“I’m not standing in the way when it happens.”
“Because he’s Mr. Perfect, isn’t he?”
I nodded. “I’ve never been happier.”
Katy pulled up a tuft of grass and threw it at me. “You are making me positively sick.”
Pete drove up in his mom’s station wagon and I jumped up. “Gotta go,” I said, grabbing my things in a rush.
“Wouldn’t want to leave Prince Charming waiting, would we?” she mumbled.
I jogged to his car and slid into the seat beside him, greeting him with a kiss. “Hi, handsome.”
“How’s my rah rah?”
I slapped his arm. “You know I don’t like that. And there will be repercussions for using any undesirable terminology.”
He raised his right eyebrow. “Repercussions?”
“You heard me. I’ll withhold all affection.” I attempted a serious scowl.
He pretended to gasp and faint.
“Stop it!” I couldn’t help laughing.
“I need a kiss in order to be revived,” he said weakly.
“You need a good swift kick in the—”
Pete cut me off with a kiss. I fought it, my attempts halfhearted. As soon as his warm lips pressed against mine, the fire ignited and my mind went blank.
19
Heavy Breathing
Pete and I lay entwined in the back of his mom’s station wagon, steaming up the car windows. We had long since left the Piedmont Theater after watching Meatballs, a hilarious summer camp movie starring Bill Murray. In our secluded spot in the Oakland hills, we explored each other’s mouths, now familiar territory.
Pete’s hand snuck under my shirt, fondling me through the lacy exterior of my bra. Heat rushed through my body and I kissed him harder.
“It’s okay?” he murmured between kisses.
“Yes,” I said, panting.
Pete fumbled with the hook for a minute as I tried to ignore the awkwardness. Heck, I had trouble with it myself. He unlatched it, the elastic material springing open. His hand was on my bare skin now, and I moaned softly from his caresses.
His lips left mine and ventured lower. I closed my eyes, savoring the sensations of his warm mouth against my flesh. Goosebumps fluttered across my torso and arms, but I only registered heat.
He pulled me on top of him, my long hair falling across his face. He pushed it back, cupping my cheekbones in his hands and kissing me again on lips.
“I love you,” I said.
“I love you, too.”
We kissed again, my body grinding against his.
Pete groaned, lifting me off him carefully. “What are you trying to do to me, woman?”
I smiled. “Sorry. It just came, um, naturally.”
He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hand and shook his head.
I laughed.
“My pain amuses you?”
“No. Well, yes. Sorta.” I sat up, banging my head on the car’s unyielding metal roof. “Ouch!”
“That’ll teach you.” Pete glanced at his watch.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” I rubbed the sore spot.
“Unfortunately. Either I take you home or your father will send his Mafia hit men after me.”
I punched him in the arm. “My father’s not in the Mafia!”
“That’s what you think. He already tried to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Pete imitated Marlon Brando from The Godfather in a strained voice.
“Then you better get me home before you find a horse’s head in your bed.”
We pulled ourselves together, climbed over the seat and drove home, holding hands the entire way as tunes blared from KMEL.
Once ensconced in the comforting embrace of my waterbed, remnants of the sensations from our bodies responding to one another fluttered through me. It was so different from how it had been with Alec. Pete treated me with tenderness and respect. I reveled in it, and my body ached for him. It was only a matter of time before we went all the way. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Fear and doubt descended with the weight and speed of an avalanche. Knowing Pete was a virgin—me being the first girl he’d even kissed, according to Reese—what would he do when he found out I wasn’t? It’s not like I could keep it a secret, plus could I even make love with a boy now? I shuddered, remembering the horror in Alec’s bedroom—the pain, the blood and the shame. If it hurt like that again, I couldn’t do it.
Tears trickled down my face, and I swiped them away using my forearm with force. The unfairness of it smothered me. I didn’t ask for any of that to happen, and now I could lose the boy I loved because of it.
§§
Pete and Tez picked me up Friday night and drove the short distance to Jaime’s, where we collected her and Reese. After everyone piled into the station wagon, we headed to the Greek Theatre for a Santana concert. My rock education continued, thanks to Pete. Although he’d only played one album for me, even I understood Carlos Santana’s mega talent.
Tez lit a joint and Reese passed around a bottle of peppermint schnapps as we traveled into the north Berkeley hills. Upon arriving, we all had a mellow buzz rolling. Warm air and a pleasant breeze wafted off the bay, a perfect night for an outdoor concert.
After walking into the arena, I understood why it was named the Greek Theatre. An imposing stage built from whitish-gray stone featured giant pillars and ornamental objects. Colosseum-style seating fanned out in rows, creating an intimate bowl-shaped amphitheater.
Although individual chairs were available near the stage, the majority of seating consisted of flat concrete slabs manipulated into the semicircle shape of the theatre. We found our assigned spots in one of these sections about midway. Pete had the foresight to bring a blanket, allowing us to avoid sitting directly on the unforgiving cement ledge.
Jaime and I chatted about my cheer practice and her summer job while the boys talked about sports and musicians. As the sun melted into the horizon, the announcer introduced Santana.
