cut and splice

“You are not taking him to any dance.”

“But why?”

“Cause I said so.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“I’m your father. That’s the reason.”

“Just give me one real reason.”

“We don’t know this kid.”

“Sure you do. He’s been over here a bunch of times. Mom, tell him!”

“I’m not getting involved.”

“We don’t know his family, where he comes from.”

“He’s from Chicago. His parents are divorced.”

“Kids who come from divorce are always screwed up in the head.”

“How can you say that?”

“Cause it’s true.”

“Russell lives with his father. He’s a stockbroker. You can talk to him if you want.”

“I don’t need to talk to him.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“He smokes.”

“Mom smokes!”

“And you mother’s stupid for smokin’.”

“Steve smoked. That didn’t seem to bother you.”

“Yeah, well last time this Russell kid came over here he smelled of beer. Your mother told me so.”

My head swiveled in my mother’s direction, but her eyes were studying the floor. I wanted to remind them both that my father drank , even driving us around after he had been drinking, but something told me to shut my mouth on that one.

“All of my friends drink. I’m the only one who doesn’t. You want me to just stay in the house and not have any friends?”

“You keep this up and that’s what’s gonna happen.”

“Is it because he’s black?”

“Noreen….”

“Is that the reason?”

“Don’t push it!”

“Is it?”

“Yes. It’s cause he’s black. You happy now?”

I wasn’t happy. I was the exact opposite of happy. I had never heard my parents use racial slurs against anyone. I heard plenty of racist names in the neighborhood: moolie, mook, spook, mick, spick, wetback, guinea, wop, polack. But none of those words were ever uttered at home. In fact, it was my father who had told me to stop calling Patrick Healy “Chink”.

I had known Patrick since I was seven. We met during a wiffle ball game.

“Who’s the new kid?” I had asked Billy.

“That’s my cousin, Chink.”

Chink was playing first base, and when I hit a grounder to third and made it to first, I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Noreen.”

“I’m Chink.”

“You’re Billy’s cousin?”

“Yep. We just moved here from Buffalo.”

“Cool.”

Then Thomas hit a line drive over the second baseman’s head and I made it all the way to third, leaving Chink at first with his glove in the air.

It wasn’t until I was 12 when Dad and I were driving past the park that Dad told me what I was saying was wrong.

“Hey, Chink!” I shouted out the window as Dad looked for a parking space.

“What’s up, Nor?” he waved back.

“Noreen! What did you just say?”

“What? I was just saying hi to my friend.”

“What did you just call him?”

“Chink.”

“What’s the matter with you? You don’t say a word like that.”

“I didn’t say a word. It’s his name.”

“I doubt that’s the name his mother gave him. I don’t ever want to hear you say that word again, you hear me?”

“But everyone calls him that.”

“I don’t care who calls him what. You call him by his real name.”

“I don’t know his real name.”

“You better find it out then.”

So that’s what I did. Billy told me that his father and Chink’s father were brothers. Chink’s father had married a Korean woman, so Chink was half Korean and half Irish. Billy said Chink didn’t mind everyone calling him “Chink”, since it was just a nickname like “lard ass” or “lefty”, but that I could call him by his real name of Patrick if I wanted.

“Hello, Patrick,” I said with great formality the next time I saw him.

“Hey, what’s up?’

“That’s a nice hat, Patrick.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Where did you buy that hat, Patrick?”

“I don’t know. My mom got it for me.”

“That was nice of your mom, Patrick.”

“I guess.”

Whenever I heard anyone else call him “Chink”, I immediately said his proper name and smiled at him. I wanted Patrick to know that I wasn’t like the rest – I wasn’t a racist.

“Chink, you going to the game tonight?”

“Yeah, Patrick, are you going?”

Patrick started to avoid me like a mud puddle, and then one day Billy came up to me.

“So what’s up with you and Chink?”

“You mean Patrick?”

“Yeah, I mean my cousin. What’s up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have the hots for him or something?”

“No! Why?”

“Cause he said you keep saying his name all the time, and you look at him weird.”

“No, I don’t like him like that. He’s just my friend.”

“Whatever. He thinks you want him.”

I couldn’t seem to win no matter what I did. I decided to avoid saying his name at all, and I would certainly not be smiling at him again.

“But I don’t understand,” I whined to my father. “I have all kinds of friends and you’ve never said anything before. We even took Thomas to the Mets game that time, and he’s black.”

“That was different. He’s just a friend.”

“Russell is just my friend. I don’t want him to be my boyfriend. I just want to take him to my formal.”

It was true. I only wanted to take Russell because he was part of our group and I knew we’d have fun together. Plus, he was several inches taller than me. At 5’9, it was difficult for me to find a boy to slow dance with whose head wouldn’t look like my chinrest. If I didn’t take Russell, who else was there? I couldn’t ask Eric the Shadow because he was Steve’s best friend. Ricky was going with Melissa, though they’d probably spend the night fighting anyway. And Professor was pre-engaged to Lilith. So that left Russell.

I tried explaining this all to my father, but he wouldn’t listen.

“I don’t care if you have black friends, but you are not to date one.”

“I’m not dating Russell!”

“That’s right, you’re not.”

“Why do you have a problem with blacks?”

“I don’t have a problem with them, but other people do.”

“I don’t care what other people think.”

“You better learn to start caring. We have to live in this house and in this town. People get the wrong idea of you and it can start a lot of trouble.”

“Like what?”

“Like we can be told we have to move out of here.”

I opened my mouth, then stopped to consider this. We lived in a four-family house that was owned and occupied by an old world Italian family. Three brothers and their families lived above and below us. They used racial slurs as easily as they named the ingredients to their sauce. But could they really evict us because of my choice of a dance date? Rents were skyrocketing all over town. Some of my friends who lived in rent-controlled tenements had already been burned out of their homes to make way for fancy new condos. Where would we end up if we got evicted?

“That can’t happen,” I said without conviction.

“It can happen.”

“I don’t care. I’m taking Russell to the dance. If we get evicted then we’ll get a lawyer or call the NAACP or the ACLU or whatever.”

“Jesus Christ Noreen! Don’t push me!” Dad pounded his fist on the table and I jumped. Wormy veins bulged in his neck and forehead. Mom swept imaginary crumbs off of the table.

“Keep this up and I’ll pull you all out of school and move you to Long Island. Is that what you want?”

