The First Love

by Erinne Bates

  This is a fictional story…

  My sincerest gratitude to the following for encouraging me to dig deeper, go further, keep writing. Thank you for being part of this journey!

  Gregory Punshon: There are no words. Maybe a few fun-loving cuss words, but all with sincerest and deepest appreciation for your wisdom, guidance, patience, friendship, and sense of humor. I don’t know if you know how much courage you gave me.

  Pearl “Weezie” Monroe: Girl…. Ew, what?! I love you for everything.

  Amanda Dobbins: Thank you for your contribution to the cover of this book, and for listening to me ramble or say random things when I needed to work out the storyline. And for being cool!

  Gregory Punshon: Again. Because one ‘thank you’ is not enough.

  **Book Cover Design by Amanda Dobbins and Gregory Punshon

  For Josephine.

  The First Love

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  I was a loner before I even graduated high school. I had friends – plenty, by my standards, but I rather enjoyed spending my free time in my room with a brand-new spiral notebook and pen, or up in the banyan tree outside with my journal. I wrote poems and made up stories about love and adventure. I just knew my life would turn out like the stories I created. While my friends were spending time with each other, going on dates and discovering sex, I sat in my tree and wrote about magical places. I didn’t need to be around my friends to have fun and feel connected. I just needed to know they were there. My stories kept me connected and engaged, albeit in a world that didn’t exist, but at the time it was more satisfying than the one outside of my room. If I did feel alone I simply wrote and anyone I wanted to hang out with became present.

  I had already been driving for one and a half years when I met her. It was the summertime, and grandpa bought mom a horse that cost nearly ten thousand dollars. Looking back, it cost more than most cars. But I didn’t know that at the time. I didn’t have a concept of the value of a dollar. At that time all I ever had to do was ask for something and most of the time it was received. Not that I asked for very much. I wasn’t into clothes or fashion really. I think I asked for very little compared to others my age. Maybe it was because I never had to. New clothes were presented to me all the time from my mother. She’d say she bought them for herself but they didn’t fit properly and then she’d put them in my closet. I’d wear them, even though they were usually too big. I remember a friend in school told me I never wore the same outfit twice. Looking back, I can see that I was unknowingly very fortunate to have such an extensive wardrobe. That was not all that I had in comparison to my friends.

  When I had turned sixteen, I had the choice of one of two Volkswagen convertibles to drive. I chose the metallic aquamarine-colored one over the dark blue, which went to my older brother. It was a stick-shift that my stepfather taught me to drive in a shopping plaza parking lot. At seventeen and a half, I was in love with my car, in love with my life, and in love with the romantic notions I was creating in my stories. But I had not yet actually been in love with another person. I had had boyfriends since ninth grade, one that I was very close to, but I had kept my virginity for no other reason than a lack of interest in physical contact beyond kissing and making out. And I had been taught that is what God would want. At that time, I was interested in doing what God wanted.

  Then, in the summer that all of the greatest love songs describe as the magical transference from child to adult, when the purest mystical experiences occur in life, my mother persuaded me to attend an event at the riding stables where her overly expensive horse was stabled.

  I liked being around the horses but didn’t ride very often unless invited or attending a special event. We were members of the Hunt Club, where riders dressed to the nines in formal English style riding attire and hounds hunted foxes. When I discovered the foxes were sometimes killed by the hounds I stopped riding with the club, again unless persuaded to ride by my mother. I use the word persuaded because unless she coaxed me away from my stories I rarely took the initiative to do other things. On this particular day, she asked me to attend an event where a special guest was giving riding lessons to “kids my age.”

  I turned out to be one of seven riders. All of the others were boys between the ages of twelve and fourteen, so I felt incredibly misplaced. Why my mother thought I – a seventeen and a half year-old-girl—would be interested to ride with a bunch of boys in their prime of puberty was beyond me. I remember feeling silly and awkward in the saddle. Even my riding helmet felt oppressive and I suppressed the urge to hurl it away from me. Brie, my mom’s horse, shifted uneasily beneath me as I sat stiffly on her back, annoyed with my circumstance. A woman eventually appeared on foot and walked to the center of the ring, asking us to please gather around her. She was dressed in tan jodhpurs and black field boots, with her hair pulled back into a very short ponytail. I wondered if the countdown of the hour-long lesson had already started or was beginning only now that she appeared. I looked at my watch and hoped the first twelve minutes of the lesson was already spent while we were waiting.

  After a brief introduction, and by brief I mean she literally just said, “Hi I am Justine, and you are?” (we all gave our names), we lined up one behind another and on her command cantered solo around the ring. When it was my turn she said, “Ready! Steady! Go!” I remember it surprised me, as I had never heard that phrase. Her command was followed by a swat on the rump of my horse, who immediately bowed up beneath me before lurching forward. My head snapped back as Brie moved forward from under me while my body stayed in place. For the first few strides, I struggled to take control of her. By the time I looked like an actual rider who knew what I was doing, I was approaching the end of the line. Justine called to me to do another lap. I squeezed the chestnut mare with my lower legs and urged her forward with my hips, past the other riders, and around the ring a second time. My cheeks burned with awkward humiliation as the eyes of six pubescent boys silently watched for any parts of me that jiggled.

