by Lola Jaye
“Yes, Mom, I will,” I said, actually meaning it. I noticed how haggard she looked and silently cursed the Bingo Caller for putting Mom through the daily ritual of an argument. Only last night I’d caught the tail end of a huge row over something that Mom “needed” and the Bingo Caller replying heatedly with something about “risks.” With a sincere kiss on her cheek, I mumbled goodbye, hugged Carla and her mom once more and slid my pull-along through to the Departure Lounge and into the unknown.
Searches, passports and a boarding gate followed. Apart from one trip to France with school pre-Eurostar and a flight to Barcelona a few years ago with Carla’s family, I should have been nervous at the thought of my first trip alone. Even more so as I strapped myself into the seat, with any remaining thoughts of England and Corey wafting away with the candy floss clouds. But the line between nervous and excited had been crossed, and after the first in-flight meal I drifted off into a welcome sleep to dream of Dad and how proud he would be of me at that precise moment.
As the bus moved away from the airport and headed toward our hotel in Manhattan, I was astounded by how different and unusual everything seemed. Huge roads, huge cars and traffic lights with “Walk” alerting pedestrians to cross. Every corner you turned, shops. So many different places to eat. A man walking his dog; an old lady pushing a wonky cart. Everyone pushing forward.
The driver announced “Welcome to the Big Apple” and the bus full of those inches away from an adventure burst into rapturous applause.
I had never felt happier.
I knew I wouldn’t be making enough money that summer to sample much of New York’s delights, but just being a part of something only ever glimpsed on TV shows would be enough. For now.
Jump America placed me and a few others in a swanky Manhattan hotel, throwing in a hearty breakfast of pancakes and waffles the following morning. Naively, perhaps, I assumed the remainder of my three months would be spent identically—in pure luxury on the edge of a fast-paced metropolis. But the next day we were ferried by an incredibly hot coach, over the Hudson River and into New Jersey. Which was hours away from New York and its striking skyscrapers. Instead, I was faced with the stench of cow manure and masses of greenery. A tiny woman with the teeniest glasses perched on a button nose, and a pair of khaki shorts that sat just above her knobbly knees, walked toward me as I got off the bus.
“Well, hi there. Welcome to our farm!” she squeaked, as if announcing my million-dollar win.
“Thank you,” I said as the driver dumped my cases beside me. I struggled up the endless “driveway” as she babbled in a Michael Jackson on helium voice. The history of the “farm” (a lump of wood set in a trillion acres of nothing) was that it was home every summer to around a hundred kids sent over by their parents. Summer camps were really common in America, but as she showed me around what was to be my home for the next three months, my heart sank a bit.
The “dorms” were dark, functional, and the bed felt like the bark of a tree against my backside.
“That okay for you?” she squeaked.
“Yes. Thanks.” I stifled a yawn.
“You’re the last to arrive,” she said in her high-pitched voice as I opened my suitcase. “I’ll leave you to unpack, but make sure you’re downstairs in fifteen to eat dinner.”
I gazed around my new surroundings: simple décor and a light musky smell that I was sure would soon begin to irritate me. I lay back on the world’s most uncomfortable bed and looked to the ceiling, noticing at least two cracks. I pulled out The Manual from my hand luggage and, hugging it close to my heart, I instantly knew I’d be all right.
Actually, I was wrong.
The first morning was awful. I had to stand up among twenty or so others and say my name, my favorite animal and why I’d chosen to come to summer camp. Some of the answers (especially from the Americans) were so detailed, so “feely,” I felt totally embarrassed with the clichéd “spreading my wings” bit. Worse still were the introductions to the children, ninety-nine percent of them rich brats whose parents had dispatched them to the camp for a bit of peace—and I was soon able to see why. The constant bickering and tantrums the camp “counselors” had to deal with were endless. Luckily, my unique role was confined to the admin office, my days spent away from the mayhem, answering calls, placing orders for food, that type of thing.
From the nineteen or so camp counselors the only two that I bonded with were Greg from Bolton and Erin from Seattle.