Dad knew I had no response to this threat. It was his sole solution to any problem we had in school or in the neighborhood. My mother, equally opposed to the idea of moving to the suburbs, hinted that we shouldn’t tell my father certain details. So instead of telling Dad that my occasional black eyes and bruises had come from Butch, the town bully, we blamed baseball.
I couldn’t let Dad’s Long Island threat stop me this time. He was wrong. Russell was my friend, and I wanted to take him to the formal. I was trying to form an argument in my head that would persuade Dad that I was right and he was wrong, but I knew the words would never come out correctly. I felt angry tears building, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“You’re a racist jerk. I hate you!”

“Noreen!” Mom shouted.

My words landed like a smack. Dad’s face fell, the fight washed out of him. He looked old and tired and sick. I had defeated him. It was the last thing I had wanted to do.

Those words had never crossed my lips before. I had never even thought them. I wanted to take it back immediately. I didn’t mean it. It wasn’t even me who had said it. It was the ugliest part of me, this thing inside that I hadn’t even known existed until that very second.

Hit me, I thought. Punish me. Send me to the convent or forbid me from going to the dance or move me to the suburbs. Just please say something!

Dad walked out of the room and out of the apartment without a sound. I wanted to make it better but I couldn’t. I wanted to run after him and hug him, tell him I loved him, that he wasn’t a jerk at all and I could never hate him, but we weren’t that kind of family.

Dad had always loved playing with his Super 8 camera when I was a kid. He taught me how to edit the film, cutting out portions and splicing the film together again. I wished I could splice out the hurtful words I had hurled at him. I didn’t want this scene replaying over and over in his head.

Russell was waiting for me on the corner the next morning. Ever since my break-up, Steve and Eric the Shadow had started taking the earlier bus, and Russell had walked me to the bus each morning. He comforted me with stories of girls who had broken his heart.

“This one girl told everyone that my breath smelled like sour milk.”

“In eighth grade, I caught my girlfriend and my best friend in my closet. His hands were up her shirt. I had dated her for two whole months, and she had never let me feel her up. That really hurt.”

“My last girlfriend is now a lesbian. I’m scarred for life.”

Russell’s stories, and his friendship, made the sting of my single status hurt a little less.
Sitting on the back of the bus with the group, the talk immediately turned to the formal.

“My mother thinks my dress is too slutty.”

“It is too slutty.”

“I know, but that’s what I was going for when I bought it.”

“I hope Josh doesn’t wear too much cologne that night. He smells like a car freshener.”

“Fred is threatening to wear sneakers with his suit. My father will kill him.”

“Who are you taking, Nor?”

“Yeah. Did you decide yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“It’s a week from tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Professor poked his head out from behind the Wall Street Journal.

“You know, I’ve never been to a dance at your school.”

“Do you want to go to the formal with me?” I blurted it out with no forethought. I was beginning to wonder if I had that disease that made you curse at old people and pigeons.

“Uh, you know I’m pre-engaged?” Professor said, a blush blooming beneath his five o’clock shadow.

I didn’t know what to say. I could play the invitation off as a joke, but that seemed lame. I had to play it cool and casual, like the whole thing was no big deal. Besides, I wasn’t at all attracted to Professor. That would be like having the hots for your history teacher. Not the young one with the bulging biceps, but the old guy who loved to talk about the Civil War and smelled as if he had been a first-hand witness to it.

“Yeah, I know you’re pre-engaged,” I responded coolly.

“To Lilith.”

“I know. But we could just go as friends, you know?”

I could not ignore the fact that Russell was shifting uncomfortably in his seat next to Professor.

“Uh, this is, uh, highly irregular. I, uh, I’m not sure what to make of this.”

“How about if you ask Lilith? She knows me. I’m sure she’d be okay with it.”

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting this very unusual offer. Yes. Let’s get Lilith’s take on the matter and I’ll get back to you.”

The boys got off at their stop and Russell left without a good-bye. The girls assaulted me with questions before the bus even pulled away.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Why would you ask Professor?”

“He’s totally boring.”

“He doesn’t dance.”

“He looks like he smokes a pipe, for Christ’s sake.”

“And, he has an almost-fiance.”

“I know! I know! I don’t know what happened to me.”

“Why don’t you just ask Russell?”

“Yeah, he’d be a perfect date.”

“If I didn’t have Ricky I’d take him.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ask him.”

“Want me to ask him for you?”

“No!”

“All right. Jeez. Relax a little.”

The bus quieted down, and a panic quickened my heart. What was I supposed to tell my friends – that my dad wouldn’t let me ask Russell because he was black? That my father still hadn’t looked at me since our fight? That I didn’t even want to go to the stupid dance anymore? I didn’t know how to explain any of it without sounding like a racist myself, so I let it slide and prayed that Liilth would take pity and allow Professor to act as my date for one lousy night.

Professor answered me loud and clear on the bus the next morning. Instead of assuming his regular seat at the back of the bus with us, he buried his head beneath the Wall Street Journal in the seat directly opposite the driver.

“Hey, Professor,” I said when I recognized the briefcase on the seat beside him.

Professor put his nose up against the paper in an effort to hide from me. I sighed heavily and made my way to the back of the bus. Great. Not only was Professor pretending I didn’t exist, but Russell hadn’t met me on the corner that morning and no one had heard from him. This stupid formal, and my father, were ruining my life.

I ended up taking Joseph to the formal. We had gone to grammar school together, and he had been dating a girl in my Algebra class until she dumped him five days before the formal. When I heard of the break-up, I swooped into action. Although Joseph was an inch shorter than me, he did have a suit and he was white, so I figured my father wouldn’t object.

I wore my satin polka-dotted dress, my hair piled on top of my head with bobby pins piercing my scalp. We slow-danced a few times, but Joseph kept stepping on my toes, which were already pinched in my pumps. We took pictures under the arch composed of blue and silver balloons, and went for dessert in a little café afterward. A mouse ran across our table and hopped over Melissa’s chocolate mousse. The boys then ate the desserts that we girls were too grossed out to touch. It was the most disappointing night of my young high school life.

I hadn’t seen Russell once the week leading up to the formal. Although Professor was keeping his distance and sitting at the front of the bus, he did reveal that Russell was in school but was taking a different bus. I didn’t know what was going on, but I suspected it had something to do with my not asking Russell to the formal. I figured that Russell was hurt and was avoiding me altogether. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I tell Russell that I had wanted to take him, but my father had forbidden it? Would he think it was a lie? Would he think that I agreed with my dad, that I was a racist?

My fears seemed to evaporate the Monday after the formal. Although Russell wasn’t waiting for me on the corner, I did find him sitting in the back of the bus with the girls. My shoulders relaxed and I exhaled my worries when I saw Russell’s warm smile.

“Hi,” I said as I approached tentatively.

