“What you said earlier. You were right. And for your information, I almost turned around and drove back.”
We talked until morning.
He loved the poems I wrote for him. I tried to get a word in edgewise about high school, my freshman classes, my uncomfortable uniform, the senior boys who were so cute.
“Please don’t talk about other guys. I don’t wanna hear it,” he said, and my heart opened. I found it. A tender spot, a soft place I could put a finger on until it hurt both of us.
After we hung up, I fell asleep, satiated, forgetting about the need for kisses.
✵
High school was unlike anything I had ever imagined. It certainly did not resemble anything I’d seen on television. The high school-aged boys and girls I met at the Galleria, or through Veronica’s skinhead and punk channels, didn’t speak of, or attend, high school, which made “high school” seem like a parallel universe. The worst part was that Veronica was at another high school across the Valley. Abigail was at mine, and so were most of my friends from junior high and elementary school.
There were mandatory religion classes for each of the four years. Electives consisted of speech class, business law, art and art history, and few others. I marveled as students drove into the school parking lot, slid their cars into a space, hung out until the first bell rang.
For the first time ever, Abigail and I walked past each other into separate classrooms every day, waving hello, a palpable electricity in the air between us as the unspoken was acted out: a different configuration of the triangle had come into existence. I was more Veronica’s friend now, even though she was at a different school. I neither questioned nor concerned myself with this new development.
And there were other new things. One day at school, I noticed Dennis Monroe.
“Okay,” our teacher said. “We’re going to take ten minutes for some lucky people to prepare a debate. What are some topics?” he inquired of the class.
Speech class was composed of students from every grade. Dennis Monroe was a senior, drove an orange Volkswagen bus, and had the dubious title of “yell leader,” which was related somehow to cheerleading. I kept my eyes averted from the senior cheerleaders on game days, when their blue and gold skirts barely covered their butts, their sweaters unnaturally tight. Dennis Monroe seemed the safest bet for a public crush.
My infatuation was clinched in speech class.
“How about men versus women? Let’s have a debate on who’s superior: men or women,” someone called out.
The class stirred in their seats, people laughing and chewing out loud on this topic. We waited expectantly while students were chosen to participate, and ten minutes later, the debate began.
A young woman stood up and described the nurturing capabilities of women, their love of peace, their common-sense attitude. Her skirt almost touched her knees and I made a mental note to have mine shortened. We listened attentively, courteously, as she continued her argument.
“And that’s why women will always be superior to men,” she said in closing. She turned and looked smugly at Dennis Monroe, who stood at the lectern next to hers.
He looked down at the paper on his lectern, hiding what appeared to be a smile. I watched his down-turned head, his thick, black hair that looked a little long for the school’s rules. He looked up, treating us to his hazel-green eyes and smattering of freckles.
“Women,” he said, his deep voice rousing my insides, “are indeed deserving of worship.”
Our class looked at him and at each other in amusement. Our teacher looked as if he might stop him mid-sentence. I stared at Dennis’s face, eager to hear what he was getting at, how he might hijack speech class.
“For one, they are remarkable, physiologically. Way more attractive than men.”
The class tittered. I laughed out loud and covered my mouth with a nervous hand.
“And secondly,” he paused, his face contorting from smile to straight line, “they are multi-orgasmic. Who else can accomplish such a feat? Men can’t. Women, on the other hand, can have several orgasms within a matter of minutes…” he trailed off as kids shrieked, laughing. Three leaps and our teacher was in front of the class, red-faced and smiling nervously. “That’s quite enough, quite enough,” he said, and then, “Let’s get a different example, shall we?”
I watched Dennis saunter back to his seat. His shirt was untucked and his khakis loose. I allowed my body to feel the heat of early-crushhood, the prickly feeling of wanting someone’s lips all over me, tasting the salty spots, lingering on the soft, secret places.
Speech class became my favorite hour of the day.