Two weeks into my stay, Greg and I were on washing-up duty.
“Is this all you thought it would be?” he asked, in that weird northern twang I’d quickly grown used to.
At first a bit stunned at this question, I gave it some thought as I scrubbed a pot. “Not really. For a start, I hadn’t expected all the cleaning! But it’s all right!” Actually, if I were honest, I’d been having the time of my life while at the same time secure in the knowledge I was following Dad’s advice by doing stuff many people my age (scrubbing pots excluded) only dreamed of. And hey, at least it was an American pot. Plus—and I hated to think it—Carla’s absence had given me valuable space to obsess about what I wanted to do with my life. The job itself was eight to five in the office and evenings spent helping out the camp counselors, which at times meant trying to decipher the rules of softball and roasting marshmallows—s’mores—with the kids on an open fire.
“You’re quite funny,” said Greg, drying the last pot, which effectively was my job. He’d really begun to grow on me and I loved the way he asked me about my feelings and in turn was really passionate about stuff like politics and whether the National Lottery had bred greed among the social classes. I thought he was what Carla would term “deep.” He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but that didn’t matter, as his smile felt genuine, warm. A bit like Corey’s but minus the dimples.
“Lois…”
“Yep?” I replied, crouching down to place the pot in the cupboard.
“I—” he began as Erin appeared.
“Hey, hurry up you two! I’m gonna read the kids a story in five,” she said, all blonde hair and teeth. I imagined Erin to have won a dozen or so beauty pageants in her time.
“Do we have to listen to another tale of blood and gore?” I mock whined.
“No, this one’s a love story,” she said with a cheeky wink in my direction. “See you guys later!”
Before I had the chance to process Erin’s wink, she left.
“I like you, you know, Lois,” said Greg.
“I like you too.” I folded the huge towel on the edge of the huge sink. Everything was huge in America.
“You’re different,” he said.
“So are you. In fact this whole experience is different!” I enthused, gesticulating wildly with abandon. I suddenly felt so free, so happy to be standing in a large American kitchen washing and drying for a bunch of people I hardly knew. It was the one place I wanted to be out of anywhere in the world at that moment and that time. Greg turned to me and placed a soapy hand on my chin and I didn’t mind. Not for one moment. And that’s when he did a really weird thing; he moved his head toward me and planted a huge wet kiss on my lips. I was surprised at first because it felt strange. Not as lovely as with Corey and no tongues, but so comforting.
“Sorry…” Greg shot back as if electrocuted.
“No, it’s okay,” I said, a smile spreading across my face.
Mornings were always hard to wake up to. Exhausted from the night before. Up at six. Preparing breakfast with Chef for the kids. Helping to prepare “fun” activities like canoeing and basketball for an array of superbrats used to getting their own way (I knew if I ever saw a kid again, it would be too soon) and then back to the office job, delivery men and invoices. But by the end of the first month, the farm became home to me—Erin and Greg a huge part of my circle of friends. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see as much of America as I’d hoped. My one day off a week was spent traveling by Greyhound bus to New York for window shopping and a burger.
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“So you really like Greg, huh?” asked Erin as we relaxed one evening after a grueling day canoeing with thirteen teenagers including a premenstrual drama queen. Greg had snuck back to the storeroom to fetch snacks.
“He’s okay…” I drawled in embarrassment. I fingered the postcards I’d written the day before. One to Auntie Philomena (it felt rude not to, even though I’d only heard from her about twice a year since Mom’s wedding), one to Granny Bates (it felt like the right thing to do), one to Mom and one to Carla “and family.” And yes, that included Corey.
“Are you over him then?” she asked sheepishly.
“Who?”
“The one with the American name who lives in France!” “Corey? I am soooo over him it ain’t even funny!” We straightened up as Greg returned with cookies and potato chips.
“So, I was saying,” he began as Erin tore open the cookie packet. “It’s all a government conspiracy to enable control over the masses. We’re slowly becoming a big-brother nation. We’ll get it in England soon, you’ll see.”