“What’s up, Nor?” How was the formal?”

“Boring,” I shrugged, my cheeks coloring with guilt.

I sat opposite Russell, glad that he was back and talking to me again. The girls gossiped about our classmates’ dresses and dates, make-up and dance moves. Russell listened and laughed, looking over at me from time to time.

“I would have loved to have been there,” he commented.

“You didn’t miss anything,” I assured him.

“Sure I did. I missed you dancing.”

“What do you mean?”

Russell cackled and clapped his hands. The girls’ chatter quieted and my body went stiff. It was that old familiar feeling - bracing against an assault I knew was coming my way.

“You dance like you have a board shoved up your ass!” Russell said between bouts of laughter.

He then stood up on the moving bus and swayed stiffly side to side, jutting out his hips at odd angles. The girls tried to stifle their giggles as I sat there dumbly, watching Russell imitate my spastic dance moves.

“This is how you dance.”

Russell stood in front of me, hips swiveling and gyrating inches from my face. I bit my lip and looked away. A tiny part of me felt like I deserved it. I was a coward for not standing up to my father and fighting for what I knew was right. I should have found a way to take Russell to the dance, no matter what my father had said. But how could I have done that? If I had defied my father, we might have ended up on Long Island, and things would never be the same between us again. As it was now, my father and I barely said good night to each other. I had made a choice, and I chose to do as my father said. I just hadn’t realized at the time that my choice would mean losing Russell as a friend.

It continued each morning.

“Damn, Nor. Did you even brush your hair this morning?”

“What is that smell? Did something die? Oh wait, it’s just Nor.”

“Your legs are so skinny I could clean my teeth with you.”

“Could you please sit somewhere else? You’re too ugly to look at before I’ve had breakfast. My stomach can’t handle it.”

Some mornings Russell pelted me with wads of paper. Once he tripped me and I landed on an old man’s lap. I was starting to fear Russell, though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else.
It went on and on. The girls didn’t laugh, but they didn’t exactly tell Russell to lay off either. I ignored his comments and taunts, concentrating on my homework or pretending to nap. I could have taken a different bus or moved my seat, but I wouldn’t give Russell the satisfaction. It was exhausting.

One morning, Russell wasn’t on the bus. I was so relieved that I actually slept during the whole ride and almost missed my stop. He didn’t show up the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. Ricky said he had stopped showing up in school too.

“What happened?” I asked Ricky, half out of curiosity and half out of concern.

“Nothin’. He just needed a break, I guess.”

Melissa was the one who finally told me.

“Russell’s under house arrest,” she whispered in the library one day.

“What? What for?”

“Drugs.”

“No way.”

“Uh huh. Ricky told me.”

“I don’t believe it. Russell doesn’t do drugs.”

“Not only does he do drugs, he was selling drugs. Where do you think Ricky got his shit from?”

“So what does this mean? Will he end up in jail?”

“Ricky said he has to do three months of house arrest at his dad’s, then he’s going back to his mom in Chicago. Turns out he’s in trouble there too. He got into a fight with some guy and the guy nearly lost an eye. That’s why his mom sent him here.”

My throat closed up and my heart did jumping jacks. How had I not known this? Russell had been my friend and he was in trouble, and I never knew anything about it. I couldn’t understand why he would be dealing drugs. His dad made plenty of money and Russell had everything he could possibly need. I wished I could call him and talk to him, tell him I was sorry for everything, that I wished I had taken him to the formal, even after everything that had happened. But we were no longer friends.

Little by little, our group broke apart and formed new groups. Melissa and Ricky continued to fight and make up, fight and make up, until Melissa found Roger and Ricky found a new dealer. Although she and Ricky were officially broken up, they sometimes hung out in her mom’s basement and played doctor. Tara became a cheerleader and got rides to school from one of her teammates. Kris joined the popular clique, the girls who could gut you with their words and look beautiful doing it. Jackie and I both made the softball team, but freshmen mainly rode the bench and carried the equipment. After a while, she and I stopped hanging out, too.

I tried my hand at different cliques, but nothing seemed to fit. I had spent most of my freshman year clinging to Steve and my Hoboken friends, and I had missed opportunities to hang out with new people. Now, approaching the end of my first year of high school, most cliques were solidly cemented and I had trouble fitting in anywhere. I froze in the bleachers during football games, repelled by the constant crunch of bodies against helmets. I doubted I would ever dance again after Russell’s interpretation of my convulsive moves. Fashion shows were a big social event, but what was I doing cheering and whistling for sickly thin boys and girls clomping up and down a runway to bad house music?

I felt like a fake and a phony and a liar. I didn’t know who I was or what I should do, but I knew that none of those things were me. I was the puzzle piece that had been bent and chipped, my edges too ragged to fit in anywhere.

Taking matters into my own hands, I decided to employ the editing skills Dad had taught me with his Super 8 camera. I cut out all the nasty bits – my fight with Dad, my decision to not ask Russell to the formal, the way he treated me after, and even the trouble he had gotten himself into. I cut all around the jagged parts, neatly splicing myself into a better life.

What I was left with were quick moments and memories that weren’t mine, snapshots of smiles and times I didn’t even own. It was like flipping through someone else’s photo album and pasting my face into another family’s trip to Disney World. It was all a lie, a fairy tale I told Erin to help her fall asleep at night. Russell was not a prince; he was just some kid in trouble who had a nasty temper. My father was no benevolent king, but he was trying to do right by me in his own 1950’s West Side Story kind of way.

I didn’t want the Hollywood version of life. I wanted to find my own starring role in a script that I had yet to write. The blank pages were ready, the pen poised in my hand. I stared down at all that blankness. And waited.

Continue reading...

love bites

“Oh my God!” Mom made a sound like a half a hiccup and began speaking in hushed tones. I floated up out of sleep, not knowing if it was night or day. My room was dark except for the glow of my alarm clock, which read 12:13. A cold fear traveled through my veins. I jumped out of the top bunk and ran out to Mom in the kitchen.

“Mom!” I tugged on her pajama sleeve as she was writing down an address on the back of a telephone bill. She waved me away.

“Mom? Is it Dad? Is he okay?”

“Shh, Noreen! I’m on the phone!”

Dad was out driving the cab. Any time our phone rang late at night while Dad was at work, I assumed it was the police calling to tell us that Dad had been chopped into pieces and thrown into the Hudson River by a demented customer in the back of his cab.

“Mom!” I pulled the phone cord taut and Mom swatted at my hand. Her hair was sticking up like a rooster’s from sleep.

“All right. See you there. Thanks for calling.”

