by Lisa Loomis
“Yeah, yeah,” I said.
I’d had some of those like feelings for boys at school, although that was the extent of it. I wanted boys to be interested in me, but they didn’t seem to be in that way. I was jealous Gayle had gotten to try before me, but I didn’t say anything—she already knew.
“Are you really that miffed about stopping by Ann’s?” my mom broke into my thoughts. “Because if you are, I guess I can drive back over tomorrow to get the invitation.”
She was adding a dash of guilt, her tone one of defeat.
“No, it’s fine,” I lied.
Sometimes I wanted to be able to talk to my mom about things, but I didn’t know what to say or where to start. I too often felt trapped between my new teenage world and being a kid. I was afraid to confide in her, was afraid she would be angry or think my thoughts were silly. Hell, if she knew half the stuff we did, I’d be up shit creek. I went back to being hypnotized by the water and the wipers. I thought about who I knew, who I would want to kiss.
I couldn’t come up with any great candidates.
Chapter 4
Ann’s house was in a neighborhood much like ours, but with larger lots and the landscaping was much more grown up and dense. It was rainy and dark, so it was hard to tell a whole lot other than that. Like our house, it was on a dead end street. Unlike ours, they were the last house on the left, there had been a sign posted at the entrance to the street: No Outlet. I wondered who decided whether it was a dead end or no outlet.
The rain was still coming down when mom pulled in their driveway and parked the car. She must have been nervous since she turned on the interior light to check her face again, putting on some lipstick and pressing her lips together. Ann had talked about her family all day, and I knew I was anxious, about meeting her oldest, Mathew, because he was my age. Ann had said he was very cute. I wasn't too worried about Sara or Sam. They were younger. Didn't count.
“Ready?” she said, opening her door, not waiting for an answer. “Let’s go.”
She ducked out of the car and under the eaves of the house attempting to avoid getting wet. I followed her, and we made it to the porch fairly dry. Ann met us at the door.
“Come in, come in,” she said, pulling us in out of the weather.
As we stepped inside and took off our jackets, it struck me again how overly pretty she was, and I wondered where she had modeled. Even having changed into jeans and a white, perfectly ironed shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled up, she was still gorgeous, but didn't seem aware of it. Ann was just kind, warm, and funny, and she had treated me like an equal, not like a kid. I liked that about her.
“Come on,” Ann repeated, waving us to follow as she headed toward the back of the house.
She led us into the kitchen and introduced us to Brad, her husband, and Sam and Sara who were all at the kitchen table, playing cards. Brad stood up as Ann introduced us. O’Conner, uh-huh, Irish, I could tell. He was taller than Ann: over six feet and handsome in a sort of boyish way with light skin, blue eyes, and strawberry blond hair. He and Ann made a cute couple, sort of all American. A cute family really since Sam and Sara had very similar coloring to their dad.
After she made all the polite introductions, Ann suggested we move to the family room while they finished their game.
“Brad just finished this family room addition to make more room for all of us,” she said as she moved toward the wet bar that was on one side of the room, taking two crystal glasses from the shelf. “As the kids get bigger, our space seems to be shrinking.”
“Patty, how about a quick cocktail before you head home? Gin and tonic with lime okay? Morgan, Coke or anything?” she asked, filling the glasses with ice.
I shot my mom a look, really, now a cocktail too!?
“No thank you,” I said as politely as I could muster.
“That sounds good,” my mom answered.
“I can’t be rude,” she mouthed to me. I just rolled my eyes at her, then looked around as Ann continued to make the drinks, noticing how nicely done the family room was. Ann obviously had good, and from the appearance, expensive taste.
“Good day for The Butter Paddle. Morgan, again, thanks for all your help,” Ann went on, as she finished the drinks with a squeeze of lime.
“Sure you don't want anything, Morgan?” she asked as she handed my mom her drink before she sat down in the chair next to the couch.