After that day, I talked about my crush on Dennis with Jeff as often as I could. It seemed to cause a small commotion whenever I mentioned it, inflaming our visits which resumed, girlfriend or not.
FALL
1987
My destination most Saturdays, bus pass in hand, was the Four and Twenty Restaurant in Van Nuys. The bus dropped me off near the restaurant, before the long walk down a suburban cluster of houses that all looked alike. No one seemed to stand outside these houses, washing their cars out front, or even peeking out the curtains. I felt invisible and yet slightly important walking the sidewalks to Jeff’s house, if I was granted a visit.
Back at the Four and Twenty, before I could even begin my march, I had to deposit twenty cents into the public phone, press the buttons, wait for the cue. His voice came on the line and I put on my sassy tone, the one that seemed to get me the most from the situation at hand. I told him where I was and in the silence after I said it, I could feel whether or not a visit was in store.
I never knew who might be at his house on a Saturday. The call was a requirement, a signal. Sometimes I waited in the coffee shop, nibbling at a slice of key lime pie, sipping coffee, until I could call at the agreed-upon hour later, when he might be alone again.
On his bed, I watched myself in the mirror as I straddled him, the herringbone skirt I’d carried in my backpack for this occasion hiked around my hips, contemplating what he saw in me, what Dennis Monroe might see in me, or anyone for that matter.
I returned home in the late afternoon or early evening. I told my mother about my trip to the library, the record store, friend’s houses—if and when she was sober enough to ask, to listen.
Monday morning came and I listened as my friends talked about their weekends. I listened quietly, laughed at the right moments, asked clarifying questions attentively.
I did not bring up my weekends, how drunk I was, how late I stayed out, or who I hitched a ride from.
When asked about my weekend, I condensed Saturday and Sunday into something that sounded legal. What they don’t know won’t hurt them, I thought passively as I watched Dennis Monroe standing outside his bus on Monday mornings, as I listened to stories of dinner with parents, PG movies, and Catholic school carnivals.
✵
One Saturday, we made plans to see each other at my old school, the one where we’d met, so that I could help him put up some calendars and posters in his classroom.
I arrived at my junior high campus later than I hoped, feeling a little older and wiser now that I was down the street at high school.
Jeff was nowhere to be seen and the front gate of the school was locked. I stood around waiting, glaring at the cars passing, wanting to not appear like I was looking for a ride, or eager, or as angry as I felt for being stood up.
An hour later I saw his car. I felt like I had a tightly strung wire running up my back and the sight of his car made it snap deliciously. All anger and impatience was forgotten. After unlocking the gate, he drove his car into the parking lot and we walked to his classroom.
“Ready to work?” he asked me, rubbing his palms together.
“Well…” I began, unsure about the extent I was willing to work on a Saturday, wondering
what he meant, exactly, by “work.”
“C’mon,” he goaded. “There’s something in it for you.” He rustled through his backpack. He opened it wide enough so that I could see a single Seagram’s wine cooler inside.
“Alright then,” I said, and we commenced hanging posters on the walls with heavy-handed blows to staplers and thumbs pressed firmly on the golden heads of tacks.
We talked while situating the posters and photos on the bulletin boards. In the midst of the conversation, we argued, a recent but not uncommon occurrence. Needled by talk of flirtations with other women, I became silent, seething.
“What’s up? Why aren’t you talking?” he asked.
I shook my head. I had already gulped down the wine cooler and smoked my cigarette out on the street in front of the campus. The tears were building behind my eyes.
“You know, Wendy, this is fucking annoying. Your silent treatment is getting a little old.” He paused to look me in the face. I stared past him at the chalkboard, a replica of who I had tried to become in his classroom. Disinterested. Unshakeable.
“You should be an actress,” he continued, an edge in his voice. “You can make your face so blank, I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”
Silence.
“You know what? This is worthless.” He turned his back to me and continued organizing the papers on his desk.