Mom finally hung up the phone but continued to scribble notes.

“Mom!”

“What is it, Noreen?”

“Is Dad all right?”

“Of course he’s all right. What’s the matter with you?”

“I heard the phone.”

“It wasn’t your father. It’s your Uncle Ray. He died.”

“Oh,” I sighed with relief. “Who’s Uncle Ray?”

“He was my father’s brother.”

I barely remembered my grandfather. He had died when I was four. Some details still sat in my memory: the way I swung on his walker like a jungle gym, the tissue paper feel of his palm as he handed me a dollar bill from his bed, Mom collapsing at his funeral and being carried to one of the pews.

“Okay. I’m going back to bed,” I said, my body already heavy with sleep.

“Hold on a second. We need to go to the wake.”

“All right. Whatever.”

“Noreen,” Mom hesitated and I turned towards her. “It’s Friday.”

She waited as I let this information sink in.

“It can’t be! The dance is on Friday. I have to be there!”

I felt a tantrum fit for a two-year-old brewing in my chest. My hand slapped the kitchen table, sending a saltshaker on its side.

“Knock it off! There will be other dances.”

“Yeah, well other relatives will die. Can’t I go to one of their wakes?”

“Don’t get smart! Uncle Ray is the last relative on my father’s side. We have to pay our respects.”

“Maybe we should have paid our respects by visiting poor old Uncle Ray when he was still alive.”

Even though I hadn’t known that Uncle Ray existed, I didn’t like the man one bit.

“Get to bed!”

I stomped back to my room and into the top bunk, punching my mattress in frustration. I would wait until morning to break the news to Steve.

High school dances were not what I had hoped they’d be. There were no choreographed dance moves. Few, if any, slow songs played throughout the night. Where were the well-lit corners for intimate conversations?

The reality of dances was a stinking, wrinkled mess. House music pounded as my heart throbbed out of my chest. Pelvises grinded into me from all sides as random hands groped and tugged at my carefully chosen outfit. Body odor hung like onions in the air. The bathrooms were a haze of Aqua Net hairspray and cigarette smoke. A fog machine choked the air out of my lungs and the blur of strobe lights made me dizzy. We all crept out of the dances looking like drowned cats. Sleep refused to visit me afterward. My ears continued to pulse with the bass long after the music had stopped. Every cell in my body sashayed to the beat when all I wanted to do was close my eyes and drift off to sleep.

I hated high school dances.

This dance, however, was going to be different, special. I had already been to dances at Steve’s high school, but this was to be the first dance at my school. And, it was going to take place on our five-month anniversary. All of my classmates would get to watch as Steve gyrated against me and held my hand and kissed my neck, as he had been doing for a total of five months, without getting sick of me! They would see proof of the attentive boyfriend I was always bragging about. It was just one more step to prove to them, and myself, that I was a normal girl with a boyfriend who thought I was pretty enough to make out with. That was worth the sweat and the stench and the sleepless night.

“But it’s our anniversary!” Steve protested when I broke the news to him on our morning walk to the bus.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Sorry about your uncle.”

Steve hugged me close and kissed the top of my head. An electric warmth spread down from my scalp, washed over my face and settled in my chest. I wondered how a peck on the head could give me shivers that an open-mouthed kiss couldn’t even touch.

“I won’t go to the dance either. I’ll stay home and watch television. Or practice guitar. But I’ll never go to the dance without you,” Steve vowed.

My insides lit up like lightning bugs and I felt a tickle in my toes.

“No. Go to the dance. Have fun. I wouldn’t want you to miss it because of me.”

I wanted him to miss it. I wanted him to miss any fun or dancing or music that I wouldn’t be a part of. But I couldn’t actually say it. I didn’t want to be that girlfriend.

“Well, only if you’re sure. I mean, I won’t have any fun or anything, but if that’s what you want I’ll go.”

“Uh, sure, I mean yeah. If you want to go….”

“Okay, I’ll go.”

Steve pecked me on the cheek and practiced his air guitar for the rest of the walk to the bus. I hoped dumb old dead Uncle Ray was happy.

I woke up the morning after the dance to the muffled ringing of the phone under my pillow. I had fallen asleep with the phone in my bed, waiting for the late-night call from Steve that never came. Rolling off of the phone, I picked up the receiver.

“Steve?”

“Oh my God! I can’t believe this happened to you. Are you okay? I mean, someone died! And he still did this to you. Oh. My. God!”

“Melissa?” Her voice hammered in my ear. I heard the words but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Let me be the first to tell you. She is an absolute dog. Woof! I don’t know what he saw in her. You’re way prettier than she is. Her nose looks like a ferret and her hair….”

“Wait. What are you talking about?” I jumped down from bed and began pacing the bedroom.

“Oh my God! You don’t know. He said he would call and tell you himself. I am so sorry. Forget everything I said. Forget I called. This conversation never happened, okay?”

The phone clicked in my ear and Melissa was gone. I hung up and called her right back, but the line was busy.

A bowling ball took up residence in my chest and squeezed all the air out of my lungs. I tried to tease out the words I had absorbed. Prettier than a ferret. Or a dog. Something about my hair. None of it made any sense. I had to go to whom I believed to be the source.

“Steve?” I whispered into the phone. I heard his heavy breathing on the other end as he stayed silent. I was afraid he was about to hang up on me, but I didn’t even know why.

“Steve? Please say something. What happened? Melissa called.”

“Yeah?” His voice had a rusty edge. “What’d she tell you?”

“I don’t know. Something about you and a ferret.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes, that’s all. What else is there?”

I listened to Steve’s heavy breathing as I clutched the glass rose he had given me for Christmas.

“Steve?”

“Meet me at our swing in half an hour.” The line went dead but I still held the phone to my ear. I had been hung up on twice already, and I hadn’t even brushed my teeth yet.

Exactly twenty minutes later, I was sitting on the caterpillar swing, the site of my first kiss with Steve. I was wearing the gold hoop earrings that Steve had said made my neck look longer, and I swept my hair up into a banana clip to accentuate what he said was my best feature. I fidgeted on the swing, feeling like a kid playing grown-up in the park.

After a few minutes, Steve strode through the park and made his way over to me. His headphones were glued to his ears and his head bopped quickly to the music. From the scowl on his face, I assumed he was listening to Metallica.

Steve chose to sit on the bird swing, his second favorite after the caterpillar swing, leaving the squirrel swing between us. He stared straight ahead, lighting a cigarette and dragging deeply on it. The headphones stayed on his head, but I heard him click the tape off in his pocket.