  “Well done!” Justine said as I came to a halt behind the others. It was then I realized she had an unusual accent. She approached me with a laugh and patted my boot calf, causing Brie to sidestep away. “Sorry about before,” she said, squinting against the sun as she looked up at me with this incredible smile.

  Right then and there something happened. I don’t know if I responded or not, but I remember the complete loss of my breath. I remember the most amazing sensation of butterflies and giddiness in my belly. Suddenly I felt really happy like I had just – I don’t know – found myself in the middle of a bunch of puppies. Like life was suddenly the most awesome sensation in the world. I no longer cared that I was weirdly older than everyone else in the riding lesson and stuck out stupidly. From that moment, I hung on to every-single-syllable that came from Justine’s perfect mouth. I wanted to do anything it took to grab her attention again. The sound of her voice drove me to do the very best I could, and I prayed the lesson would not end a second sooner than it should.

  When it was over, the parents of the riders swarmed Justine with questions about future lessons and schedules, while we untacked and brushed our horses and eventually put them away. It took me close to an hour. When I headed in the direction of my Volkswagen, I saw my mother standing with Justine still just outside the ring where I had been riding. As I approached them, I felt strange inside. Shy, perhaps, or inhibited. I was normally outgoing when it came to meeting new people, but in this moment that I approached, I felt like cement was in my boots and my body had become rigid.

  “This is your daughter?” Justine inquired as I reached them. She placed her hand on top of my shoulder. Her fingers applied a light but noticeable pressure.

  “Here she is,” my
mom replied with a wide grin. “How was it?” I knew she was expecting me to make the whole experience seem wonderful in front of the instructor, despite her obvious error in judgment that this class was intended for someone my age, so I did what was expected.

  “It was really great, thank you,” I said to Justine, frozen under her firmly set hand.

  “I didn’t mean to set your horse off like that,” she said, her voice breaking into laughter at the recollection of Brie getting away from me earlier.

  “It’s ok,” I said looking downward, taking in the way her field boots formed to her legs.

  “What happened?” My mom asked. Justine gave her version of the story. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but I felt a nice satisfaction with Justine making it sound like one.

  As she spoke I studied the details of her mouth, the shape of her nose, and the almond slant of her eyes.

  Finally, my mother asked, “Where is that accent from?”

  “Ireland,” Justine replied.

  Before we could ask Justine any more questions about herself, Mr. Brody approached us. His daughter Sue was a friend of mine, though we did not know each other well. Mainly we only hung out at events that revolved around horse things and now that I look back, it was probably because our parents put us at the same tables. I liked her very much, I just didn’t see her outside of horsey stuff. And really, if I am totally honest, that was probably because of money and status. But this was something that involved adults and I had no awareness of such things at the time. I don’t know if Sue did. It was something my parents never discussed, with me anyway. The Brody’s were well-known lawyers and bankers. We were small department store owners. The gap was wide.

  Mr. Brody, however, was an extremely personable man and someone I respected deeply. He had brought Justine to the United States from Ireland and hired her to teach riding lessons at the stable where my mom’s horse was kept. How they met and his interest in her specific teaching abilities was unknown at the time and unimportant to me. What I had to cling to was that she would return to the barn. Unfortunately, he was also her ride home, so his appearance meant that she was now leaving. He had fixed up the empty trailer he had on his ten-acre property and was allowing Justine to stay there until she found a place that better suited her.

  Chapter 2

  Once I learned Justine’s schedule I made sure I was at the barn during those times. It wasn’t like I could hang out right by her side. She stayed busy giving lessons throughout the day, both private and group. I cleaned and mucked stalls, helped cool off horses after someone’s lesson, and generally made myself available to all the instructors as needed. When I could, I watched her from the stalls as I cleaned. They were not very close to the ring where she gave lessons, but when I rested, I watched her, straining my ears to hear her voice. One day she called for me to cool a horse after she had given a private lesson to Mrs. Patterson, a woman who had only recently begun boarding at the stables. She drove a Bentley and was not very friendly. Not like everyone else was. I noticed that her accent changed every time I saw her. One minute she’d have a British accent, and the next she was a New Yorker. I thought of her as pompous and phony.

  The road leading to the stables was narrow and cobblestone, barely wide enough for two cars to pass comfortably. Mrs. Patterson liked to drive her Bentley smack down the middle, and more than once I had to pull off as she approached. On one particular day, I saw her Bentley coming toward me. Feeling annoyed this time rather than accommodating, I quickly swerved my VW toward her then back to my side. This made her jerk her car over onto her side of the road, and we then passed each other without incident. I never had to pull over for her again.

