Maybe I played Spin The Bottle when I was 11 or 12; maybe a pudgy boy with curly hair, a goofy smile and a wrinkling nose pecked me on the cheek one night. I don’t know. If that happened, it so embarrassed me I never went to another boy-girl party. I rededicated myself to being the smartest kid in class. I hid my fears by always dressing nicely, kept my hair shiny and clean, scrubbed my face every day, shined my shoes, never letting anyone know that, inside, I didn’t feel like everyone else. I was scared a boy would take me from myself, would steal my soul and leave me weepy and limp and longing for love. I hid all that behind a suave, sophisticated demeanor, always ready to laugh, always ready to be the first to say something sharp, to be the girl who was more cultured than the rest, who’d been to New York City and who knew about Broadway and books and foreign movies.
But my facade had cracked. That weekend my thoughts whipsawed wildly. I could study for an hour, then I’d wonder why Mike had kissed me. And why I’d kissed him. Did that mean we were in love? Did that mean he was supposed to call me, and I should feel bad he didn’t? Did that mean I should call him? I got so lost in daydreams, I almost didn’t hear Mom when she knocked on the door, asking quietly, “Janie? Honey? Are you OK? I’ve got lunch downstairs.” In the Stein household, meals were sacred, not eating the greatest sin.
“I’m OK. I’ll be right there. Just finishing up this history paper…”
There’s no way I could tell her anything about Mike. Sure, he wanted to be a doctor, and that would be a big plus. But what would happen when she learned that not three years earlier, he’d been singing in the choir at All Saints’ Episcopal church? And she’d pry and prod to find out why I’d come back so late last week, or where we’d gone last night, or why my cheeks were a little streaked with tears. My mom was not a harridan; she was much more subtle in extracting the truth about her daughter’s social life. She used hugs and love, not guilt. I was her youngest, and no matter how mature and stable I pretended to be, I still felt like a little girl in her arms. I did not want to go there, because then I felt I’d never get to me in Michael’s embrace again.
My mood soared Sunday night when he called. I was downstairs, reading for fun, not school, and got to the phone first, thank goodness.
“Janie? Janie…” Poor Mike. He was such a mixture of innocence and self-possession. I never knew which face he’d be wearing. “I’ve been thinking about you …about us…all weekend. I’ve got to see you, got to talk to you again. When can we do that?”
“Can’t we just say ‘Hi’ in school. We are in third period together, you know.”
“No, no, school’s too…I don’t know, there’s so many other people around. Can we go out again? Next weekend?”
Saturday night, we went downtown, to a real restaurant and a real movie theatre, what felt to me like a real date. Afterwards, we tried kissing again on the doorstop. This time, it seemed like we knew what we were doing. We hung on a little longer, each using both our arms this time to explore the other.
This time, he came in afterwards. We sat down on the couch, just looking at each other, holding hands. I knew my mom and dad were still up, my dad reading and smoking in the den behind closed, glass-paneled french doors, partially hidden by the grand piano we’d bought for Eddie when he started showing some talent. Mom breezed in, her usual open smile broadening a bit when she saw us. She looked like she was going to sit on the comfy chair next to us, the leather one with dark red fabric draping over the arms. She seemed to think better of it, and remained standing while she started to gently grill Michael. He dropped my hand when she asked, “Janie says you’re going to Amherst next fall?”
I was amazed at the tone Mike took on when he answered, “Yes, I just fell in love with it when I went there with my family last October. The trees were just turning, all the buildings were still covered with that green ivy, the kids all seemed so busy and so…focused. Then I got interviewed by the admissions director, and just felt at home right away.”
“But it’s so small. Don’t you want to go to a bigger school?”
“No; no, I think I learn best when I’m with a small group. The professors there, they will actually teach the classes, you know, not leave it to assistants or grad students. A few years ago, they sold their publishing house to IBM, and that stock has grown so much their endowment is getting bigger. That means higher salaries for good professors, more resources for student life, new buildings.” This was another side of Mike I hadn’t seen yet, an ambitious, almost adult view of things. And my mother got it out of him in less than a minute.
“And what do you intend to study when you get there?”
“Pre-med. But I have a lot of credits already, from AP classes, so I can take classes in things I want to learn about, like literature, philosophy, psychology.” I knew mom was judging the qualities she valued most, drive, respect for academic work, stability. I was hoping he was passing the test.
“Ok, then, you two stay quiet down here, if you watch TV, keep it low. I’m going to go get dad up to bed.” She knocked on the french doors of the den,, crooked her finger, and pointed up stairs. That left us one the couch, with very clear instructions: You’ve got freedom, but just so you follow the rules. The problem was, I didn’t know what those rules were.
Once they’d gone upstairs, Mike snuggled a little closer. His left hand found both of mine, lying limp in my lap both. His right, he draped around my shoulder. He gave a little tug. I dropped my head, resting it against his chest. I felt safe, protected there, against what I did not know.