“I went with Bertha. At the dance last night,” he exhaled gray smoke through his nostrils, pursing his lips tightly.

Bertha? Who was Bertha? My mind raced through my classmates’ faces, and her image suddenly popped into my head. Melissa was right. She did look like a ferret. Her front teeth were chiseled sharp, and there was a vague smell of zoo animal about her locker. I tasted bile in the back of my throat, wondering if Steve thought Bertha was a step above me.

“How could you go with Bertha? You were going with me!”

“I am going with you. I just went with Bertha.”

“What?” I began to get one of those migraines that only Algebraic equations could produce.

“Look, I’m really sorry. But Def Leppard was playing, and you know what that does to me.”

Def Leppard had ruined my life.

“Bertha and I were dancing,” Steve continued, “And then she was rubbing up against me, and her hair smelled like your shampoo, and it just happened.”

Does my shampoo smell like cattle? I panicked, trying to sniff my hair without Steve noticing. I would wash my hair with bacon grease before I ever used that shampoo again.

“What exactly happened?” I asked. The things I was imagining had happened were torturing me: Steve slipping his tongue into that ferret’s mouth, her tongue licking his earlobes, their arms intertwined as they laughed about me. I thought I was going to be sick.

“We kissed. Just once.”

“With tongue?”

“With tongue.”

“For how long?”

“About a minute. Maybe a minute and a half, tops.”

“Where were her hands?”

“What?”

“Her hands. Where were they?”

“When?”

“When you had your tongue in her mouth.”

“I don’t know.”

“Were they around your neck? In her pockets? In your pockets?”

“Around my neck, I guess.”

“And where were your hands?”

“Why do you want to know all this?”

“You don’t get to ask the questions. Just answer them.”

“Sorry.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“Answer the question.”

“Sorry. I don’t remember the question.”

“Your hands. Where were they?”

“On her hips, I think.”

“Did you move them up and down, or did they just stay there?”

“No, I didn’t move my hands.”

“So you kissed her for a minute or a minute and a half?”

“Yes.”

“And in all that time, your hands didn’t move?”

“No.”

“Not once?”

“No.”

“Is she prettier than me?” I asked, ashamed of the question.

“No, of course not! She’s a dog.”

A high, sharp sound escaped my lips. I imagined it to be the sound a ferret would make if something large and heavy crushed its head.

“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking for the first time.

“I’m telling you. It was the music and the dancing and the shampoo. And I just missed you so much!”

“I saw you right before the dance!”

“I know, but you should have been there with me. I felt really hurt that you didn’t come.” Steve pouted. “This never would have happened if you had been there.”

“Someone died!”

“I know. I know. Look, I’m really sorry. And I really love you. Can you forgive me? Please? It’ll never happen again. I promise, baby.”

There was that word again. Only this time, it didn’t make me feel special - it made me feel little and stupid.

Steve crossed his heart and kissed his fingers, waiting for my reply. My mind tumbled. The winter formal was coming up, and I had already bought my dress – black satin with tiny pink polka dots. Who would I take if not Steve? I was finally like all of the other girls, with a boyfriend who took me on dates and brought me flowers. I wasn’t ready to give that all up and go back to being the girl that was too ugly for anyone to ever love. But deep down, I knew it was wrong to say yes to Steve.

“Are you sure it will never happen again?” I asked meekly. My voice sounded small and insignificant. The voice that came out was not my own. A boulder of shame sat on my shoulders and hunched my back.

“Absolutely!” Steve quickly kissed me on my lying lips. “Just promise you’ll never make me go to another dance without you.”

“Promise.”

Steve stood and wrapped his arms around me. I hugged him with limp arms, wishing for that same jelly belly feeling that I had gotten whenever he held me close, but it was gone.

“Break up with him!”

“No! It was the first time. Give him another chance.”

“Once a cheat, always a cheat.”

I didn’t even know who was speaking. After my meeting with Steve, I had called Melissa for support. She then called Tara on three-way, who called Jackie, who called Kris, who called her sister the slut, who called her cousin in California, who called her friend the feminist, who called her mother and some other people I didn’t know. There were at least ten people on the line, each with a strong opinion of how I should handle the situation.

“If you accept a man back into your life who has broken your spirit, he will always own you. You will set the women’s movement back 40 years.”

“He’s not a man – he’s a guy. And we’re not women yet – we’re in ninth grade!”

“My mom’s been cheated on by all three of her husbands, and she said the sex is always better after they cheat.”

“Maybe because they’re learning new tricks from the other women.”

“Oh my God, are you and Steve having sex?”

“What? No!”

“How far have you gone?”

“None of your business!”

“Second base? I bet at least second base.”

“She’s either gone all the way or she hasn’t done anything yet. Girls who say ‘none of your business’ always fall into one of those two categories.”

“Ladies. I think we’re getting off track here. Your friend here needs your guidance and your support.”

That must have been the mom. Her voice was warm like tea with honey. I wanted her to brush my hair and bake me cookies.

“I think you should cheat back.”

“Let him see what it feels like.”

“Cheating is the first sign of an abuser. If you let him get away with this, he’ll think he can get away with anything.”

“Has he hit you?”

“Did he blame you for cheating?”

The conversation continued without me as I ran to the kitchen and gulped a tall glass of water. My head was swimming with all of these voices that knew me and didn’t know me. The one question I wanted to ask them would not make its way to my lips: Would anyone ever love me again?

“Cheating is the sign of an evolved relationship. If you feel comfortable enough to cheat, that’s just a sign that you and your partner trust one another completely.”

“Oh, shut up Mandy! You’re just saying that cause you’re a slut.”

“That has nothing to do with it!”

“Okay, could everybody just be quiet for a minute?” I finally interrupted.

“Thanks for all your advice, but I think I just need to figure this out on my own.”

“You should know something,” Jackie said.

“What?”

“He cried. The whole way home.”

“It’s true,” Tara added. “He was really sorry.”

“He does love you, Nor.”

“Winter formal’s coming up.”

“Think of the fun we all have together.”

“Don’t break up the group.”

I hadn’t thought of that. If Steve and I broke up, one of us would have to take a different bus to school. Would my girlfriends stay loyal to me, or did they prefer the group outings to movies and dances and parties too much?

“I gotta go. Talk to you guys later.”

“Stay strong, sister.”

“It’ll work out, honey.”

“Later.”

“Good luck!”

“Bye.”