  At Justine’s request, I assured Mrs. Patterson that Royal would be cooled and brushed thoroughly. Offering no reply, thanks, or even a glance, Mrs. Patterson dropped the reins short of my reaching hand and walked off. Just as I was about to take Royal to the mounting block Justine asked me to wait so she could join me. I felt a thrill inside as I mounted Royal and waited for her in a shady area. A few minutes later Justine appeared on her own horse, Banjo. We walked the horses at a slow, meandering pace along a trail that looped around the perimeter of the barn, and was mainly used to allow horses to cool down after a vigorous lesson. It was rarely used by anyone except the groomers and helpers. Borders usually just cooled their horses by walking them around the ring a few times.

  “How’s your summer going?” Justine asked me a few minutes into our ride. I had been quiet until then.

  “It’s good,” I said.

  She leaned over and rested the palm of her hand on Royal’s rump for a few steps. His neck popped up and his lazy gait shifted into a slight bounce, then just as quickly returned to an unconcerned pace. I looked at her hand wondering why she would do that. It was something I never thought to do – lean on someone else’s horse as we walked. Her boot brushed up against mine, and I became acutely aware of how close she was to me, and how connected to her it made me feel.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked me suddenly.

  Embarrassed that she may have noticed, I said, “Nothing, just thinking about when school is going to start.”

  “And when is that?” she asked. Her boot continued to bump against mine. She took her hand away then and a gap returned between us.

  “Three more weeks,” I said. Then, on impulse, I reached over and tried to put my hand on the back of her horse, but her horse shuffled away sideways, almost causing me to lose my balance.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked with curious amusement.

  “I wanted to see what it was like,” I blushed. Justine then urged Banjo very close so I could reach him. He tried to move away from the touch of my hand again, but she clucked her tongue softly and spoke soothingly until he allowed me to rest it there. My pulse quickened when her boot was against mine again and I feared every strange and giddy feeling inside was embarrassingly obvious.

  “This is one way I test a horse’s temperament,” she explained. “I was just seeing how well Royal responded.”

  “Is Mrs. Patterson a very good rider?” I asked. I was trying hard to think of something smart to talk about. Something that might interest her. Something that might give us common ground.

  “Em…” Justine started, then chuckled, “I suppose I should be careful of what I say,”

  “Sorry,” I said, realizing it was also none of my business.

  “Tell me more about school. Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “No,” I said, then added, “We broke up.”

  “Why?”

  “He met a girl named Tammy,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said, and I swore I heard more amusement in her voice. “Then tell me, what do you do for fun?”

  At that moment, we arrived back at the beginning of the trail so I told her about my poetry in the banyan tree in ten seconds flat. I took Banjo from her and handed him off to another stable hand, while Justine left to prepare for her next lesson and I finished getting Royal cleaned up and put away. In the evening, Justine left with Mr. Brody just like she did every day, and without saying goodbye. Not that I expected that she would, I just had this knot forming in my stomach that I knew wouldn’t release until I got to talk to her again.

  That evening, around nine o’clock, the phone rang at my home. Stepping into the hallway from my bedroom upstairs, I could hear my stepfather when he answered it in the kitchen. I could hear him speaking calmly so I did not have the sense there was any kind of emergency, but I lingered in the hallway until he hung up shortly after.

  “Justine said there was a large bug flying around her kitchen that has now landed on her window screen. She wanted to make sure she wasn’t in danger,” he explained to my mom before they laughed. It was only a palmetto bug, but poor Justine had been frightened. Before I returned to my room I heard my mom mention my brother’s empty room to my stepdad.

  Chapter 3

  The last two wee
ks before school started were spent at the tennis courts down the street from the stables. Every summer, I spent two weeks at tennis camp, so my stable cleaning days were suddenly over as were my opportunities to spend time with Justine. Not that we actually spent time together nor was she even interested in getting to know me, a girl about to become a senior in high school. For me, though, she had truly become the highlight of each day.

  I loved tennis almost as much as I loved writing. But that summer of 1986, I did not enjoy tennis camp as much as I normally did. That summer I was distracted and often eager for the day to end so I could swing by the stables in case Justine was still there. I would check on Brie and if Justine was giving a lesson I would watch from a distance. Sometimes, I would feel brave and stand at the ring and watch. She always waved when she saw me, which was really all I wanted. To be noticed. By her.

  Three days before school started back, when I came home from tennis, Justine was sitting at my kitchen table with a glass of wine, while my mom was preparing dinner. Utterly surprised I dropped my racket and stared.

  “Do you remember this person?” my mom said happily, placing a large wooden bowl of salad in the center of the table.

  “Of course! Hi!” I said, finding my voice.

  “Justine is going to be staying here with us in your brother’s room,” my mom explained.

  I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it. Life couldn’t be that simple. My brother’s room was directly next to mine!

  I don’t remember any of the conversations that occurred during dinner time. I mainly remember feeling too excited to eat a full meal. I remember Justine ate most of the salad, and she held her fork with the tines down in comparison to how we ate with ours facing up. She mashed her food onto the bottom of the fork with her knife, rather than stabbing and scooping it up the way we did. We all commented on this to which she replied she thought we ate funny as well.