A ripple of fury traveled up and down my skin.
“Worthless,” I repeated. I stood up, grabbed my bag and stomped out. As I left the classroom, a disturbing hope bloomed in me: the wish that he was watching me, the way my hair swung around my face dramatically, the way my body vibrated with heat and anger. I imagined the specks of color in the linoleum dashing around, searching for safety under the power of my boots.
“Are you really leaving?” he called out to me.
“Does it look like I’m faking it?” I asked.
The bus uncannily appeared moments after I arrived at the bus stop, and I boarded, heading back down Woodman Avenue to my house. After a cigarette and the short walk from the bus stop to my house, I felt the pressure leave my temples. Gripping the house keys in one hand, my backpack in the other, I unlocked the deadbolt and stepped inside.
A sour smell greeted me. The stereo was blaring and my mother was passed out on the couch, her mouth open, snoring. Her drink sat half empty on the glass coffee table, moisture around its base.
I tiptoed to the dining room table and slowly removed her wallet from her purse. I pressed it to my hip and entered the kitchen. The music enveloped all of the usual creaks and groans of the house, most of which I memorized in order to leave quietly when the stereo was off and I had to make a getaway while my mother was unconscious.
I rifled through her wallet. It smelled of worn leather and cigarettes, a hint of perfume and the soft scent of powder. My fingers touched several tens, a few fives and some tattered ones. I decided on a five and a one, snapped its clasp together and slipped the wallet back into her purse.
Less than two hours later I was back at the gates of my old junior high.
I called out over the ivy-covered fence and Jeff heard me from his seat on the wooden bench on the basketball courts. When he unlocked the gate, I could see Louis, the maintenance man, with him. They were in the middle of passing a pipe back and forth.
I acted casual and sat down on the concrete, listening to them finish their conversation, keeping my eyes off the shared pipe. I courageously fished out my cigarettes and lit one, not looking at Jeff’s face. I grabbed an empty Sprite can from underneath the bench and delicately tipped my ashes inside, staring at the green and gold can as I did so, careful not to let my eyes rest anywhere else.
“This is some good stuff,” Jeff said, standing up, stretching his arms above his head. “Wendy’s cool,” he said to Louis, who nodded and eyed me. I noted the dimple in his cheek and looked back down at the Sprite can. Jeff reached into his jeans pocket and produced an aluminum foil packet.
“Here. For helping me out with the classroom. Don’t smoke it all in one place.”
I thanked him and put the foil in my backpack. Louis chuckled and walked away, leaving us alone on the courts. After an uncomfortable silence, we walked over to the thick-trunked tree that stood as sentry to the campus.
I threw my backpack on the concrete and hoisted myself up on the first branch. Throwing my leg up, I pulled myself up to a perch. The ridges of the trunk and branches were soft and yielding, while their collective thickness seemed impossible to penetrate. From where I sat, one arm latched around a branch level with my head, I could see Woodman Avenue over the ivy-covered fence, and the lit entrance to the apartments across the street.
The wind was chilly and I realized I forgot to bring a sweater. The wind seared my skin, my skin that felt flush, alive. I admired my arm as it held the tree, the contours of skin wrapped over bone and muscle, the undersides of my arm desperately pale from lack of sun. It was nearly five, and the sun was lost behind clouds, night approaching. I looked down and Jeff and Louis were standing there, looking up at me. Jeff laughed when I noticed them.
“Are you sniffing glue? What are you doing up there?” he called.
“You better not be dropping acid or something,” Louis said with a smooth smile.
“Look, we need to head out,” Jeff said. “I can give you a ride home, but you need to give me the little present back.”
I sighed. I climbed down, trying to infuse a certain prowess to each decision I made as I carefully removed myself from the tree. I produced the packet from my backpack and handed it over. Louis stood by, shaking his large key ring. I nimbly climbed back up the tree as they joked around, saying goodbye in voices I couldn’t hear from my branch.
