caterpillar,” I responded reflexively, wishing I could suck the syllables back down my throat the minute they reached the air. I was 14! I wasn’t supposed to have a favorite swing. Was this a trick question? Was Steve trying to decide if I was mature enough to be girlfriend material?

“Mine too!” he responded.

Steve was 15, and was about to be a sophomore at the boys’ prep school a few blocks from my high school. He knew about cool – he smoked and played guitar. If the caterpillar was good with him, then I was in.

“Yeah, caterpillars are cool. Cause they change, you know? Become something beautiful,” he explained.

“Butterflies,” I nodded, blushing at having stated the obvious.

“Exactly! Wow. We have so much in common. We really think alike.” He smiled into my face and his dimples deepened.

Steve held onto the chain of the caterpillar swing and helped me onto it. I straddled the caterpillar and rocked it back and forth, unsure of what else to do.

“The bird is my second favorite, but I’ll sit on the squirrel to be close to you,” Steve said as he lowered himself onto the squirrel. The eyes of the caterpillar seemed to wink at the squirrel. I wondered how many times they had witnessed this.

Steve licked his lips and leaned off of his squirrel towards my caterpillar. This was it! He was about to give me my first kiss. My body tensed as questions ricocheted around my brain: When was I supposed to close my eyes? How was my breath? What did I do with my hands? Was I supposed to make any sounds, like the moaning and grunting on late-night cable movies? And what was I supposed to do with my tongue? I closed my eyes as the warmth of Steve’s breath floated out to me.

For years, I had daydreamed about my first kiss. It went like this: a faceless boy and I were walking alone in the woods. It was fall. Apple-colored leaves were drifting down from the trees, crunching under our feet. Birds chirped and butterflies flitted about. A cool breeze rocked the branches, and I shivered with a chill. The boy removed his heather-gray wool sweater, and slipped it over my head. It smelled like wood shavings, and I snuggled into its warmth. My hair was bouncy and perfect. My skin shone like porcelain. He rested his hands on my shapely hips and drew me in to him. His lips were soft and his mouth was juicy like a plum. His hands cradled my face, and my fingers met behind his neck. We kissed in the middle of the woods for an eternity, until a park ranger came and told us to mosey on along. It was perfection.

Steve’s teeth bouncing off my own brought me back into my body.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“It was my fault. Let’s try again,” Steve offered as my heart drag-raced inside my chest.

I opened my mouth wide as if I were about to have my teeth cleaned. His cold tongue poked around the inside of my dry mouth, testing the water. It felt like a giant wad of bubblegum. Steve tasted like watermelon jolly ranchers, sticky sweet. His head rolled back and forth as his tongue searched out my tonsils.

I tried to keep my tongue and my teeth to myself, afraid I’d accidentally bite the tip of his tongue off. Steve’s hands were resting on my thighs. My palms ached from gripping the chain of the caterpillar. Holding my breath, I counted the seconds and tried hard not to laugh at what suddenly seemed so ridiculous. Kissing was no longer a mystery. And I wasn’t even sure if I liked it.

I was grateful for my first kiss to be out of the way, but I had expected more. Steve’s tongue jamming past my teeth felt like an invasion of privacy. There was no ripple in my belly and no music in the trees. It was just me, sitting on a caterpillar waiting for the oral excursion to be over.

Mister Softee’s ice cream truck rumbled up the street, manic music blaring out of his speaker. Children shouted and begged for money from their mothers, feet pounding the pavement as they raced toward the truck. For the first time, I realized we were not alone in the playground, and I pulled free of the suction from Steve’s vacuum kiss.

Steve’s lips made a wet smacking sound. He nodded his head with confidence, waiting to hear what I had to say.

“Thanks?” I offered, not sure what the proper response was to my first actual kiss.

“No. Thank you!”

Steve wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, nuzzled into my neck and kissed me softly. There it was! The tingle in my tummy that I had been craving all along. I wondered if there was something wrong with me. What if my mouth was desensitized and the only way I ever got the ripple feeling was to convince Steve to nibble on my neck? That is, assuming Steve wanted any part of my anatomy ever again.

