by Foster, Lily
Carolyn had changed. She was tall, slim but curvy, with long brown hair that hung halfway down her back. I won’t lie, I’m a guy and my eyes lingered on the way her tits and ass filled out her skimpy volleyball uniform. But when I’d spy her laughing with her friends or smiling at someone, it kind of felt like my heart was breaking just a little bit. That same feeling I’d had in sixth grade—of wanting something so badly and knowing I’d never have it.
Drew bumped my shoulder. “I’m off,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of Carolyn and her friends. “I’ll be thinking of you tonight when I go home with a set of blue balls.”
Well, I did not go home with blue balls. Drew’s comment snapped me back to reality. Made me realize how futile crushing on Carolyn was. Instead, I made my way home late that night after getting an education in life.
Taylor was not what I expected. She was surprisingly…sweet. You couldn’t fool girls like her. She knew inside of ten minutes that she was dealing with a virgin and that made her even hotter for me. How can I describe it besides saying that she took care of me?
She took it slowly that first night. It was like she was the guy, asking for my unspoken consent when she looked up at me before unbuttoning the fly on my jeans. I tried to take control on a few occasions but she would gently turn the tables on me, easing me onto my back, kissing me and whispering encouraging words in my ear as she urged me on, instructing me as I did things to her.
That night was the start of a month-long romance. It was a romance on my part, at least. I was in awe of Taylor, whipped by the first girl that had ever given it up to me.
In English Lit we were still working our way through D.H. Lawrence. Now we were on Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I pictured Taylor’s face when I read about Connie, while I was Oliver—the hired hand with the rich, privileged girl. One line stood out when I thought about us because I knew, even in my lust-induced infatuation, that I was definitely not her only one. To paraphrase my new pal, Lawrence: The bitch-goddess…was trailed by thousands of gasping dogs with lolling tongues.
Taylor and I didn’t act like girlfriend and boyfriend in public. That wasn’t my choice but I quickly understood that Taylor didn’t operate like that. I would have held her hand, taken her out, defended her when other guys leered at her or made crude comments…all that. But Taylor didn’t seem to need or want that. She liked the world on her terms. If she wanted you then she’d plop into your lap when you were hanging out with your friends and she’d make it obvious. Otherwise, she’d wave, blow a kiss and keep on going when she saw me passing in the halls at school.
After a month of feeling like I was, in fact, a gasping dog, it got old. Like every guy who’d gone before me, I resigned myself to the fact that she was probably already with someone else. I saw it for what it was, got my kicks a few more times and braced myself for the pain I felt when I saw her pushing up against some new guy. I acted like I didn’t give a shit—that she was just a lay and nothing more—but it hurt.
Samantha had her arms wrapped tight around Will’s middle as they walked over towards us. He looked amused while she looked smitten. “Let’s all go back to my house. My parents are away,” she added that last part looking up at Will, smiling coyly.
A few people, Drew included, accepted the invite but Will shook his head. “Can’t. Anna has friends over. I need to head back to check on them.”
She rested her head against his chest and squeezed tighter. “You are such a good big brother, Will.”
I’m sorry, but she was nauseating.
“Uh, thanks,” he said, easing himself away from her. “But you all go. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.” He looked down at Samantha and gave her a half-hearted smile before turning to walk towards the field where all the cars were parked. I noticed, and so did Samantha, that he quickened his step to catch up with Tori Williams. I saw him place a hand on her shoulder and he smiled, beamed really, when she turned to talk to him.
“Tori is the fakest bitch on the planet.”
“Excuse me?” Erica challenged her, shocked. “Tori is not, in any way, shape or form, a bitch. She’s, like, one of the nicest girls in our class, Samantha. What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know,” Drew said, nodding his head in their direction. “Tori acts like she and Will are just friends but I think she gets off on leading him around by his di—,” he stopped himself and continued, “manhood.”
I laughed inwardly. It’s true that I didn’t care much for foul language but I thought it was funny that Drew considered me so innocent that he needed to watch his words around me.
“So,” he went on, “your house, Samantha?”
“Sorry, Drew, I’m not feeling it anymore,” Samantha said absently. She looked lost in thought for a minute before her expression changed and she said, smirking, “Did you see Taylor all but do the deed with Jeremy in full public view?”
Drew pretended to look at his watch. “I predict that Jeremy is getting the Taylor Special right at this very moment.”
Erica asked, disgusted, “Why do guys go for her?”
Drew laughed. “Uh, I don’t know, Erica, why do you think?”
“But do boys really want that, Drew?” she asked, truly wanting to know his thoughts.
He glanced my way before answering, “That’s not really what guys want, no.” What a liar, I thought to myself. “But for someone like Jeremy, she’s perfect. She’s a step up…or a step sideways from that one Vanessa, right? And Jeremy doesn’t seem like the warm and fuzzy boyfriend type.”
“No,” Samantha said, eyes like a predator, “he seems like he’s dark, moody and—”
“Hot!” Erica interrupted. She looked to me, Samantha and Kerri, who’d just joined us. “You have to admit, that boy is gorgeous.”
