The Sally Ride Chronicle
Page 25
Those words, coupled with her tongue probing my ear, were seductive enough. But the look on her face! This wasn’t my intention. I’d wanted to let her know, in proper terms, how I felt about her. Yet how could I resist? One might as well have asked me to stop breathing.
I choked down the lump that had returned to my throat. “Absolutely!”
I steered Bonnie with my left hand as Diana nestled beside me and snuggled my right hand in her lap. Bliss lay over us like a down comforter. An enervating aroma—perfume, deodorant, sweat, and a musky, bittersweet reminder of recent activities—whirled me into recollections of this morning. I allowed it to sink in, afraid that words might overwhelm the sensory delight. Diana appeared to be of similar mind, with a gentle smile and a far-off gaze. I conjured tremendous determination, all the force of my will, to keep my eyes off her and on the road.
I would graduate in four weeks, and we’d spend one last summer vacation together before I departed for college in North Carolina. After that, who knew?
Shit!
I crashed down from the high I’d just experienced. Lately, such thoughts invaded and spoiled even the best of moments. I couldn’t escape them; they bled me like leeches in the Fox River, determined to ruin an otherwise enjoyable experience.
Damn it! Why must I constantly be my own worst enemy? Knock it off!
My gloom dissipated as I turned into Flora Park for today’s big event. Several of my classmates already whooped it up. I parked the car and rejoiced in Diana’s laughter as she responded to Tom Coronado’s antics. My good friend wore a “beer hat” and danced around like a six-foot-four-inch leprechaun in lead boots.
Tom and I had conspired to invent the beer hat at a party last New Year’s Eve. Those party hats with the tight elastic chinstraps had inspired us, but instead of a conical hat, we’d strapped on a plastic cup containing as much beer as one dare place on top of one’s head. Poorly balanced, it posed a high risk of spillage—the whole point of the game.
Diana hooked my arm and slid out of my side of the car while Tom danced his exaggerated slow jig up to greet us.
He offered his best Irish brogue. “Top o’ de fine morn, an’ a hardy welcome to ye.”
He shook my hand and bowed, the preplanned result of which is the emptying of his beer hat down the front of my tee shirt. I saw it coming, but he’d trapped me against the car and I was unable to evade the spill. Everyone around got a good laugh, including me, who’d dressed with such a possibility in mind.
I played along. “Why, thank you, sir. You are a gentleman, a scholar, and a drunken bum.” It was the proper response according to the rules of our game.
He became Winston Churchill. “Tit-tit, no need for that, what. I don’t allow just anyone to call me a gentleman, you know.”
“Please accept my sincere apologies, Lord Bum of Drunkenness.”
Like a rock star from the British Invasion, he said, “Hip-hip, right-o, and all that rot.”
The game thus played, party time ensued. We joined a few others who had gathered for Tom’s performance, and meandered to where the rest of our group, about fifty kids, had set up.
Tom leaned down and pulled three cans of Old Style beer from a cooler. Two nineteen-year-olds in our group, being of legal drinking age, had taken up a collection yesterday, and we’d stocked up for a long party. The cops, much like the school administration, appeared to be looking the other way.
Tom handed two cans to Diana and me. “Here you go, kids. Drink up.”
“Geez, you guys didn’t waste any time getting sloshed.” I shrugged my shoulders at Diana, who rolled her eyes and smiled.
“Don’t be a wimp, Tony-Boy.” He chugged half a can and expelled a burp for the ages. “Ah, breakfast of champions.”
Diana laughed. “Real nice, Tom.”
“Thank you, my dear, I do try.” He turned to me again. “Well?”
“All right, all right, hold your horses.” I popped the top off the can and took a deep breath. “Well, shit, here goes nothin’.”
Diana finished talking with several other girls about whatever girls talked about, and jogged over. She plopped onto the blanket and tackled me.
“Kiss me, my prince.”
“You wouldn’t be getting a little tipsy, would you?” I grabbed her ass and grinded her to me.
“Yep, and happy.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“Not until you kiss me.”
We kissed to the edge of indecency, and my hands became bolder by the second, but she pulled away and hopped up from the blanket. “I’ve got to go talk with Emily.”
Oh sure, leave me here holding my— “If you must.” I admired the view below her tied-up yellow shirt as she scooted away. She kindly threw in a couple hip flourishes.
About thirty yards beyond her, on the edge of another picnic area, two guys played catch with a Frisbee—one about our age, the other in his mid-twenties. The older one fixed his gaze upon Diana. It happened often and I tried to compose myself when it did, but it put me a little on edge. The younger one joined the festivities, and said something to the older one, who pointed toward Diana and me.
I sat up straight and my gut clenched as I squinted to bring them into better focus. Something about the older one’s face bothered me—his demeanor, his pointing, his smirk.
Come on, Tony, jealousy is not your most attractive quality. Relax. No sense worrying about some harmless ogling. Let him have his fun.
I didn’t want to spoil the day over nothing.
Tom wobbled in my direction with two more beers in hand, and a look on his face as if to say, I’m gonna get you drunk, Tony-Boy. I laughed and glanced one last time at the two voyeurs.
Screw ‘em! They weren’t hurting anyone. No harm, no foul.
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