Steve took out a pack of Marlboro Lights and shook a cigarette free.

“You want?” he offered.

I shook my head. First, I had let a boy feel me up. Then I had let Steve put his tongue in my mouth. I was growing up too fast. Who knew what else I was capable of if I allowed myself to smoke?

“So? Wanna go with me?” Steve asked as he sucked on his cigarette, looking like he already knew the answer.

“Sure!”

I bounced off the caterpillar and had to restrain myself from doing a cartwheel. A boy actually wanted to be my boyfriend. He wanted me to be his girlfriend. I was going to start high school with a boyfriend, as someone’s girlfriend. A mushroom cloud of nuclear waste could not have erased the smile from my face.

“Cool. Let’s get some ice cream. My treat.”

Steve stood up and laced his fingers through mine, leading me towards Mister Softee. My head swiveled like a lighthouse light, spreading my smile in every direction. I wanted as many people as possible to witness my new status as a girlfriend.

“What’s your favorite?” Steve asked as we stood on line behind mothers and their whiny children.

“Chocolate with chocolate sprinkles,” I said, holding tight to his hand.

“Mine, too! Wanna split a double cone?” Steve suggested.

I had always wanted a double cone, but I had never had anyone to share it with before. I had always envied couples that split double cones, taking turns licking the melting ice cream and wiping sprinkles off of each others’ chins. I now had someone to wipe my chin! I couldn’t think of anything more romantic.

Steve held out the chocolate with chocolate sprinkles double cone. I dipped my mouth into the coldness, hoping to get some sprinkles somewhere on my face. Feeling an ice cream moustache on my upper lip, I batted my eyes at Steve. His tongue poked out of his mouth and licked the ice cream off of my lip. Bees buzzed inside of my head, and I felt faint.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered into my ear.

“I am?”

No one had ever told me that before. Sister Roberta had once said I had beautiful penmanship, but that wasn’t the same thing.

“Yes, you are.”

“I like your dimples,” I responded, kissing each dimple quickly.

“I like your lips,” he kissed my lips and pushed his tongue back inside my mouth. My legs felt woozy beneath me. I wished I still had the caterpillar beneath me for support. Kissing while standing seemed a little problematic. I could see while people preferred to do it lying down

“I like your hair.”

Steve looked confused. I didn’t know what else to say. His tongue in my mouth had taken away my good sense.

“It’s really – curly,” I added.

“Thanks.”

We walked towards my house, holding hands and taking turns licking the melting cone. My temples began to pound, either from brain freeze or the extra-wide smile plastered to my face.
We stopped in front of my house, the last bite of our cone stuck in my throat. Other couples might have “a song”, but Steve and I had “a cone”. I could never again eat a chocolate cone with chocolate sprinkles without thinking of him.

“I’ll call you tonight, girlfriend.”

“Okay, boyfriend,” I beamed. I had just called someone my boyfriend! I bit the inside of my lip to keep from laughing.

Steve’s eyes focused on mine. He lowered his head and my eyes fluttered shut. My lips parted slightly. I was determined to get this open-mouthed kiss right.

A loud “thwack” stopped us both in our lust-filled tracks. I looked up at my window on the second floor. Erin was standing in the window, in her underwear, banging on the glass. At 6-years-old, we could not keep clothing on Erin. The second she entered the apartment, she stripped down to her skivvies and stayed like that. She repeatedly banged on the glass, jumping up and down like a monkey.

“Ma!!!” I could hear her ear-splitting shout through the pane glass. “I’m telling Mommy!”

“I gotta go!” I sprinted up the steps away from Steve. I had to get to my mother before Erin did.

“Sorry!” I shouted over my shoulder.

“Call you later,” Steve called out.

“Why are you screaming like that?” I heard my mother walking down the hall towards Erin.
I wasn’t too late! I would get to tell my mother before Erin did.

“Get out of that window with no clothes on! What’s the matter with you? You want the whole neighborhood to see you like that?”