Jeremy was gorgeous and so…big. He was taller and bigger than all of the boys when we were back at Driscoll but now it was like he was like a grown man amid a sea of boys. You could tell he needed to shave every day and his body was well defined. Those days when my timing was right and I was fortunate enough to see him straddle his motorcycle after school and rev the engine before pulling away, I thought he looked more like a teacher than a student.
I was stunned when I saw him that first week of school. All of my friends had been talking about the new boy. The new boy was sex-on-a-stick kinda hot and he was dangerous—a juvenile delinquent that had just gotten sprung from a detention center. The one whose junk was, according to Taylor, colossal. Erica nudged me when we passed him in the hallway. “That’s him!”
“What’s his name?” I asked her, even though I already knew, without a doubt, that it was Jeremy.
“Jeremy Rivers,” she said, sighing dreamily. “He’s hot but too much of a bad boy for me. I draw the line at criminal activity. But,” she said, grabbing my arm and turning me to look at her, “I would love to have just one session with him. I bet that boy can kiss.”
Seeing him that day brought me down. I couldn’t concentrate. I was back to that week in sixth grade. Back to that teacher, whose name I couldn’t even recall, torturing Jeremy. I remember how strong the urge was to throw my arms around Jeremy and hug him, to let him know that he had a friend in me, to let him know that I cared about him. Angry at myself for remaining silent, for not standing up in the middle of that class and screaming, “Stop it!” to that sad excuse for a teacher.
I cried every day for a week after they kicked Jeremy out of school. In my lame little form of rebellion, I’d say I had a sore throat every time I was called on to read. I was so angry and I was worried. It was a month before the not-knowing drove me crazy enough to go see the school psychologist. I broke down in her room, telling her about the emotional abuse Jeremy had endured before snapping and hitting the teacher. When I angrily asked why Jeremy had been punished and not the teacher, she assured me that Jeremy wasn’t punished and that he was at a good school where he could get the help that he needed. It was Thursday when I spoke with the psychologi
st. By Monday morning we had a new teacher. I never saw that sadistic jerk again.
Was it true what they said about him? Was Jeremy a criminal? Did something happen, did something change him? He’d always had a rough edge; I vividly recall being the recipient of one of his angry rants. But I always believed there was a tender soul, a sad little boy beneath that tough façade. I guess he now looked and dressed the part of delinquent but I still didn’t buy it. I knew how the rumor mill could be at Westerly; you couldn’t believe half of what you heard.
The party was breaking up at the lake. It was too damn cold to be standing around outside. Drew looked to me then. “Want to hang out at my house?”
“You’re not looking for an invite to Taylor’s?” I teased.
He made a disgusted face and shook his head. “Why would I want ground beef when I have filet mignon?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know if I like being compared to meat.”
He pinched my ass as he moved in closer. “You are my sweet, tender, juicy girl. Now come to my house, please. We have an hour before you have to be home.”
“All right,” I said, although the thought of being alone with him made me nervous. Drew was intense. I mean he was funny, life-of-the-party and everything, but there was a side of him that was serious and single-minded. I felt like the day I said yes to going out on a date with him, I committed to being his girlfriend, to being exclusive. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
There was a part of me thanking the heavens above because Drew was Mr. It at Westerly. He was the football star, top student, gorgeous, popular guy that every girl wanted. The fact that Drew wanted me burned Samantha and I guess that pleased me too. It’s almost like I could see her shaking her head, wondering how Drew could possibly want me when she was available. I was happy but at the same time I couldn’t totally tune out the nagging little voice in my head that was setting off warning bells.
Drew had showed up unannounced at my house the day after my birthday with a giant bouquet of red roses. He asked my father’s permission before asking me out on a date. I remember my dad quirking an eyebrow as he gave Drew the go-ahead, totally baffled by how formal Drew was behaving. I was so glad Drew didn’t mention the age sixteen dating-rule-thing in front of my parents, as they had no knowledge of the lie I’d concocted. I said yes in front of my entire family—it was so weird. I was relieved when I walked him outside afterwards and he started cracking up laughing. If he hadn’t found that whole scene ridiculous too then I would have thought he was seriously deranged.
Drew was a perfect gentleman on our first date, and after that night he started calling me every day, meeting me at my locker every morning, sitting at my lunch table and making plans for us on the weekends. I was a willing participant who just sort of went along with it all.
“Come here,” he said, patting the space next to him on the couch in his basement. When I went to sit he pulled me onto his lap. “You know what today is?”
“Um, Friday?”
“Yes, my brainy girl, it’s Friday. It’s also one month since we started dating.”
“Oh.”
“Do you like being my girlfriend, Carolyn?”
I turned my body to face him, straddling my legs over his. He sounded unsure and it made me nervous, wondering if he was happy going out with me. I did like Drew. He made me feel special. And though it shamed me, I liked how dating Drew had upped my social standing. It’s not that I was on the social outs before, but over the past month I noticed how his friends, all juniors and seniors, now made a point of calling out to me in the hallways just to say hello. It was a level of status that I didn’t have before.
“Yes, Drew, I do like being your girlfriend.” After a pause I asked, “Are you happy with me?”
He nuzzled into my neck as he pulled me closer. “So happy, Carolyn.”
