I’ll never be able to sleep tonight. I just know it. There’s no way . . . unless. I know this probably sounds really sneaky but suppose I just went out without saying anything. It’s not like I’m not doing my job, because Cynthia’s home and the kids are sleeping and everything is under control. I could go for just a little while and be back and nobody would know the difference.
I’m not saying it’s the best thing in the world to do, but it certainly isn’t going to hurt anyone except me if I don’t do it.
If I keep analyzing it I’ll never do it. So I stop analyzing, fix my hair, put on more gloss, and tiptoe down the steps like a thief, feeling awful. The house is deadly quiet. I turn the door latch as delicately as I can so there’ll be no thunderous click to wake the house up. It works. I’d probably make a great burglar. Anyway, I’m out and my heart is pounding.
Twelve
I don’t have any trouble finding The Monkey. Halfway down to the dock, I can hear the music. It’s almost twelve thirty, but the place is packed and the overflow is hanging out all over the front steps and into the street. Mostly everyone is wearing jean shorts and T-shirts, which is perfect. At least I guessed right, and I love my top—it’s sort of a camisole with laces up the front. Very sexy. Last time I wore it, my father made me put on a shirt underneath. But that’s the great thing about being out here. I’m on my own, and I think it looks just fine without anything underneath.
I kind of hang back a little—maybe I’ll see someone I know. I hope not Barry.
“Vicky! Hey, over here!” It’s Dana. Great!
“Hi!” I call, and head toward her.
“I figured you weren’t going to show. What happened?” she says.
“Cynthia took forever to decide she wasn’t going out.”
I look inside at the people. There must be a hundred of them all jammed together, drinking and laughing and dancing on the tiny dance floor. “Boy, this is wild,” I exclaim.
“Is this your first time here?”
“Yeah. It looks great.”
“C’mon, let’s go in.”
The music bombs your ears and the lights spin around so fast that you couldn’t tell if your own sister was here. Boy, what a thought. It’s hopeless to try to find Jim until the lights slow up. Somebody taps me on the shoulder, and when I turn around it’s some guy I don’t know. He makes a dance? sign. No point in talking—you can’t hear a thing any-way. I nod yes and we squeeze our way onto the dance floor.
Like I told you, I’m a pretty good dancer. It’s the one time I feel like I’ve got it all together—when I’m dancing, I mean. I wish I could feel this way all the time.
The next record is Joni Mitchell singing “Court and Spark.” She’s so cool. Now, before I can make my way back to Dana, some other guy asks me to dance. He’s kind of cute but too tall for me. I hate to slow dance with a real tall guy. It’s so boring to stare into the middle of a T-shirt.
The lights slow down and I find Dana. She’s with Anita.
“I heard my people were at your house,” she says. “What do you think of them?”
“She’s gross, but he’s kind of cute in a goopy sort of sweet way.”
“Right,” she says.
“This is going to make you laugh,” I tell her, “but I think Cynthia has the hots for your boss’s husband.”
“Ron? You have to be kidding! He’s so . . . like, shy.”
“That’s what you think. You should see him come on to Cynthia.”
“Good. I hope so. She deserves it—Eva, I mean. You know what she did to him tonight? She . . .” But the music starts blasting and you can’t hear. A guy asks Anita to dance, and then someone puts his hand on my shoulder, and when I turn around my knees almost crumble.
“Victoria?” It’s him. He smiles at me and motions to dance. I don’t even look around at Dana. I’ll apologize later. I just follow him through the crowd onto the dance floor.
I can’t believe he’s asked me to dance. And it turns out he’s a great dancer and it’s like we’ve been dancing together forever—I mean, we just fall into this natural rhythm. I can tell he knows it too. We can’t talk because of the music, but we dance the next two dances even though someone else comes up and asks me. He shakes his head no to the guy, and I do too.
Three dances practically wipe us out, and he takes my arms and leads me toward the door. I’m soaking wet. And more excited than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m so knocked out at the thought that I’m with Jim that I can hardly catch my breath, and that’s not just from dancing either.
