She shrugs. “Yeah, that’s pretty much how I felt.”
“You mean the first time you did it?”
She nods.
“When was that?” I ask.
“I was fourteen.”
“Fourteen?” I feel my eyes widen and hope I don’t look too shocked.
“Yeah, looking back, I guess it was a little young. But at the time it seemed okay.”
“And you really wanted to do it?”
She shrugs again. “I don’t know.”
“Were you pressured?”
She laughs now. “Ya think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, Zoë, the guy was seventeen. I was fourteen. Whose idea do you think it really was to get it on?”
I nod. “Well, did you enjoy it?”
Now she laughs even harder, but the sadness in her eyes betrays her. “I don’t know any girl who really enjoys it. At least not the first time,” she finally says.
I frown.
“Look, do you want me to be really honest with you, Zoë? Or do you want the sugarcoated crud that girls like Thea and Kirsti dish out all the time?”
“Honesty would be nice.”
So she launches into some fairly graphic details about how it’s painful, awkward, humiliating, and best to just get it over with. “It’s not like you see in the movies,” she tells me as she dips a fry in ketchup.
“Oh.”
“But don’t worry,” she assures me, “it gets better in time.”
“It must,” I say in a flat tone. “Otherwise people wouldn’t keep doing it, right?”
Now she laughs so loudly that half the people in Dairy Queen are looking our way. “Yeah, and then everyone would stop reproducing and the human race would die off and before long apes would rule the planet.”
I smile. “We probably don’t need to worry about that.”
“No, probably not.”
I appreciate her candidness, but I’m not sure that it makes me any less confused. Finally I ask her the question that’s really burning on my mind. “Shawna,” I say just as we’re finishing up, “if you had it all to do over again, would you have done anything differently?”
She looks down at the burger debris spread across our table and sighs. “Maybe.”
“Like how?” I persist.
Now she looks slightly irritated, like maybe I’ve pushed her just a little too far, but she answers. “Like maybe I would’ve waited.” Then she narrows her eyes and reaches for her bag. “But that’s all I’m saying about that.”
“Yeah, okay.” We both stand up.
“Look, Zoë,” she says as we exit the restaurant. “I’m not really an expert on this stuff. Maybe you should talk to someone else.”
“Oh, I appreciate your honesty.” I don’t tell her that compared to girls like me or Emily or even Andrea, she is quite the expert. I have a feeling she would take that all wrong. So I change the subject as she drives me home.
Mom’s the only one home when I get there. She’s making a pot of tea in the kitchen and asks me if I’d like some. I’m not really big into tea, but think maybe this is an opportunity to talk to her. Not that I really want to ask her about sex exactly. I mean she’s already given me the old mandatory sex talk (like back when I was twelve), and I could tell it made her uncomfortable then, but now that I’m older, maybe she’s more relaxed. Still, I’m not sure. But I accept a cup of tea and we both sit down across from each other at the breakfast bar.
“How’s the play coming?” she asks. Standard parental ice-breaker question. And just to be nice I play along.
“It’s okay.”
“How’s Justin doing?” Another standard question. Only this one means, What’s happening with you and Justin? Anything you’d like to talk to me about? I can read this woman like a book.
“He’s okay,” I say. Now I feel a little guilty for my lack of cooperation. I mean here I am, the one who really needs to talk, and I’m just shutting her down right and left.
“Oh.”
Then there’s this long silence and I can tell it’s up to me. “Mom?” I begin.
She looks up from the magazine she’s been flipping through. “Yes?”
“Well, I’m trying to figure some things out. . . .”
“Like what, Zoë?”
“Oh, you know,” I try to act nonchalant. “The old questions about life and love and happiness.”
She kind of smiles. “Oh, all that simple stuff.”
“What was it like when you met Dad?” I ask. “And I don’t mean the standard story about how you met as short-term missionary volunteers in Peru then got married after only knowing each other for a month.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what was it really like? How did you feel? How did you know you were really in love? How could you be so certain that he was the man you wanted to marry?” Naturally, I don’t say “have sex with,” since this is my mom, but I suppose this is what I’m really getting at. And in their case, if they’re telling the truth, sex and marriage had pretty much come hand in hand. So I think it works.
She pushes her magazine aside and considers this. “That’s a lot of questions.”
I nod. “Well, just do your best.”
She smiles then launches into the story of how they met. They were both teachers in the mission school, she had just arrived to teach second grade, and he’d been there for about a year teaching high school science classes.
“It seemed like love at first sight,” she says in a slightly dreamy voice (I prepare myself for doves and violins now). “I’d only been there a week and on Saturday, I’d gone to get produce at the market, you know where the locals set up tables and sell food outside, and I was so excited about all the fresh fruits and vegetables that I got carried away. I filled my burlap shopping bag so full that it split open—”
“Yeah, Mom, I know this part. And Dad helped you get your stuff home and all that. But what happened between the two of you, how did you feel? How did you know?”
“Right.” She thinks for a moment. “Well, I noticed him right away. And I thought he was very handsome. You know, he still had a full head of hair back then, as well as a nice beard. But there was something in his eyes that just got to me, sort of took my breath away. . . .”