I stuck a cookie in my mouth, gazing at Greg. Half the time I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but it sounded important, plus he made me feel things I hadn’t felt since being with Corey.
I barely had time to read The Manual, mostly too tired or too busy having fun or laughing off the thousand or so comments regarding my “cute li’l accent.” One night, though, for the first time in about two weeks, I realized I’d missed it. I missed hearing from my dad. So, in an oversized “I Luv NY” T-shirt, feet tucked under me as I sat on the bed, I brought out the familiar green manual, ready to sink into the words, laugh, maybe even cry at whatever my dad had to say to me. Five minutes in, a knock on my dorm door interrupted our moment.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Me. Greg.”
My tummy muscles squinted in response to his voice. I shaped strands of hair into place and slid The Manual under my pillow.
“Come in.”
Greg was in a pair of boxers with nothing on top. Tufts of hair poking out of a very skinny chest, knees almost as knobbly as the director’s. He sat beside me and immediately started to kiss me, this time a little more passionately than the first time. I didn’t know what to do or say, so just went along with it because it felt nice. But when I felt something hard pressing against my thigh, and noticed a tent pole of an erection staring back at me, I knew I needed Dad’s help.
“Greg,” I said breathlessly.
“Yes?”
“Can we just talk?”
“Course we can.”
That night I ended up telling him all about Corey, while he spoke about an old girlfriend he used to date back in Bolton.
“Well, if you ask me, Corey’s an idiot. Letting you go.”
A part of me wanted to defend Corey. “Well, it’s all ancient history now.”
“At least we agree on that.” There was a moment of silence before Greg moved in for another kiss.
I turned away. “Sorry…I’m a little tired.” And scared and confused and awkward and naive. “Almost twenty years old and a virgin!” I wanted to scream, but kept quiet as he made for the door flanked by an air of disappointment.
“Okay, Lois, I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
I flipped back the pages of The Manual a few years.
Miscellaneous: Saying “no”
That boy you like has finally seen sense and asked you out. You’ve been seeing each other for a bit now, been out a few times, you’re in his bedroom kissing and he wants to take things a little further. What do you do?
My advice: DON’T DO IT! DON’T DO IT!
Okay, I’ve just made myself a cup of strong tea laced with a little brandy, taken a deep breath, and here’s Kevin Bates’s advice to his daughter about sex…But you’re five years old??? I know, I know, by the time you read this you won’t be. It’s just hard for me, okay? And even harder knowing I won’t be around to vet any of your boyfriends, give him the evil eye, pull him aside as you leave to prepare fresh lemonade and threaten to break every bone in his arm if he EVER lays an unwanted finger on you. There, I think I’ve got things off my chest for now. Time to get serious. I can do this.
Yes, I can do this. Yes, I can do this. I was a child of the Woodstock era, after all. I even think if I’d lived in America I probably would have gladly viewed this landmark spectacle (from a respectable distance, mind, and merely for research purposes).
Now, back to business.
Before you’re alone with your boyfriend, make sure you’ve already mulled over in your mind what you will and will not be agreeing to. Forewarned is forearmed. So, hand-holding: yes. Any other “touches”: no. It’s always a good idea to let him know about these limits too, in advance. Say, on your second date, or the minute you catch that questioning “gleam” in his eye. Don’t be afraid to tell him quite clearly “No, I don’t want to have sex with you.” Then you can start getting all 101 reasons off your chest like this: Reason 49: I don’t feel ready. Reason 100: I have a dad who will haunt you every day for the rest of your life.
It’s probably a good idea to strengthen the numbers by stopping the kissing and physical stuff altogether. Yes, scrap all of it. And if he doesn’t respect your decision you know what you have to do: walk out of the door. I’m ashamed to reveal this now, especially to my daughter, but I once said the following to an old girlfriend: “If you loved me you’d let me, you know…go all the way…”
She said: “I do love you. Do you love me?”