Later that night, Steve and I were a tangled mess of limbs on his bed. Teeth gnashed into teeth. Tongues poked and prodded. Hands wandered into forbidden territories and were put back into their proper places. I let Steve press against my fully-clothed body. He wanted me, not that ferret from last night. I tried to relax into his arms, wanting him to feel that I had forgiven him.
Steve pulled away from me, panting. His eyes shone as if he had a fever, and his lips were watermelon red.

Nuzzling into my neck, he whispered, “Hey. Know what I want you to do?”

My body went rigid and my heart quickened with the fear of all he could ask me to do that I wouldn’t want to do, or wouldn’t be able to identify

.“What?” I croaked. His body pressed down on me, his belt digging into my belly.

“Rub your tongue across my lips. Like lipstick.”

“Huh?” After five months of dating and ten minutes of making out, I wasn’t ready for anything kinky.

Steve pulled me in close to him. I felt his whispery breath on my chin. He smelled like Root Beer and salt and vinegar potato chips.

“You know. Like this.”

Steve’s eyes closed and his tongue poked out of his mouth. He ran the tip of his tongue around and around my lips. It felt slimy and wet, like an eyeball. I fought the urge to pull away from him and roll off the bed to safety.

Cars passed by outside. More stars were visible in the winter sky. The moon crept from one corner of his window to the other. And still, it went on and on.

“Oh, yeth,” Steve lisped with his tongue between his lips. My eyes widened and rolled up to the ceiling. The man in the moon was laughing at me. My shoulders touched my ears as shivers of disgust shot up and down my spine. I was going to scream in agony if he didn’t stop soon.
Finally, I sensed him slowing down and tried to compose myself before he opened his eyes and saw the disgust on my face. When he finally pulled away from me, Steve beamed with pride. He didn’t realize that what he had just done felt like letting a slug parade back and forth over my lips. He was so pleased with himself I wanted to puke.

“You like?”

He was my boyfriend. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, even though he had just cheated on me with a creature I considered to be akin to a rodent.

My mother had told me that a woman had to make some sacrifices in a relationship. I thought she meant letting Dad have a fish tank in the living room.

Shrugging my shoulders, my face reddened as I gave my best ambiguous smile. Steve could barely contain himself.

“My turn!” he bounced up and down like a kid waiting to get on the ferris wheel. Closing his eyes, he puckered his already chapped lips and leaned in close.

My tongue poked out of my mouth, a turtle’s head reluctantly leaving its shell. I jabbed Steve’s lips with the tip of my tongue several times.

“Oh baby….”

Steve moaned and groaned and twisted on the bed. I continued pecking at his lips, pretending I was licking a stamp. My eyes scrunched shut and every muscle in my body tensed against him. I licked and pecked and poked until my tongue cramped and my jaw locked. I had nothing left to give. My mouth was dry and I needed a glass of Seven-Up.

“That was amazing! The best I’ve ever had.”

Steve and I had been exploring each others’ mouths for five months, and this was the first lip-licking session I had been invited to. Had the ferret introduced him to this technique last night, or had he been keeping this fantasy a secret from me? How many girls had licked the lips of my boyfriend, and had they liked it? I suddenly saw myself on a conveyor belt with a dozen other girls, our tongues poked out, waiting to lick Steve’s lips to his content.

I did not want to be a lip licker.

It was over two weeks later. We had started fighting about stupid things.

“Did you tell Jackie I was an octopus?” he accused.

“What? No!”

“You said you would call at eight,” I pouted on another occasion.

“It’s 8:15,” he defended.

“Exactly!”

Phone conversations were short. He replaced “I love you” with “love ya.” I no longer replied with “I love you more”, until he eventually stopped saying it at all, and I didn’t miss hearing it. He stopped calling me “baby” and I refused to lick his lips or even open my mouth for his kisses. We walked quietly and quickly to the bus each morning and didn’t let our thighs touch once on the ride to school.

I went to watch him play street hockey on a Saturday afternoon and was met with an icy glare. I hung around for a while, not wanting him to feel like he had chased me away, and I pretended to be deeply engrossed in the game. I casually walked away, taking this as the final sign that we had broken up.

Back at home, I piled all of the love notes and pictures and movie stubs into a shoebox. I listened to the mix tape of power ballads Steve had made me for one last time. When the tape abruptly clicked to an end, I ejected it and tossed it into the shoebox with the rest. Wrapping the box with enough duct tape to deter me from rummaging through the past, I buried it in the back of my closet, beneath my roller skates and Barbie’s Dream House.

That night, I cried into my pillow. My tears weren’t because I missed Steve; I would miss the girl I had become. A girlfriend. Someone whom a boy thought was pretty. Someone whom other boys noticed simply because she had a boyfriend.

I dreaded going into school on Monday and admitting that I was once again invisible me.

“What an ass hole!”

“He didn’t deserve you.”

“His ears were too big for his bony head.”

I reveled in the attention I was getting from my friends. Soon, I was surrounded by a cocoon of girls in the cafeteria, some of whom I didn’t even know.

“What happened?” Susie from Algebra class asked Jackie.

“Nor dumped her boyfriend.”

“He cheated on her.”

“Scumbag!”

That wasn’t how it happened. I didn’t break up with Steve because he cheated on me. I didn’t break up with him at all. We just stopped being us without even saying it.

“Good for you!”

“Never take a guy back after he cheats.”

“Yep. He’ll just do it again and again.”

I wanted to tell them the truth. My friends knew it – knew that I had allowed him to hold my hand and kiss my neck after he had been polluted by the ferret. But they weren’t telling, so neither did I. Their slant on the story was definitely preferable to the reality.

“Yeah, Nor heard that and she said ‘later!’”

“My ex cheated on me with his cousin.”

“I caught my ex taking pictures of my mom in the bathroom.”

“Gross.”

“Eww.”

I sat there and swam in their stories. Some exes had bad breath. Others kissed wet and sloppy like grandfathers. One still asked his mother to rub his back to help him fall asleep.

“Who will you take to the formal, Nor?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“Don’t worry. You’ll find someone.”

“I should introduce you to my brother.”

“I know lots of guys in public school.”

“Here, let me do your algebra homework. You shouldn’t have to worry about that today.”

“You should be eating chocolate. Does anyone have some chocolate?”

“I’m going to fix your hair. A French braid always makes you feel better about yourself.”

Susie did my algebra homework while Tess French-braided my hair and Gigi fed me hunks of Hershey’s chocolate. My new friends and my old friends huddled around me.

A new warmth took up residence in my chest. It wasn’t better than the one that Steve’s kisses and caresses had produced, it was just different. Surrounded by this circle of girls who all had exes, I realized that I was not a no one. I was an “ex-girlfriend”. I had an “ex-boyfriend”. For the rest of his life, Steve would have to refer to me as his “ex”. Somehow, I felt there was a real power in those two little letters. E. X. I was now a girl with a past. I had a history.