“Yeah?”
“And I remember when we got to my house, how he handed me back my melons and vegetables, well, his hand brushed mine a couple of times, and it felt like a little jolt of electricity. I think he must’ve felt it too, because we both looked at each other—right in the eyes—and, well, I think we both sort of knew that something was going on.”
“So you had chemistry?”
She laughs. “Yes, you could definitely say that.”
“What then?”
“He arranged for some friends to invite us both to dinner. The couple knew that he was interested in me and gave us plenty of time to be alone.”
“And what did you do?” I tried not to imagine my parents kissing and pawing each other the way that Justin and I had done during play practice today.
“We just talked.”
“Talked?” I feel disappointed. “That’s all?”
“It was more than enough, Zoë. We just talked and talked and it’s like we never had enough time to talk about everything.”
“But what about the chemistry?”
“Oh, it was there. You could just about feel the electricity snapping in the air between us.”
“But you just talked?” I can hear the skepticism growing in my voice.
“I can’t explain it,” she says. “But all we wanted to do was to get to know each other better.”
“And you didn’t kiss or anything?”
She laughs. “Of course we kissed. But not for a while.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing we were there as missionaries and we had to watch our manners. But, besides that, I think we both just wanted to get to know each other without be
ing distracted with all the physical . . . well, pleasures.” She smiles now, as if she’s remembering something special. “But we knew it was there . . . we knew that we’d get the whole enchilada in time.”
“So when did you first kiss?”
“We’d spent every spare moment together for about two weeks,” she tells me. “And then your dad invited me to drive to a nearby town with him for dinner.” She sighs now. “It was a beautiful evening, like something right out of a movie. Driving through the mountains as the sun set, eating at this place with little tables and strings of colored lights and candles at each table. So romantic. After dinner, we took a little walk and went across a bridge and then stopped and looked at the stars. And then your dad asked if he could kiss me.”
“He actually asked?”
She nods. “Of course, I said yes. And what a kiss!”
“Okay, okay.” I hold my hands now. “You don’t have to go into all the details.”
“You’re the one who asked.”
“Right. So, you guys kissed and then what?”
“Well, it was obvious that we were both highly attracted to each other. But we knew that we couldn’t go around kissing each other back on the mission base. After just one more week, and only three weeks since we’d first met, your dad proposed.”
“And you accepted.”
“And we got permission from the mission director to elope,” she says. “It worked out nicely since there was a one-week break the following week and we were able to enjoy a short honeymoon on the coast.” She gets quiet now as if she’s gone back in time. I don’t know what to say. Then she continues. “Another interesting thing about our romance,” she says in a serious voice, “we were both virgins, Zoë.”
Now I’m holding up both hands, as in too much information. “That’s okay, Mom,” I say quickly. “We don’t need to go there.”
“But I want to. I want you to know that it was the best thing for both of us. We both came into the marriage completely free of some of the baggage that I see other people dealing with. Being married isn’t easy for anyone, but it’s so much better when you wait.”
“Okay, okay.” I nod. “I get the message. No regrets about waiting.” Now I want to take this another direction. Any direction. “So did you have any regrets about anything?”
She nods now and suddenly I’m very curious.
“What?” I demand. “What did you regret?”
“Oh, sometimes I wish we’d been able to have a traditional wedding with our family and friends. But we would’ve had to wait a year for that. So it just didn’t seem practical.”
“But you didn’t regret getting married so soon?”
“Not at all, Zoë. I knew, deep down in my heart that your dad was the one for me. I think God gave me a strong sense of peace about him. And I knew that I could trust him with my life. And, mostly, he hasn’t let me down.”
“Mostly?”
“Well, he’s certainly not perfect. No one is. And you know as well as anyone that we’ve had our ups and downs. But, honestly, if I had it all to do over, I wouldn’t change a thing. I would still marry your dad.”
I pat her hand now. “That’s nice, Mom. Thanks for telling me.” Okay, it’s still kind of a storybook romance, but if that’s the way she really sees it, well, who am I to question it? I suppose things like that can happen to some people. Then I think of something else. “But were there any other guys, Mom? I mean before Dad?”
She looks kind of embarrassed now. “You mean boyfriends?”
I nod eagerly.
“Well, of course.”
“Anything serious?”
“I don’t know . . .”
But I can tell she does know. “Come on, Mom. Tell me.”
“Okay.” She looks up at the ceiling as if she’s trying to remember, but I suspect it’s a cover-up. I think she remembers it vividly. “There was Michael Stuart during my junior year.”
“Yeah?” I lean forward with interest.
“We went together for most of the year, and I suppose I thought I was in love.”
“Were you?”
She shrugs. “In retrospect? Probably not. But at the time I thought I was.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing too unusual. Michael was a senior that year. He graduated and went to college. We wrote for a while. Then he met another girl and sort of broke my heart. But I got over it pretty quickly. So I suppose it wasn’t really love.”
“Did you guys kiss?”
She smiles sheepishly now. “Well, what do you think?”