“I don’t care,” Erin answered.

“I know you don’t, but I do. Out of the window. Now!”

I rushed breathlessly into the living room as Mom was scooping Erin out of the window.

“Mom,” I gasped.

“What?”

“Mommy, guess what I just saw Noreen doing?”

“What?

“Shut up, Erin.”

“Don’t tell your sister to shut up,” Mom admonished.

“Mommy, Noreen was….”

“Boogedy boogedy boo!” I shouted at Erin.

“No! No! Please! Mommy, hold me!” Erin clung to my mother’s neck, terror freezing her face and stealing her words.

Boogedy boogedy boo brought out the Boogey Man. Chris and I would routinely lock Erin in the bathroom with the light off and chant “boogedy boogedy boo”, which would make him appear to her. We usually reserved this tactic for times when Erin was bugging us, or was about to tattle something that Mom absolutely could not know. It worked better than any bribe we could ever concoct.

“Noreen! Why do you insist on torturing your sister? What did you do that you don’t want me to know about?” she asked, trying not to be suffocated by Erin’s death grip around her neck.

“I didn’t do anything,” I shouted over Erin’s wailing. “But I need to tell you something.”

“Get your sister to stop screaming, please! I can’t hear myself think.”

“Come on, boogedy boogedy boo. Time for you to go. Leave Erin alone.”

I opened the door and shooed the Boogey Man out of the apartment. Erin watched through her fingers as hiccups shook her skinny little body.

“Okay, he’s gone,” I assured her, shutting the door and turning all the locks.

“You sure?” she asked, still clinging to Mom’s throat.

“Yes, I’m sure. Just don’t make me call him back,” I threatened.

“No, don’t. I promise. You won’t have to call him back.”

“Okay, no more B-Man,” I said, handing over her favorite teddy bear.

Erin squeezed the teddy bear and wiggled free of Mom’s arms.

“Put some clothes on,” Mom shouted after her.

“No!” she screamed, running down the hall to our room.

“Why do you do that to your sister? Her screaming is like knives in my ears.”

“Steve is my boyfriend,” I exhaled it all out before losing my nerve.

“What? Since when?” Mom scanned the room nervously for her cigarettes.

“Since now. Today. He just asked me.”

“Don’t you think you’re too young for a boyfriend?”

“Are you kidding? All of my friends have had boyfriends since sixth grade. I was the only one who had never been kissed.”

“Whaddya mean ‘was’? Has that changed?” Mom’s nostrils flared like a bull’s.

I smirked and shrugged my shoulders coyly.

“So, what? You’re kissing now?”

“Yeah, I’m kissing now.”

“Oh, boy. Oh, Jesus!”

“What’s the big deal? He’s my boyfriend. It’s not like I’m gonna get pregnant.”

“Why would you say such a thing? What do you know about getting pregnant?” Mom had located her cigarettes, but was still searching for her lighter. The cigarette trembled between her lips, having its own nervous breakdown.

“Enough to know that kissing won’t lead to a baby.”

“No, but it can lead to other things,” she whispered ominously.

“What other things?” I tested.

I had once asked Mom about sex after I started hearing rumblings about it at school. Her face had turned gray and her eyes glazed over. Her only words about sex had been: “You don’t do it until you’re married.” I had had to rely on friends and scrambled cable channels to teach me the rest.
“Like, like….” Mom stuttered nervously. “Like you know what. Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not! I just wanna know.”

“What does this mean? He’s your boyfriend?” Mom spit out the word “boyfriend” as if it were a piece of rancid meat in her mouth.

“I don’t know. He’s my boyfriend. I’m his girlfriend. We do things together.”

“What things?”

“Movies, parties, stuff like that I guess. It’s my first day as a girlfriend. Give me a break!”

“I don’t know, Noreen. You’re going to have to tell your father about this. See what he says.”

I hadn’t really thought about that. Dad was at work so often, I figured he didn’t need to know about it. I didn’t want to give Mom any hint of weakness on my part, so I feigned bravery and smiled.