And, I liked it.

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tonsil hockey with my metal head

“Oh, Ricky!”

“Let me just….”

“No, I can’t.”

“Not all the way. Just a little.”

“You feel so good.”

“Come on, Melissa.”

“We shouldn’t.”

“Just half way.”

“Oh, God!”

“You will if you love me.”

“Not all the way.”

“No, just half way. I promise.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s not all the way.”

“Of course it doesn’t count.”

“Oh, Ricky!”

“Yes, baby.”

Steve and I listened as zippers slid open, followed by moaning and sucking and slurping. The noises were similar to those I had heard on forbidden late-night cable channels.

Melissa and Ricky were sealed away in her brother’s tent on the basement floor, while Steve and I were on the couch watching MTV. I concentrated intently on the television, trying to ignore the animal grunts and groans escaping from the tent. All of the muscles in Steve’s body tensed next to mine. I was a defenseless jackrabbit about to be pounced on by a salivating puma.

Steve’s lips lightly kissed my neck. My shoulders relaxed as I melted into the couch. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back as his soft kisses traveled up and down my neck. His fingers tugged at my shirt and tickled my belly button. I removed his hand and placed it safely on my knee. His fingers quickly crawled back up my belly and once again I swatted his hand from the forbidden land. It was a constant tug of war to keep his hands in their proper place. Eventually, I relented and found a compromise. Surely no damage could be done if I let him feel my boobs over my shirt.

I underestimated the power of my boobs. The minute I let Steve squeeze them over my shirt, he became a starving man sitting down to a feast. His teeth tore hungrily into my neck. Fearing the telltale sign of a hickey, I hunched my shoulders, limiting his access to my naked neck. He nibbled on my earlobe, licking up and down my chin, moaning and writhing against me, trying to get inside my skin. He pumped my breasts with his fists in time to Whitesnake’s “Is This Love?”. Even in the heat of passion, he still had rhythm. I was impressed.

It suddenly sounded as if the ocean were inside of my ear. A deafening vacuum noise consumed me, as I realized with horror that Steve’s tongue was burrowing into my brain like a slimy slug. It reminded me of trips to Aunt Eileen’s house in Massapequa. We would run around her yard barefoot, sometimes stepping on sticky slugs. Our remedy was to pour salt on the slugs and watch them melt into the grass. I wondered if I’d have to sprinkle salt on Steve to extract his tongue from my ear canal.

“Mf mff mff.”

Steve had finally pulled his tongue out of my ear, but I couldn’t make out the words he was whispering. Saliva was still floating in my ear, making it impossible to hear.

“What?” I asked, too loudly.

“Mf mff mff. Mff mf mff.”

I tugged on my ear and yawned, the way I would on an airplane. Finally, there was a popping sound and my hearing was restored.

“Say it again,” I whispered.

“I love you. You’re so hot,” Steve breathed into my ear.

“I love you, too,” I replied.

“I love you, Melissa.”

“I love you, Ricky.”

Declarations of love were lost in a sea of slurping and sucking and moaning and groaning. Steve’s tongue was an Olympic gymnast, somersaulting off my tongue and tickling the roof of my mouth. No tooth was left unexplored. I was mildly disgusted by the thought that his tongue, which was previously sucking my eardrum, was now tangoing with my tonsils.

Every molecule in my body was vibrating. My arms became heavy and fell to my lap. Steve’s hands traveled up my shirt and tugged at my bra, and I let it happen. I was sinking into a warm bath, letting Steve’s hands wash over me.

I felt a pull on my jeans and woke up from my make-out stupor. Steve was trying to unzip me. My hands shot back into action, protecting my zipper from Steve’s persistent fingers.

“No.”

“Come on. Just a little further,” Steve pleaded.

“No. This is far enough.”

“Melissa lets Ricky go further.”

My father’s voice, unwanted as it was in that moment, found its way into my head: “Don’t be one of the sheep. Be the herder.” I didn’t want to be a sheep. I especially didn’t want to be a pregnant sheep.

“I’m not a sheep,” I declared.

“What?”

“Nothing. I say how far is far enough.”

I crossed my arms in front on my chest. What kind of a house was this that left lusty teenagers, unattended, in a basement with a couch and a tent? We all knew exactly what kind of a house it was, which was the reason we wanted to hang out there every weekend.

Melissa’s parents were divorced. Her dad was rich and wore toupees. He didn’t visit very often, but he sent fat checks every month. Her mom insisted we call her “Alexandria”, but Melissa had confessed to me that her real name was Dolores. Alexandria wore too-tight jeans and Melissa’s tiny halter-tops, even in the dead of winter. She smoked with the boys, leaning over to light their cigarettes so they could drool into her cleavage. She showed us her diaphragm, explaining how it worked and urging us to get fitted for one as soon as possible. I marveled that her diaphragm was kept in a case identical to the one that housed my retainer.

“Ricky!”

A sudden slap sounded, and Steve and I strained to hear what was happening in the tent.

“What?”

“That was more than halfway.”

“It was not!”

“Yes it was!”

“How do you know? Did you measure it?”

Melissa burst through the tent flap. Her shirt was on backwards and her lips were Kool-Aid red. Several hickeys stained her neck like an island chain on a map.

Ricky poked his head out of the tent, panting like a puppy. Melissa stomped over to us, grabbing my hand and whisking me away from Steve. We settled into the corner, pretending to sulk, while Steve and Ricky smoked on the couch.

“They’re so disgusting.”

“Pigs.”

“They only want one thing.”

“Totally.”

“I’m so mad.”

“Me too.”

“Then why are you smiling?” Melissa asked.

It was true. I was smiling. And I couldn’t stop. Melissa wouldn’t understand. How could she? Boys had pawed at and pursued her since the fifth grade. The confident jiggle of her walk and the knowing glint in her eye told me so.

But this was all new to me. I was on a double date. I had just spent the better part of the night fighting my boyfriend off of my girlie parts. My boyfriend. He loved me. He thought I was hot. He had said so after taking his tongue out of my ear. What was there not to smile about?

Most days with Steve were like a photo shoot for Seventeen Magazine. We walked hand-in-hand through leaf-strewn parks and did our homework together on the bus. We carved pumpkins and decorated Christmas trees and kissed at midnight on New Year’s Eve. There were movies and snowball fights, ice-skating outings and touch football games.