We get outside and he keeps going past the kids hanging on the steps and toward the dock. I think I would follow him anywhere. Just the feel of his hand on my arm makes me tingle. We don’t talk until we get to the end of the dock, and then he stops.
“Want to sit here for a while and just cool off?” he asks, sitting down on the edge of the pier and making room for me.
I should say, “Yes, good idea,” and sit next to him, but all I can manage in my stunned condition is a smile as I sit down.
He takes a joint out of his shirt pocket and lights up. Then he takes a couple of drags to get it going and hands it to me.
I’m not a pot smoker. For one thing, my parents are always warning me how it’s illegal and if you get caught terrible things can happen to you. And for another, I don’t trust it. Some people feel really cool and great, but some of them get nutty giddy and absolutely anything cracks them up. Other times they just sit there and cough their heads off. Also, it’s tough enough for me to handle what’s happening sober. But stoned? Forget it.
“You’re a sensational dancer,” he says to me, and he turns and looks down at me with just a little bit of a tiny smile. I smile a thank-you, and it’s funny but we both keep looking at each other and wow!—it feels to me like we’re almost touching.
“And you’re pretty, too,” he says.
This time I manage a thank-you and even more.
“You’re a good dancer too,” I tell him.
“And am I pretty, too?” he says, smiling his usual beautiful up-the-corner smile with white even teeth that you can see into. He flips the end of the joint into the water, then very gently he brushes a straggly strand of hair out of my eyes. And the smile gets smaller and more private, and we sit there silently looking at each other, and I don’t even feel that we have to talk. He moves closer and his thigh brushes against mine, and the feel of this touch zings through my body and makes me shiver a tiny bit.
“Cold?” he asks.
“A little,” I lie, because how else can I explain the shiver? He puts his arm around my shoulder and gently pulls me closer to him. My head is against his chest and he feels warm and I can hear his heart beating. It’s going pretty fast. I think mine must be too. I’m staring down at the water, but all I can think of is should I say something or should I just sit there and let him hold me like this. I only practically just met him. I mean, this is the first time I’ve ever been with him alone like this. While I’m in the middle of the big decision, he says my name, softly, and when I look up to answer him, he kisses me.
His lips are unbelievably soft, and as he bends down to me he pulls me up toward him. And what starts of as a light kiss grows stronger and harder until our lips are pressed against our teeth and I feel his mouth begin to open and I pull back a tiny bit, not far, but enough so that he sees I don’t want him to do that. Still kissing me, he leans back on the dock and pulls me down with him. Anyone else tried this the first time and I would just push him away, but I don’t move. The tops of our bodies are still facing the way we were when we were sitting. Now Jim rolls over toward me and with one arm pulls me close to him. I don’t even pull away. It’s like I’m not inside myself. All I want to do is be near him.
He takes his lips off mine and lifts his head and leans on one elbow. His face is only inches away from mine and he looks very serious.
“Is something wrong?” he asks me, really concerned. I must look scared be
cause I am, a little.
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “It’s just that . . . I don’t know. I guess I didn’t expect this . . . I guess.”
“Me neither,” and he smiles and I think he’s got the most trusting face I ever saw.
He kisses me again, and this time I feel more relaxed, like I know him better. I’m feeling really happy and good, and then I begin to get sort of lost in the kiss, in his closeness, and when his mouth opens against mine I let mine open too. He puts his tongue against my teeth and I don’t know what’s the matter with me, I never kiss this way with anyone. But I do with Jim, and then I even let him put his tongue inside my mouth and his hand runs down the side of my body, sort of over my hip and down the side of my leg and I don’t do anything. I mean I don’t stop him and I don’t even want to.