Performers covered the stage, including five percussionists, two guitarists, two keyboardists, a singer and Carlos Santana himself.
“Watch those guys on the timbales,” said Pete. “The one on the left is Pete Escovedo and next to him is José Areas.”
I stared at the percussion section, trying to figure out which instruments were timbales.
“That’s Graham Lear on the drums,” he added, “and Greg Walker on vocals. Did you know Neal Schon used to play guitar for Santana?”
My blank stare made my ignorance obvious.
He sighed over the music. “The guitarist from Journey?”
I nodded with recognition.
“Even though most of these musicians are masters, they can’t touch Carlos. He’s in a class all by himself.”
Pete didn’t exaggerate. Santana’s guitar wailed into the night, mesmerizing us into a trance. The percussion section also captured my heart with its Latin beat melding with and supporting every note emanating from Carlos’ magical fingers.
They played newer songs from the radio like “Stormy” and “Well All Right” and their popular hits like “Black Magic Woman,” “Oye Como Va” and “Evil Ways.” My favorite of the night was “Open Invitation,” an energetic song that stretched over fifteen minutes and got my blood pumping.
The concert over, we filed out of the arena, high from the show even as our buzz waned.
I told Katy about the concert on the phone the next day.
“You are so lucky! I love Santana,” she whined.
“Carlos amazed me and so did the entire band. Those drummers, I mean percussionists, they were playing congas, timbales and bongos. And that didn’t even include the main drummer!”
“I hear they put on a hella good show.”
“That’s an understatement. Pete says they play a lot in the Bay Area, so go next time!” My eyes fell on my poster of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John from Grease. I should take that down and replace it with a cool rock band poster instead. “Enough
about me, what’s going on with your football player?”
“He wants to meet me after practice.” I detected some smugness in Katy’s tone.
I whooped. “That’s great! What’s his name?”
“Nate.”
“Sounds manly.”
“He’s all that and more. And he’s got ultra-big muscles.” She sighed blissfully.
“And a KSLB?”
“Let’s hope.”
“You better call me and tell me all about it later.”
“I will. I suppose you and Pete are going out again?”
“Yup.” I grinned.
“So when are you going to do it with him?”
I didn’t have to ask what she meant. Do it only denoted one thing. “We’re heading that direction.”
“You’re not going to tell him about Alec, are you?”
That unwanted prickle slithered back, shooting from my head to my toes. “I don’t see how I can avoid it.”
“Don’t be stupid, Anna. You don’t have to say anything.”
“I’m no expert, but don’t you think it will be obvious, that, you know—”
“No, I don’t. And if you tell him, he will lose it.”
“I admit, it worries me. A lot. I don’t want to lose him.”
“So don’t tell him!”
Out my bedroom window, Pete pulled up in the station wagon. “I’ve got to ramble, Pete’s here.”
“Don’t do it!” Katy warned as I hung up the phone.
20
On Your Mark, Get Set . . .
Pete and I became near inseparable by mid-summer. Even though my days were full of driver’s education classes and learning so many cheers I dreamed about them in my sleep, thoughts of him consumed me. He logged time working for his father’s company, and the soccer team practiced for the upcoming season on weekends but most nights, Pete and I found a way to be together. Sometimes we went to the movies or out with friends, but inevitably we ended up in the back of his mother’s station wagon, in some form of undress.
We’d progressed from kissing in earnest to learning about each other’s bodies. It was new territory for both of us (meaning, at least this time, I wanted to be doing it). We fumbled our way through awkward moments and tapped the brakes when it got too heady, but every second opened my eyes about how sex should be.
The God’s honest truth? I was ready for The Main Event. I loved Pete, I wanted to be with him, and I wanted to share our bodies in that most intimate of ways. At least, I thought I did. It was only a matter of time before we discussed going all the way. My only angst lay in telling him my non-virgin status. Despite Katy’s warnings to the contrary, I knew I would tell him, just as I knew the news of my un-virgin-ness wouldn’t go over well, even more so on account it had been Alec. Our love gave me the strength to be honest. Surely we could overcome any obstacle.
What pained me most? I would give Pete my virginity in a gift-wrapped box tied with a big bow. It was meant for him, but someone else had ripped it from me first. So I would give him the next best thing: my emotional virginity.
Pete arrived at my house for dinner. After a quick hello, I left him at the mercy of my father while I helped my mother finish up in the kitchen.
I tore bite-sized pieces of romaine into the salad bowl, adding sliced tomatoes and cucumbers and dressed it with salt, pepper, herbs, olive oil and red wine vinegar. I worked quietly, allowing me to eavesdrop on the conversation between Pete and my father in the living room.
My dad questioned him about college, his favorite subject. “Have you given some thought to where you might attend?”
“Yes sir, I have. I’m considering a number of places, but it’s too soon to apply.”
“Of course, but one can never prepare early enough. What do you plan to study?”
I imagined Pete shifting nervously in the overstuffed chair, my father’s eyes fixed on him like a cobra, or The Godfather.
“Economics or maybe sports medicine. I’m still considering and researching my options.”