I shook my head no. I knew in mom’s defense Ann had started making the drinks before my mom had even answered.
“Oh, the invitation, before I forget,” Ann said jumping up.
She disappeared out into the kitchen and was back in a flash with an envelope, which she handed to my mom. Saturday night and I could be out with Gayle, sneaking a drink and a cigarette, and instead I’m here.
“When is this again?” my mom asked.
As they went over the date and time, and then chatted, I sat and listened, uninterested in what they were saying. I could hear a guitar being played somewhere in the house, starting, stopping, repeating.
“Who plays guitar?” I asked, mindlessly interrupting them.
“Morgan!” my mom said and shot me a look.
A wave of guilt washed over me, and then a twinge of annoyance, as I didn’t want to be here in the first place.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I apologized.
“It’s okay, that’s Mathew,” Ann said. “I didn’t think he’d be home, silly me not asking Brad if he was. You’re thirteen, right?”
“Not yet. In June,” I said.
“Mathew is May. Come on, Morgan, I’ll take you up to meet him,” Ann said, standing.
I looked pleadingly at my mom as I angled my head and mouthed “really?” She stared at me and I felt the blood rush to my face. First a drink and now I had to meet the supposedly cute son, oh God. How much worse could my night get?
“Go ahead, Ann just poured us a drink,” she said, waving me away.
“Come on Morgan,” Ann encouraged.
I got up slowly from my seat and followed her through the kitchen, down the hall, and up the stairs to where the bedrooms obviously were. Mom, I really hate you right now. I should have made you come back tomorrow. We stopped at a closed door with stickers on it that said things like: DO NOT ENTER, PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING, and she knocked. I could tell he played well, but the guitar playing only got louder after Ann knocked, and it didn‘t stop as if he hadn’t heard. Obviously Mathew didn’t want visitors, and here I was, being forced upon him by his mother. Shit. I wanted to leave before he answered, but Ann stood still waiting.
“Are you sure, Ann? I don’t need to meet him now,” I said, hoping we could leave and hurry back down stairs.
I felt nervous and embarrassed and I wanted to flee, but felt as if I couldn’t.
“Nonsense,” she said and knocked again, harder.
The music stopped abruptly and I felt like crawling in a hole.
“What?” Mathew responded belligerently from the other side of the door.
Oh God, Oh God, it was getting worse.
“Open the door,” Ann said sweetly, shooting me a reassuring smile.
Silence followed. I felt my face flush. Shit, shit, shit. I heard scuffling noises like someone pushing back a chair followed by a hollow ping, which I assumed was the guitar being put down. Mathew opened the door with an angry glare at his mother. I sucked in my breath overcome by embarrassment and his looks.
He placed his arm above his head between the doorframe and the door, angling his body so as to block entry. His face softened when he realized she wasn’t alone. He looked from Ann to me, his blue, blue eyes locking with mine. They were sooo blue. He held my gaze until I felt I might die and had to look away. My heart was beating rapidly and I wasn’t sure if it was the embarrassment I felt or his looks, yes he was cute.
“Mathew, this is Morgan. She’s Patty’s daughter. You remember Patty, from The Butter Paddle?”
I look at him and
watched him process it, mentally encouraging him to know.
“No,” Mathew replied, looking back at Ann impatiently.
“Well, you’ve met Patty before,” she continued, ignoring his attitude.
“She’s downstairs, and she is going to stay for a drink, so maybe you could be friendly and talk to Morgan for a minute.”
With that, Ann turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the hall, feeling like I had been pushed out of the bus at the wrong stop. It was pretty clear to me that my appearance was not in Mathew’s plan. He stayed there with his arm above his head between the frame and the door, looking after his mother retreating. I looked down the hall as well, not knowing quite what to do with myself. When the silence became unbearable and I couldn’t stand it, I looked back at Mathew to find him looking at me, his head cocked to one side. He gave me a slight grin.
“Well, do you want to come in, or are you going to just stand there?” he asked, dropping his arm with reluctance.