All of our friends combined to form one large khaki-clad and loafered clique on the bus each morning. My friends – Tara, Kris, Jackie and Melissa, were joined by Steve’s group – Shadow, Professor, Russell, and of course, Ricky.

I secretly referred to Steve’s best friend Eric as “Shadow”. My sister openly called him “Elfman”. Shadow had pointy ears and a prominent chin. Pale peach fuzz clung to his chin and above his lip. He wanted to play drums in Steve’s metal band, but he sorely lacked any real rhythm or skill. He mimicked Steve’s every move, eating Steve’s favorite foods and singing his favorite tunes. He even accompanied us on dates, insisting that he needed to sit next to Steve in the movie theater.

Professor toted a briefcase in place of a school bag. He had a five o’clock shadow by seven in the morning, and he read The Wall Street Journal on the bus every day. He used words like “superfluous” and “decadent” in casual conversation. At 16, he had already presented his girlfriend Lilith with a promise ring, and they had a twenty-year life plan in place. Professor didn’t throw house parties – he gave dinner parties where proper attire was required.

Russell was still a mystery. He had recently moved to Hoboken from Chicago, where he had lived with his mother. He now lived with his father and his “uncle”, who shared a bedroom. Russell’s easy charm and sly smile made him a friend to everyone. He knew karate, and helped me with my algebra homework.

Ricky and Melissa spent most of the bus ride stuffing their tongues into each other’s mouths, or arguing loud enough for the bus driver to threaten them with a long walk to school.

Steve and my friends and his friends formed a protective barrier around me. I had somewhere I belonged, people I belonged to and with. It was the feeling I had always been chasing.

Each night in bed, I replayed the events of the day as Steve played guitar and sang me power ballads over the phone.

“I have a confession to make,” he whispered into the phone one night.

“What?”

“I really want to be in a metal band.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, but I think there’s something holding me back.”

“What is it?”

“I just don’t have the hair for it.”

It was true. Steve could wear all the tight spandex pants and torn t-shirts he could find. He could smoke a carton of Marlboros and practice air guitar, but his hair would never make the cut. The moment his corkscrew curls hit his collar, his mother insisted he get a haircut. He had the least metal hair of anyone I knew.

“Maybe you could wear a wig,” I suggested.

“Come on! Metal heads don’t wear wigs.”

“Sure they do.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“I don’t know. Probably all of them. Their hair is way too perfect to be real.”

“You really think so?”

“Or course! They all have the same exact hair. I bet they even have their wigs made by the same guy. No one talks about it cause they’re all wearing wigs. I bet it’s true.”

“I never thought about that. Maybe you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. Trust me. You can definitely be in a metal band. Your voice could shatter glass.”

“Thanks, baby. You always know what to say.”

There it was again! The hummingbird in my heart that took flight whenever Steve called me “baby”.

“Noreen! Off the phone.” Mom demanded.

“Just a sec!” I screamed back.

“I gotta go,” I sighed into the phone.

“Do you have to?”

“Yeah. My mom’s bitching.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“But I really love you.”

“I really love you, too.”

“Okay. You hang up first.”

“No. You hang up first.”

“You.”

“No – you!”

“Okay. We’ll both hang up on the count of three. Ready?”

“Yes.”

“One. Two. Three!”

Silence on both ends of the phone. Steve’s deep breathing broke the quiet.

“Are you still there?” I whispered.

“Yes!”

“You were supposed to hang up!”

“So were you!”

“Hang up!”

“Never. You hang up!”

“Okay, let’s try it again.”

“On the count of three.”

“One….”

“Two….”

“Oh for God’s sake Noreen. If you can’t hang up the phone I will!”

Mom pressed her finger down on the phone and the connection went dead.

“Mom! Why would you do that?”

“Your sister’s trying to sleep, and you’re making all this noise.”

“You’re the one screaming, not me!”

“Enough. You keep up this phone nonsense and I’ll yank the cord out of the wall.”

Mom clicked the light off and waited to see if I would answer her back while I sulked in the dark.

“Mommy!” Erin called out from the bottom bunk.

“What is it, Erin?”

“Noreen wants Steve to wear a wig.”

“Shut up!”

“What is your sister talking about?” Mom asked.

“And she really loves him!”

“I mean it, Erin.”

“That’s it. The two of you go to sleep. Now!”

Mom closed the door behind us as Erin and I breathed into the dark.

“I’ll get you back,” I promised Erin.

“I really really love you, Steve. I want to kiss your hair and wear a wig with you.”

“Shh. Erin. Did you hear that?”

“What?” Erin asked, her voice suddenly small.

“I don’t know. A scratching sound. Sort of like the boogey man trying to get out of the closet. I’m going to sleep before he gets out.”

“Mommy!” Erin screeched.

Satisfied that I had sufficiently terrorized Erin for the night, I drifted off into a peaceful sleep. I dreamed of hair bands and spandex pants.

The sun had not yet risen over the Manhattan skyline. The sky was the color of a creamsicle. My scarf was wound tightly around my face, protecting my cheeks from the wind and the world from my skin.

“Babe, what’s the matter?” Steve asked as he approached me on the corner.

I burrowed deeper into my scarf, but I couldn’t keep from crying. I had begged Mom to let me stay home. I pleaded and kicked and threatened to run away, but she wouldn’t relent.

“We’re not paying all this tuition so you can stay home because of a pimple,” she said, packing me off to school.

But it wasn’t just a pimple. It was the single worst breakout I had had since coming off of Accutane. My hairline was littered with acne, and two persistent pimples jutted out of my chin like horns.

Steve kissed the spot between my eyes, the only skin not camouflaged by my scarf.

“Why are you crying?”

“My skin,” I whispered into my scarf.

“What?”

“My skin,” I repeated.

Steve pulled my scarf down below my chin but I couldn’t meet his eyes.

“My skin. It’s terrible!”

I buried my face into his shoulder and cried into his coat. Before I knew what I was doing, I spilled out the entire ugly story – the doctors and their treatments, the side effects and the names I was called. Humiliation burned like a fever throughout my body.

Steve squeezed me tight to his body. I assumed he was doing it to avoid looking at my face while he thought of a kind way to break up with me.

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

“You’re not grossed out by me?”

“Nope.”

“Never?”

“No. Never.”

Steve bent down and kissed my cheek.

“I love this zit,” he assured me.

The word “zit” coming out of his mouth hurt like a jellyfish sting, but the pain dulled with each kiss.

“I love this zit and this zit and this zit,” he said as he pecked each and every pimple. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Let’s go before we miss the bus.”

Steve rested his arm over my shoulder and we walked to the bus together. The sun had come up, and with it, a little extra warmth.

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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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