When Louis’s car pulled out of the lot and the gate was locked, Jeff climbed up into the tree with me. We sat in silence as the cars shot by on Woodman and the bus made its lumbering stop and lurched forward again towards Ventura Boulevard.
“Are we going to be friends for life?”
His voice sounded open, childlike, strange. I felt him looking up at me from his lower branch. I stared out into the sky, wishing all the artificial lights would go out so I could see as many stars as possible. I imagined him looking at me and reading my thoughts, seeing through me to the other side, his reluctant awareness that I might love him.
I looked down at him briefly and gave him a smile. Goosebumps congregated on my arms and my ass hurt from sitting on the branch. I swung my legs.
“I hope so,” I said finally.
Jeff’s face was still upturned, searching me, and I realized I was tired. Too tired to act sexy, too tired to flex or pout or fight. The night was open, empty. There was not a home I wanted to go to, but I didn’t know what I wanted either. Each thought seemed to require a massive feat of concentration, force, and energy, none of which I had. The boulevard started to look watery, blurred. I looked up the expanse of the tree, what was left to climb, and willed my chest to stillness, my eyes to dryness.
We eventually climbed down. Sitting by the steps of a classroom, I listened to Jeff’s mouth work as he chewed tobacco. I had to grow accustomed to this tobacco-chewing, which was new to me and only reminded me that his mouth was generally unavailable for kissing.
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” he asked me for the zillionth time. “You’re not taking any weird drugs I should know about?”
My face didn’t change. “Nope. Nothing.”
It was officially night. I had a fleeting thought of home as I stepped into his car, how my mom might awaken and find I wasn’t there. How she might hurriedly get in her car and go looking for me, as she had done a few times before, always sure to make a stop at the liquor store on the way.
Jeff locked the gate behind his rumbling Porsche and got back inside the car. He let the car idle, watching the traffic go by. I snuck a look at his face. T
he headlights of approaching cars lit up his cheek, ruddy and soft-looking. He turned to me.
“Let’s take a drive,” he said.
I felt a sense of being placated, his tone deferential and warm. The car was suddenly on Woodman and I was staring straight ahead into the night, tasting the freedom this kind of night allowed me to have, something heavy, thick, deep. I flexed my fingers, wishing I could take hold of this freedom in my hands. Keep it.
We sailed through the hills past Ventura Boulevard. We went up winding, sloping roads that made me catch my breath. I’d never seen them at night. He parked the car off a small dirt road, unnamed, lacking signage, one of the many secrets of Mulholland.
The silence was loud, as if conversations were flowing so fast they’d reached a drone, a din drowning itself out. We said nothing, while words, sentences formed in my head. I was too scared to put the words together and speak them.
When he leaned over to kiss me I knew it was only to cheer me up, to break the silence.
He started the car again and we made our way back to the lights of Ventura Boulevard.
“Don’t take me home yet.”
He sighed, turned left on Ventura, and we headed towards the west Valley, which always felt far from home.
The next time we pulled over, there was kissing, and small noises that came from my throat. I imagined the words I wanted to say lodged there, my mouth becoming more heavy with every kiss, every grope. Parked in a grove of trees, unsure of where we were, I had my first orgasm in Jeff’s presence. I could see the moon. My hand grasped the door frame of the Porsche and I closed my eyes, knowing his eyes were on my face. I didn’t want him to see me cry.
Then the night was shooting by again, the cars blazing on either side of us, the stoplights frantically changing from red to green. My stomach growled and I absently replaced an errant bra strap to my shoulder. I tried to see my reflection in the passenger side window without Jeff noticing.
The long brick building that housed a cookie factory and the beige Anheuser Busch brewery flew past. I wondered if I was beautiful or if my exhaustion, which I felt in every pore, was seeping through so that Jeff could see. I gave up concentrating on the reflection and stared ahead in silence.
Excavation: A Memoir Page 9