I said: “Of course I love you. More than anything. That’s why I want us to do this.”
But she hit back with a nice verbal left hook: “If you love me, Kevin Bates, you’ll wait for me…Right?”
Good point.
I was confused. How would I know if it was the right time? If Greg was the right one? Was I in love? Had I felt it before? My mind rewound to an image of Corey. I pressed erase.
When I first met your mom, she was standing outside the chippy wearing this flimsy little miniskirt and high-heeled boots. I had this really bad afro, a more freshly electrocuted look than the Jackson Five. But this didn’t matter, because when your mom looked at me I thought my heart would pop out of my chest (actually, something else wanted to pop out, but because you are and will always be my little girl, we’ll call it my heart). I was THAT happy.
When she agreed to go out with me, I knew I was the luckiest man on earth. You should have seen my grin; so wide it almost split my face in half. And when she agreed to marry me, I felt all high with pride and happiness that this beautiful, intelligent woman wanted to spend more than her spare time with little old ME. I was certainly NOT the handsomest man ever to walk the earth, definite future hair loss (thanks to my old dad) and at times (especially after a pint) the social skills of a baboon; but she still wanted ME. And I loved her back. So very much. And when you were born it felt like I’d just scored the winning goal at the World Cup. I finally had everything I wanted. What I’m getting at is this: whatever anyone says, loving someone and having someone love you back can be one of the most beautiful experiences you could ever hope to be a part of. And to deprive somebody you love of that just isn’t on. So, if in the future your mom does find love again, don’t deny her this. Support her. Don’t hate the guy (while acknowledging that no, he’ll never be as strong or as good-looking as your dad) and please, please don’t give your mom a hard time because…
I slammed The Manual shut and chucked it onto the bed. I’d been searching for answers about ME and being in love, not Mom. I needed Dad to tell me what I was feeling about Greg. Was it love? Should I lose my virginity to him?
I lay on my bed, just thinking. Counting the cracks in the wall.
At around midnight, Greg called my name softly from behind the door and I asked him in.
“Just wanted to see if you were sleeping,” he said.
I sat up. “Not yet.”
He took my hand and kissed it. A tiny gesture that at tha
t precise moment—miles from home and away from everything familiar—meant so much.
And that night I made love for the very first time.
Losing my virginity sparked a change that is hard to articulate. I hadn’t felt like a child for years now, so it wasn’t so much that. It was more a sense of well-overdue rebellion, or perhaps it was just not having to live in the shadow of Carla any more. I was me, Lois. A little wild. Out of control—well, sort of. A whole year below the legal age of consent in America, I was now regularly drinking cans of beer (even though I hated the taste) and for the first time in my entire life I felt “special.” Everywhere I went, people commented on my accent, the way I walked. As if England was some faraway land full of princes, horses and cucumber sandwiches.
One night, having confiscated a bag of weed from one of the kids, my rebellion was inches away from being elevated to a level I’d never even dreamed of.
“We could tell the director…” offered Greg, as we stared at the tiny bag and its promise of unknown possibilities. Not to mention sickness, addiction, suspension, a disgraced flight back to England…
“Or we could just smoke it, right?” added Erin, which surprised me. Wouldn’t it stain her lovely white teeth?
“When…I mean…what if the director found out…? Isn’t there a smell?” I stuttered, not used to the particulars of such an operation. I’d only ever tried smoking cigarettes with Corey.
“Don’t be a git, Lois. If we smoke it outside—after the s’mores roasting—we’ll be fine,” added Erin using my tutorship of British words way out of context.
That night, after the kids were supposedly tucked up in bunk beds, but more likely engaged in something illicit, Erin and Greg finally lit the joint.
“Try it, it’s good!” said Erin, just before placing the joint to her mouth. She inhaled deeply and I took the “joint” from her, holding it awkwardly and clearly with the wrong fingers. Luckily, both of them were obviously too stoned to notice as I wrapped my drying lips around it and took a long and deep drag, feeling the smoke tickle my nostrils.