“Fine,” I nodded.

“Does Steve’s mother know about this?” Mom asked calmly, having found her lighter. Smoke blew out of her nose as she exhaled deeply.

“I don’t know. It just happened now.”

“Well, maybe I should call her and we can talk about it?”

“Don’t you dare! Talk about what? We’re not planning a wedding.”

“God forbid! Don’t even joke about such things.” Mom’s hand clutched her chest.

“Just trust me, okay? Don’t call his mom. Please.” I begged, wondering if a boyfriend was really worth all of this trouble. After about six seconds of deliberation, I decided it was.

“All right. But behave yourself. And tell your father. Tonight!”

“Thanks, Mom!” I pecked her cheek and ran into the bedroom, where I proceeded to call everyone I knew to spread the news. Of course, I may have fudged some of the details of the kiss, but wasn’t that part of the fun of having a boyfriend - telling not entirely true details to your girlfriends?

“His tongue tasted like honey.”

“That kiss was the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt!” “Fireworks went off in my stomach.”

“He said he thinks he could marry me.”

“It was just what I always dreamed it would be. Better.”

After the hours of phone conversations had ended, I waited nervously for Dad to come home. He had been working for two days straight, with probably an hour or two of sleep stolen somewhere along the way. This could either work for or against me. Sometimes he came home so exhausted that he passed out on the couch fully dressed without eating a bite. Other nights, he came home cranky and cross, with a few Budweisers floating around in his belly. On those nights, we tiptoed around him, not wanting him to bark out complaints at us.

When I finally heard his key turning in the lock around nine o’clock, I sat frozen in my room. Should I attack him with the news before he had a chance to settle in, or ply him with Budweiser and spaghetti, getting him good and sleepy first? I glanced over at Erin, asleep in the bottom bunk. At least I wouldn’t have to contend with her snitching. I decided to wait it out in my room for a while.

Apparently, I waited longer than a while. Dad’s snores sounded like waves pounding the shore in the living room. I tiptoed into the living room, where Dad was marooned on the couch. His mouth was open wide enough for me to count his silver fillings. The remote control was tucked into the waistband of his pajamas, and the Honeymooners was on TV. A half-eaten bowl of spaghetti sat next to an empty Bud on the side table. It was now or never.

“Dad?” I whispered, barely loud enough to hear myself.

“Dad. Wake up,” I said slightly louder, pushing my pointer finger into his cheek.
Thunderous grunts and groans rolled out of his throat. His lips smacked together as if he still tasted the spaghetti sauce that dotted his white undershirt.

“Dad!” I shouted. “I have to tell you something. Dad!”

“Wha?” he shouted back, not quite opening his eyes.

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah, what?”

“Open your eyes.”

“I don’t wanna. Whaddya want?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Go ‘head.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yeah. I’m listenin’.”

“But your eyes aren’t open.”

“My eyes don’t have anything to do with my ears. Whaddya want?”

“Steve asked me to be his girlfriend.”

No movement from Dad. His breathing started to deepen and I thought he had fallen back asleep.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Yeah. Steve’s your boyfriend.”

“That’s right. Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I need some sleep before I have to get back up and go to work.” His eyes were still sealed shut.

“No. What do you think about me and Steve?”

“You and Steve? Yeah. Good for you.”

“That’s all?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. I just thought….”

“If you don’t let me get some sleep, I might have something else to say about it.”

“Okay. Good night!”

“Night,” Dad mumbled before the rumble of his snores took over again.

I did it! Racing back to my room, I shut the door just as my phone started to ring. I picked it up before Dad heard it and reconsidered his position on my dating life.

“Hello?” I whispered into the phone.

“Hi, it’s me,” Steve answered. We were already at the place in our relationship where he referred to himself as “me”! I couldn’t believe how well this was all going.

“Hi. What are you doing?”

“Nothing. I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?” I asked.

“Close your eyes,” Steve demanded.

“Why?”

“Just close your eyes and listen. Please?”