I nod. “I think you did.” Then I decide to press further. “Anything else?”
Her cheeks start to glow a little and suddenly I’m thinking maybe I hit pay dirt. “Well, I won’t deny that he wanted to do more—a lot more in fact—but I wasn’t comfortable with it. So I just said no.” She gets thoughtful now. “Come to think of it, that might have something to do with his finding another girlfriend.”
I laugh. “Sounds like not much of a loss for you.”
“No, it sure wasn’t. When I think I could’ve ended up married to someone like Michael Stuart instead of your dad, well, it’s just too scary to think about.”
So there you have it, my mom’s “love stories.” Not terribly interesting, but perhaps there is something to be learned there. And I suppose it’s something to weigh against Shawna’s stories. Although I have a feeling that things were a lot different back when my mom was in high school, back in the previous century even! I have to wonder how she’d have done if she’d been a teenager in this millennium. Because, if you ask me, nothing seems perfectly clear, or black and white, or right or wrong.
twelve
WHY SHOULD ANYTHING SURPRISE ME ANYMORE? BUT I ADMIT TO BEING a little stunned when, once again, I discovered Shawna and Todd in the wardrobe room. Only today they were actually doing it. Not that doing it is any more shocking than that other disgusting activity, but it still makes your eyebrows lift when you walk in on a couple who are in the middle of the act. Arggh!
But at least this time, I managed to walk away without totally coming unglued. Honestly, I didn’t even freak. I’d gone to the wardrobe room to get another skirt. You see, we have to wear these “prairie skirts” to rehearse in now. Actually, they’re just long poofy things made out of calico fabric and elastic. Mrs. Hynes, the dance-team supervisor, insists we need to get the feel of dancing with long skirts (since our costumes will be like that) so she had someone sew up all these ugly things, and we wear them over tights and leotards. But, as luck or fate would have it, just as Justin was doing a lift in our dance number, my elastic sprung loose and my skirt slid right down to the floor. Of course, everyone laughed and teased, but I didn’t really mind since my character is pretty much a clown anyway. I’ll take any laughs I can get.
“Go get another skirt, Zoë!” yelled Mrs. Hynes, as if it was my personal fault that the cheesy thing had fallen apart in the first place. So I dashed off to the wardrobe room and turned on the light and, voila! there they were again, the two rats just going at it. Well, I simply grabbed a skirt out of the box, and then for effect, I made what I hoped sounded like a disgusted sigh. Then I flipped off the light, shut the door, and dashed back to the stage.
And now I’m thinking, like whatever, if those two need to act like that right here at school, well, who really cares? And I’m certainly not about to tell Emily. Like she’d even believe me anyway.
Still, I must admit that I find it pretty distasteful, and my respect for Shawna is sinking. And Todd, in my opinion, is a selfish jerk. But, of course, I will keep these thoughts to myself. Or so I think. As it turns out, I can’t help but spill the beans to Justin as he drives me home that night.
Naturally, he just laughs. “Man, Zoë,” he finally says, “you seem to have a real knack for walking in on those two.”
“Hey,” I say defensively, “it’s not my fault.”
“But catching them both times.” He chuckles.
>
“I have a feeling they do it all the time,” I tell him. “If you ever poked around in the wardrobe room or a few other places backstage, you’d probably find them too.”
He grins. “Might be interesting.”
Then I sock him in the arm. “Pervert!”
“Hey, I’m just a healthy, normal guy.”
I lean back into the seat, fold my arms across my chest and just roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
“I gotta wonder why you’re so obsessed with Shawna and Todd.” His tone suggests there is something wrong with me.
“I am not obsessed!”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“It’s just gross walking in on them all the time. I mean what’s wrong with those two? Maybe they should just get a room.”
“Yeah, I have to agree with you there.”
Well, I suppose that’s a relief. At least Justin is showing some good sense.
“And if a teacher walked in on them.” He let out a low whistle. “Man, they’d be in big trouble.”
“I just don’t see why they can’t control themselves.”
He laughs again and I start to wonder if I’m only good for comic relief.
“I’m serious, Justin. I think it’s disgusting. I have totally lost respect for Todd.”
“What about Shawna?”
“Well, of course, but at least she’s not two-timing someone.” I sigh. “What is it with guys anyway?”
“You think guys are the only ones who cheat?”
I shrug. “I don’t know about this personally. But according to what I’ve heard, it’s not that unusual.”
“Girls cheat too.” Now he has a look on his face that makes me wonder if someone, maybe even Katy, cheated on him.
“Has a girl ever cheated on you?”
“Maybe.”
“Seriously?” I sit up straight now and study him. I mean Justin does not seem like the kind of guy any girl would cheat on.
“It happens, Zoë.”
“Was it Katy?” I know I’m prying, but we’re a couple now and I think I have a right to know.
He just shrugs and turns on the CD player. I suspect this is a hint that he’d rather not talk about this. Still, I persist. “Come on, Justin, you can tell me. Did Katy cheat on you?”
Torch Red: Color Me Torn with Bonus Content Page 9