He opened the door wider to allow me in and my mouth went completely dry.
Okay, Gayle, I would like to kiss him, I thought.
Chapter 5
“I can go back downstairs,” I said nervously, motioning down the hall. “I didn’t mean for your mom to bother you.”
“No chance. Then I risk the wrath. ‘Why weren’t you nice to'...” he imitated Ann’s voice trailing off. “It’s Morgan, right?”
“Yeah, it’s Morgan.”
“Well, Morgan, welcome to my kingdom,” he said as he waved me in.
Pretty corny, Mathew I thought, as I looked around quickly, the room had a twin bed, a desk, and a dresser. The walls were covered with various posters with more warning signs to stay away. A poster of some scantily clad model, whose name I couldn’t remember, hung over his bed. The desk chair sat in the middle of the room, and his guitar lay next to it.
“Come in,” he said, impatiently motioning me into the room.
I took a deep breath pulled back my shoulders and entered his room boldly, certainly more so than I felt. He shut the door with a slam; I was sure hoping Ann would hear. Now that I was in, it was as if I didn't exist. He walked right past me and sat down in the chair, picked up his guitar, and rested his forearms on it. I flushed, embarrassed again, and looked for another place to sit, but his was the only chair. Finally uncomfortably I leaned up against the desk and crossed my arms in front of me. He flipped his hair back and looked at me. It was a curious look, like one would view an animal that they’d never seen.
“Morgan, what kind of name is that?” he finally asked.
I looked at him and I felt like he was enjoying my obvious discomfort. He wasn’t exactly trying to make me feel comfortable.
“Mine,” I said, being smart.
He cocked his head again and laughed loudly. His hair fell to one side and I had the urge to reach out and touch it, what is wrong with you, I thought.
“Good comeback,” he chuckled.
I tried to think of a subject that would be easy to talk about, but my head was thick, filled with his presence. Feeling awkward I decided to ask about his music.
“What were you playing before your mom pushed me on you?”
He smiled and ran his thumb down the strings. My parents played lots of records. I played records. But I wasn’t familiar with the music he had been playing. The urge to leave was incredible, but I couldn’t figure out a good way to go about it.
“'Classical Gas'. Have you ever heard it before?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
He looked down, positioned his fingers on the neck of the guitar, and started to strum. I watched him alternate between strumming and picking, playing as his fingers moved changing the chords. The rhythm was quick and beautiful. As he continued to play, I sat down on the floor in front of him and listened, absorbed. My presence didn’t seem to affect him in the least. Lost in his music, I was able to look at him more closely.
Mathew looked like his mom. He had blond hair—although I could pick out hints of the strawberry color too—that sort of fell in a shaggy way around his face. It was on the long side, which is how most of the boys were wearing it. His head moved rhythmically with his playing, no words, just the guitar. I noticed he had his mother’s blue eyes with thick lashes that made them appear much more intense. His skin was not as fair as his siblings: more golden with a slight hint of freckles on his arms and nose. About my height, he had broad shoulders.
It was almost like he’d forgotten I was there. I watched his fingers move easily across the instrument as the muscles in his arms danced with the movement. It was obvious that playing was a passion for him. When he finished the song, he looked up. The blue of his eyes startled me again. I looked from his eyes to his lips and back again. He smiled, a lazy, sexy, sort of grin, and I could feel my heart race. I wondered what he was thinking, could he tell that he had an effect on me?
“That was good,” I said, then winced, thinking how dumb that sounded.
He looked into my eyes, not saying a word until I had to glance away. When I looked back, he was still watching me. His gaze slipped down to my breasts quickly and then back up again. I felt my heart skip a beat and my body temperature rise. Uncertainly I smiled back at him, which didn’t seem to derail him at all. Wow, he was good-looking. My fingers unexpectedly reached up touching my lips and I felt uneasy as if he could see everything I was feeling. I breathed in through my nose and tried to slow my heart back down.