The way he touched me doesn’t feel like other guys who just want to grab you: It’s like he’s caressing me and it makes me want to caress him but of course I don’t. No matter what, I don’t think I ever could. My eyes are always closed when I kiss, but now I open them a tiny bit just because I have to look at him. His eyes are closed, shut tight, and he’s got blond eyelashes. I didn’t know that. Suddenly I become tense because the hand that was caressing my side is moving up under my arm and I’m afraid he’s going to try to touch my breast. Besides, I’m very ticklish. He feels me jump a little and his hand moves away, down my side again, and he pulls me closer and moves his face down to kiss my neck and that makes me really shiver. Nice shiver. I know this is too much but I can’t stop it. I can, but I don’t want to. It’s the first time in my whole life I ever felt like this.
Now he brings his lips back to mine and we’re kissing and I’m kissing just as hard as he is and my arms are around his back and I’m holding him tight and I feel like I don’t care what happens.
His hand comes up under my arm again and he lets it brush lightly over my breasts, and my head is buzzing but I don’t even stop him, and now his hand covers my whole breast and I can’t think of anything else except what he’s doing and that I’m letting him. How could I let him do this? What’s the matter with me?
The awful thing is that it feels good. I won’t let him go any farther, and I’m beginning to tense up waiting for him to try. But he doesn’t and I kind of let myself relax and he kisses me and I kiss him and our whole bodies are tight together and I’ll worry about everything later.
We kiss like this for a long while, and then I feel him push his legs into mine and I feel something against my thigh and I know it isn’t his keys and I feel kind of scared because maybe this is getting out of control. Maybe I won’t be able to stop him. But I can because it’s Jim and I know him, and besides, everyone says he’s a terrific guy and he would never do anything like push himself on someone who didn’t want him to. He’s not like that, I just know it. But still I feel a little scared, so I pull back slightly and he pushes against me kind of hard, and I open my eyes and pull my face away from his, and he looks at me and sort of swallows hard and takes a couple of breaths and gives me an it’s-all-right smile and goes back to gently kissing me.
But it doesn’t stay that way long and we’re back to holding each other tightly, and now his hand is working around my camisole straps and I should have worn the damned T-shirt underneath like father said. Oh, God, what a time to think of my father. That does it. I push his hand away and he puts it back the minute I push it away.
“Please . . .,” I say, “don’t do that.”
He moves his hand away from my straps and slides it down the side of my leg to the top of my thigh. Now I really push it away.
“Please . . . ,” I say again, and he starts to kiss my neck and my ear, and then his hand is on my breast again, but I already let him do that so I can’t say no now. Besides, that’s not so bad, I think. Sometimes his hand skips off the material and onto my bare skin and I get goose bumps. It slips off more and more and I know he’s trying to put his hand under my camisole and I know I shouldn’t let him, but it all happens so gradually, and by the time I put my hand on his to pull him away he’s already holding my bare breast and it’s too late. So I let him. And then he pushes off the shoulder strap and I keep my eyes tight shut because I don’t want to see myself undressed like that. He lifts his head slightly and I know he’s looking and I feel ashamed, but I think of the naked people on the beach and then it’s not so bad. Now his hand starts to slide down across my stomach, and I grab it tight.
“No, please, I don’t want you to do that,” I say, louder than I expected.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says, and starts to kiss me more.
“Please . . .” His hand slips out of my grip, but I push it away again.
“It’s okay,” he says.
No, it’s not. But I don’t say that. I just keep pushing his hand away every time he puts it anywhere under my waistline.
He puts it.
I push it.
He puts it.
I push it. This goes on till I think I might start to laugh, except I’m beginning to get kind of angry. Now I pull up my shoulder strap and sit straight up. “I don’t want you to do that,” I say, and it’s really crazy because here it is, my body, and he’s annoyed that he can’t do what he wants to it. Unreal. And he really is annoyed, like it was his.
“I’m not doing anything. I’m just touching you.” He lies as if I don’t know what he’s trying to do.
“Then please don’t touch me.”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid. I just don’t want you to do that.”
“You mean this?” And he puts his hand on my waist.
“Not that.”
And he moves his hand further down my leg and says, “This?”