Really? I had no idea he was interested in such things. Their murmurs continued, but I turned my attention to my mother. “I set the table and made the salad. Do you need me to do anything else?”
“Can you put the colander in the sink, honey? The pasta’s about ready.”
I fished out the metal strainer and positioned it in the basin, its legs clanking on the stainless steel surface.
“Coming through,” my mother warned.
She emptied the pot and the boiling water glugged down the drain. The resulting steam quickly clouded the windowpanes, a common and comforting sight in the Trapani household. My mother combined the browned bits of pancetta, eggs, Parmesan and black pepper with the spaghetti. Carbonara was my favorite meal. I couldn’t wait to devour it.
“We’re ready,” she said. “Bring the bread.”
“Time for dinner,” I announced as I entered the dining room.
“Thank goodness. I’m starving.” My father stood. Although slight in stature, his protruding belly gave away his penchant for eating.
We all sat down, Pete taking Anthony’s spot in my brother’s absence. Meanwhile, my mother dished up healthy portions of the creamy main course.
“Ant’s going to be sorry he missed dinner tonight,” I said.
“It looks delicious,” Pete said.
I’m sure he had no clue what he was about to eat. He also had no idea my father would be tracking how much he ate, helping him determine my boyfriend’s worth. My father admired a man who could consume a large quantity of pasta, some warped method of measurement that had no bearing on an individual’s merit whatsoever.
With plates full, we commenced to filling our bellies and the polite small talk ceased momentarily.
“Being an athlete, you probably follow sports, right, Pete?” my father asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m a diehard Raiders fan and of course, my allegiance is also with our Oakland A’s.”
“No soccer teams?”
“The best teams are international, but we do have the North American Soccer League, which is always getting better players. I keep tabs on the San Jose Earthquakes and a few others.”
“Do you intend to play in college?”
“That’s my plan.”
“My daughter tells me you’re very good. Something about the top defender.”
“Yes, sir, I earned the award for Best Defensive this past season.”
“Congratulations. That’s very good. It should bode well for you on your college applications.”
Alfonso Trapani loved an achiever. I glanced at Pete’s plate. He wasn’t achieving there. “Better eat up or my dad will think you’re a wimp.”
“Anna!” my mother scolded.
My father chuckled. “Eat like a man, be a man. That’s what my father used to say.”
Pete laughed, twirled another wad of creamy carbonara on his fork and put it into his mouth.
My mother topped off her wine. “Where are you two off to tonight?”
Pete and I glanced at each other and I shrugged. “We talked about going to the movies, or maybe hooking up with Reese and Jaime.”
“To be young again,” my mother mused. “Not a care in the world.”
I arched my eyebrows. “I think you may be oversimplifying my complicated life a bit, Mom.”
“You go on and have fun. That’s what you’re supposed to do at your age. I’ll handle these dishes.”
“Awesome! C’mon, Pete, help me clear the table. We can at least do that.”
“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Trapani. It was delicious.” He stood and collected his plate and utensils.
“You’re welcome. You tell your mother what a well-mannered boy she’s raised.”
He smiled. “I will. She’ll appreciate that.”
We both sighed as we walked to Pete’s car. It was a relief to get away. They were tolerable as parents go, but we craved being alone.
He opened my car door. “What was
that painful noise we were just subjected to?”
I laughed. “You mean the classical music? My parents listen to nothing else.”
“Good God, it almost lulled me to sleep. Don’t you think your father would appreciate a little Van Halen?”
I shook my head. “He would throw it out the window.”
Pete slid into the driver’s seat. “Where to, cheerleader?”
“Surprise me.”
A knowing look crossed his face. “I’ve been wanting to show you this place.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see.”
Pete took the freeway past Oakland to the underwater tunnel into Alameda. He cruised across town and parked. We walked a short distance to the shoreline, where a pebbly but sandy beach stretched before us. He spread out a blanket, and we sat down. I leaned my head against his shoulder. The city’s lights glinted along the current’s cresting waves and stars materialized in the darkening sky. The night air, not yet cooled by the bay, left the temperature pleasantly balmy.
“Beautiful,” I murmured.
“I thought you’d like it.”
“You’re a regular romantic, aren’t you?”
“I have my moves.”
I laughed. “You certainly do.”
“I’ve seen enough of that. I’ve got my eye on something else,” he said, reclining me on the blanket.
Our lips met in unspoken agreement and our arms wrapped around each other. We worked ourselves into a frenzy, alternating between groping and making out for over an hour. I probably had a hickey on the side of my neck, not to mention other places.
“I love you,” he said, his voice husky.
“I love you more.”
“Anna?”
“Yeah?” I murmured, then resumed sucking on his earlobe.
“I want to go all the way with you.”
I stopped and met his measured gaze. “Me, too.”
“What about protection? Should I get something?”
“Yes.”
Pete’s fingers traveled south. I didn’t want him to stop, but my brain screamed, Tell him! Now.
I grabbed his hand. “Wait. There’s something I want to tell you. I mean, not want, but need, to tell you.”
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