“Do you play anything?” he asked.
I blinked at him and tried to focus on his question.
“I tried guitar once and got as far as “Kumbaya”, you know, kum bay ya my lord, kum bay ya, and that was enough of that.”
He laughed again, throwing his hair back. Again I felt the urge to touch his thick blond hair. I imagined it warm and silky and, oh man I’m hot. His laugh was nice and natural, not forced like some of the boys at school. These sensations he was causing were new and uncomfortable for me.
“Maybe if they didn’t always start with “Kumbaya”, more people would stick with it. I know it’s a good one to learn the chords, but it’s so- What am I looking for- religious, boring?” he said.
“Both. I wanted to be like Linda Ronstadt on stage, belting out “You’re no Good”,” I said.
He smiled at me and started to play again, this time something that sounded vaguely familiar. His lips tightened as he focused on his playing, the sides of his mouth twitching slightly with various chords. After he finished a second, then a third song, he put the guitar down. He got up from the chair and stretched to the side like a cat, sort of arching his back, then he walked casually across the room and sat on the end of his bed and looked at me.
“Do you sing?” I asked.
“Yeah, sometimes. I play with some other guys from school too. What school do you go to?” he asked, switching the subject.
“Bret Harte in Almaden,” I answered.
He kept shifting. He would concentrate on me closely, then look away. I felt self-conscious, as if I was some sort of oddity. I wondered if it was my hair, people found my curly, unruly hair sort of fascinating for some reason.
“Do you like it?” he asked, rolling back on his elbows, his legs slightly spread.
It was harder to see him from the floor now that he was reclined back; I noticed his bare feet, and the faded jeans with their ragged hem. My gaze continued upward, between his legs to his blue and green striped T-shirt before encountering his beautiful face. Did I really just think that, beautiful? My breath caught as I got up from the floor and moved to the chair, hoping he wouldn’t notice that my face was flush.
“Most of the time,” I answered.
I straddled it backwards, facing him. He watched me move and I found it exciting, the way he looked at me. I could envision touching him.
“My parents are thinking of moving, and if they do, that’s where I’d go,” he said.
“Really? Bret Harte? Why do they want to move?
Didn’t they just get finished adding the family room?” I asked a bit surprised.
“My dad always has a project going, and once he finishes it, he starts looking for another one. Now that the family room is done, he wants to build a whole house. He keeps looking at lots in a new subdivision in Almaden. Something about a rock. You heard of it?”
“Yes, it’s nice. It’s up the hill from our house,” I said.
I put my hands on the back of the chair and arched my back, stretching. I was feeling the effects of being on my feet all day. He watched me, and a smile passed across his lips. The smile, or maybe his lips, unnerved me and I quickly stopped stretching.
“This house is good enough,” he said. “Besides I have my friends here, I don’t want to move.”
“Yeah, I guess that would sort of suck,” I said, thinking of my friends at school and on our street.
Mathew got up from his bed and picked up the guitar.
“You want the chair back?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, sitting back on the end of the bed.
He started to pick again, and I relaxed, enjoying watching him play. I hadn’t spent this much time talking to any boy except Pat; I couldn’t wait to tell Gayle about him. I knew she would die when I told her about my feelings, well some of them. Just as I was getting comfortable in my skin around him, Ann and my mom appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, Morgan, it’s time to go,” my mom said.
My heart sank, now I was the one who wanted to stay, keep this good-looking boy captive, and listen to him play.
“Mathew, remember Mrs. Mallory?” Ann asked.
“Oh, please, call me Patty,” my mom said, and they both laughed.
I rolled my eyes; now she wanted to go by Patty because of Ann’s insistence on using the first name basis. Mathew had stopped playing and watched me get up from the chair. Again he was checking me out and in a strange way it made me feel special.
“You’re tall,” he said.
I walked to the door, aware his eyes were still on me, and turned around. He got a lazy grin on his face, which clutched at my heart.