And I say, “You know where,” and he says, “No, show me,” and I say, “I’m not going to because you know,” and he says, no, really he doesn’t, and this stupid conversation goes on and we discuss my body like it was a map and he can touch here and he can’t touch there and it turns out that he owns the entire northern half down to somewhere around Tennessee and I own the rest. For now, anyway. And it turns into a sort of cute conversation and I don’t know why but I don’t even really feel embarrassed.
Then I say I have to go, and he pushes me back down and starts to kiss me again and we neck for a while longer, but he tries all the same stuff I told him not to again and finally I get up and say I really have to get back.
He sort of pulls himself together, facing the water, and shoves his hands into his pockets. Steffi and I have discussed this a million times about how boys put their hands in their pockets so you can’t see they have an erection.
I sort of sneak a peek, but it works—the hands in the pockets, I mean—I don’t see a thing.
We start walking up the dock toward the shore, and I’m hoping Jim will want to walk me home, and lucky me, he does. Except all the way home he keeps stopping to pull me to the side of the walkway to kiss me. A couple of times people come by and he doesn’t even stop, and I can hear them giggling about us. If only someone from school could see us. Someone like Gloria.
I try to keep away from the lights because I must look a mess. My hair is a horror and my face feels like somebody walked on it. We kiss good night in front of the house, and then he says he’ll call me tomorrow night. Isn’t that the most fabulous thing in the whole world? Jim wants to see me again. I think he must really like me. He writes down my phone number and then he goes.
I watch him until he’s out of sight, which only takes half a second because the street is pitch-black. It’s got to be at least two in the morning, and I’m probably the only person awake on the whole block. It’s dead quiet. Not a light on.
Up till now I haven’t let myself think too much about what a disgusting awful underhanded thing I was doing—sneaking out, I mean—because if I really thought about it I know I wouldn’t have done it. And I know I absolutely had to because it was crucial—I mean, not even just for my whole summer but maybe
even for my whole life. I guess that sounds a little much, but still it was very important to me. Suddenly all my reasons sound crummy. How come it’s all falling apart now just because I’m scared? And I am, too. In fact I’m having a fit at the thought of trying to get back into my room, especially since it means tiptoeing up two flights of creaky stairs.
I take off my sandals and gently, very gently, turn the handle on the screen door. Again I gently squeeze down on the handle, turning it quietly all the way to the left and push. Nothing. Wrong way, dummy. I wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans and grab the handle again and this time turn it all the way to the right and push. Still nothing. I’m not in a panic because no one locks their doors on Fire Island. So it must be just a little stuck. Probably because of the heat and the dampness and all.
It’s going to be tough shoving it hard enough without making any noise. I put my shoulder against the door and start pushing with my whole weight. It doesn’t move. Now I wedge my feet under the porch railing and with both hands, using the railing for leverage, push the door. Nothing happens. If I didn’t have to worry about making a noise I could just get back and ram it the way they do in the movies. Even though I’m getting very sweaty and very nervous I calm myself enough to try thinking straight. First thing I’ve got to find out is exactly where the door is actually stuck, top or bottom.
I check the top first. No problem there. And the bottom seems pretty free, so that means it must be caught in the middle, which is a funny place for a door to be stuck . . . unless what’s sticking it isn’t just sticking . . . it’s locked. Help! I can’t believe it. They absolutely never lock their door. Unless . . . oh, no! I did it myself when I turned the door latch sneaking out. I wasn’t opening it, I was locking it!
Suddenly I’m so panicked that I have to sit down just to catch my breath. It’s horrendous. I can’t believe that I’m actually stuck out here and there’s no way I can open that door.
Then it hits me.
The windows!
I jump up and run around to the kitchen window, which I know was open all day long. I’m right, it’s still open, except that I can’t get to the stupid thing because the goddamn screen is on and the only way to get past the screen is to take the whole thing off and there are some dumb things holding it from the inside. It’s hopeless. I’m finished. It’s all over.
My First Love and Other Disasters Page 9