“Okay,” I sighed, lying down with my eyes closed and the phone pressed against my ear.The tinny noise of a guitar being tuned floated over the phone. Then, Steve broke into a familiar heavy metal tune with his guitar. I squealed into my pillow, dazed by my very first serenade. It was almost better than getting my first kiss.

I listened breathlessly for a full four minutes. When the song ended, I could hear Steve panting on the other end.

“Well? What did you think?” Steve asked breathlessly.

“Def Leppard?” I guessed.

“No! I wrote that. I wrote it for you, baby.”

He wrote me a song! And he called me baby! I couldn’t believe this was all happening.

“I loved it. I really really loved it. I can’t believe you wrote that for me.”

“Yeah. I worked on it for hours. It’s called ‘Double Cone’. I’ll never play it for anyone but you.”

“Do you mean that?” I swooned.

“Just for you.”

“Noreen! Is that you still on the phone?” Mom called from the kitchen.

“No!” I lied.

“Well, hang it up. Now.”

“Sorry. I gotta go.” I sighed to Steve.

“Wait. Don’t hang up the phone. Let’s fall asleep together,” Steve suggested.

“Reall”

“Yeah. Let’s just keep the phones by our heads on the pillow. That way we can say we slept together.” Steve chuckled into the phone.

“Okay. Good night, Steve. Thank you for my song.”

“Thanks for being my girlfriend.”

“Thanks for asking me to be your girlfriend.”

“Thanks for saying yes.”

“You’re welcome,” I relented, realizing the gratitude could go on all night.

“Night.”

“Night.”

“Noreen,” Dad called to me as he stood next to my top bunk.

My neck hurt from falling asleep with the phone pressed up against my ear. I rolled over to Dad, blinking into the darkness.

“Dad? What’s wrong?” I grumbled.

“Just cause I was half asleep when you talked to me doesn’t me I didn’t hear you.”

“Oh. Okay.”
“I’m not thrilled about you having a boyfriend, but I know Steve and he seems like a nice kid.”

“He is. He really really is, Dad.”

At that moment, I wanted to tell him about our double cone and about my song. But mostly, I wanted to tell him how Steve had called me beautiful.

“Yeah, I know that. But even nice kids can forget themselves. So, be careful. And make sure he treats you right.”

“I will.”

“All right. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“Okay.”

“Go back to sleep. I gotta get to work.”

“Bye.”

“See ya later.”

I lay awake in bed, reviewing the events of the day. In the past, if I had wanted to let a boy know I liked him, I would crank call his house and disguise my voice.

“Noreen likes you,” I would whisper into the phone as Felix or Todd or Keith picked up.

“What? Who is this?” they would respond. I would then hang up the phone and wait for their return call, proclaiming their love for me. I reasoned that they just needed some prodding, and once they knew I felt that way about them, their romantic feelings for me would blossom. I even enlisted Erin’s help, though I never told her whom she was calling. A six-year-old could not be trusted with secrets of the heart.

Erin did a great Freddy Krueger impersonation. I would dial the number, and she would mumble in a deep, guttural voice, “Noreen likes you,” and I would slam the phone down. If she even looked like she might tattle, I would simply whisper, “Boogedy,” and she would run screaming out of the room.

The phone would always ring right after the call. I would let it ring a few times before answering.

“Hello?” I would grunt, disguising my voice with sleep.

“Hey. Did you just call here?” Felix or Todd or Keith would ask.

“What? No. I was sleeping. Why?” I quizzed groggily.
“No reason. Thought it might have been you.”
For some reason, this technique had never succeeded in snagging me a boyfriend.
My underwater groping with a 12-year-old toad had, however, eventually led to my first love. I couldn’t figure out the way the world worked, but I was happy with the results. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe everything did happen for a reason. Maybe I had participated in slightly slutty behavior so that Steve and I could have our very own cone. Maybe RJ’s grimy little fingers pinching my nipples were the price I had to pay for starting high school with a boyfriend. I replayed Steve’s guitar solo in my head and let the memory of the day fade as I fell back asleep.

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