Drew was kissing my neck then, moving up to my jaw and then softly taking my lips. We had kissed a lot but never with our bodies in this position. Drew moved slowly with me. His hands had never touched any part of my body besides my hands, face or waist before tonight. But now I could feel him pressed against me, and as he kissed me his hands roamed up my sides and rested alongside my breasts. I tensed a little. Not because I didn’t like the feeling, the tingling in my belly that moved lower and the way my breasts stood at attention—no, it was because the last time a night started out like this, things hadn’t ended so well for me.
He sensed my apprehension and pulled back a little. “Hey, pretty girl. No pressure, ok?” he reassured me. “Your body feels amazing, I’m not gonna lie, but there’s no rush. I don’t ever want to rush you, all right?”
I nodded my head and smiled before I leaned back in and kissed him. Drew was good to me and he made me feel safe.
As I kissed Drew, tangled my tongue with his, memories of that summer dogged me. They pushed through even as I shut my eyes tight in an attempt to hold the ugly images at bay. Memories of him. The way he looked at me. The things he said. The way he made me believe I was funny, smart and beautiful. The way he made me feel like he needed me, desired me, that I was special. The way he made me feel cheap, used and so, so stupid the next morning.
I never could manage to put it behind me. The sound of his voice, those images, the ache in my chest—I’d never be able to forget.
The verdict was in. Academically speaking, my year was so-so. Passed English with a mediocre C, passed Art with flying colors, aced Math, passed Science by the skin of my teeth and failed Global History. With words like Mesopotamia assaulting me constantly and no audio version of the text book to rely on, I was screwed. I tried, I really did, but it was a struggle to manage all my classes. With the exception of Art, they were all really hard for me. I did the best I could.
The rule read: two failures and you were automatically cut from the team. With my History grade and the D in Chemistry, my coach informed me I was on academic probation. They were going to “figure something out” for me in the fall.
I trusted coach and hoped for the best because I was determined to play football my senior year. It’s not like I was looking to go further with it; I wasn’t interested in a college scholarship or anything. It’s just that football, like art, made me feel good. It made me feel accomplished, maybe even a little important in this world that I sometimes felt so out of place in.
As school was ending, everyone yammered on excitedly about their plans for the next two months. Vince, Frank and Vanessa would be around, each one working their asses off all summer, like me, to make some money. The rest of them? It was surreal listening to them talk about meeting up in Nantucket, Marblehead, or having one another as guests in the Hamptons. Some kids would even be abroad, their parents insisting they should have a European experience.
My summer experience, if I was lucky, would include sneaking a dip in the pool on the estates where I’d be working. I was actually excited for the opportunity I had this summer. I would be working for a licensed electrician who was a friend of my father’s, Denny Roberts. I needed to rack up a minimum of two hundred hours under the supervision of a licensed professional so that I could enroll in the apprenticeship program next year.
I had a plan for my future and it did not include college. I no longer hated school but I didn’t embrace academics to the point where I was willing to torture myself for an additional four years. I wanted to build, to fix, to make things.
Electricians, especially if you ran your own company, made good money. Yes, I wanted money. I didn’t want what I saw in this neighborhood—the sprawling mansions, the garages filled with luxury cars that were rarely driven—but I wanted to be comfortable, to be able to take care of the people in my life. So I would work this summer, snag a union apprenticeship right after graduation and hopefully, within two years, be on my way to becoming a licensed electrician who could run his own show.
Working this summer was also a necessity because I needed to start paying my own way. My father did all right b
ut money was tight lately. My grandmother’s health had deteriorated. Her dementia was more severe now. The second time she left home wandering aimlessly, we weren’t able to find her for several hours. She had ventured a full town over wearing only a light house dress and socks. After that episode, the decision was made to move her into a nursing home. My father and grandfather had to chip in out of pocket to keep her in a better home, rather than the state-funded facility she was entitled to. My father didn’t complain but I got the impression that it was really expensive. I wanted to do my part.
My grandfather was heartbroken that his “bride” was gone. He hated being in their house without her. Dad would drop him off at the nursing home every morning. My grandfather spent every day there, sitting by her side, feeding her and talking to her. She no longer recognized him but he didn’t care. He just needed to be near her.
Watching him sit next to her didn’t make me sad. As he sat reminiscing, flipping through pictures that Grandma couldn’t even focus her gaze on anymore, I felt content. That kind of love, the kind you couldn’t walk away or move on from—complete and total devotion to another person—it was incredible.
I was relieved my parents didn’t push back when I announced that I wanted to stay close to home again this past summer. I tried to act cool when I offhandedly told them I wasn’t into being a counselor at that academic enrichment camp anymore. Prior to my year as a junior counselor, I had loved that place, so they were surprised. I started going there when I was ten. Six weeks of being immersed in science with like-minded nerdy kids.
Among my hometown friends, I’d always felt like a fish out of water, a poseur. I trudged through outings to the mall with them and pretended to absolutely love applying make-up and trying out new hairstyles, when in reality, I was happiest with my nose buried in a book or tinkering with my mother’s cast off chemicals and bunsen burners in the garage.