by Judy Blume
“I know it,” Michael said.
“Would I . . . if I smoked again?”
“I don’t know . . . probably not.”
I started brushing my hair. Michael was watching me. I wanted to ask him what next? Did he have plans? Did he already know? I wished I had a script to follow so I wouldn’t make any mistakes. Don’t forget about my period, Michael, I felt like saying. “There are kids at school who are high all the time.”
“That’s different,” he said.
“I suppose . . .” I put my brush down. “I’m surprised that Sharon and Ike smoke at all . . . I mean, Ike being a doctor and all.” I opened the dresser drawer and pulled out my nightgown. I should wear it, shouldn’t I? Yes, but leave it unbuttoned this time.
“They’re not exactly addicts,” Michael said.
“I know that . . . should I use the bathroom first?”
“Sure.”
I put on my nightgown and bikini underpants and after I washed and brushed my teeth I said, “You can use the bathroom now.”
I got into bed and waited. In a few minutes Michael opened my door. He was wearing his same blue pajamas. He kind of waved at me and said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” I answered.
He put his glasses on the night table, turned out the light and climbed into bed beside me. After we’d kissed for awhile he took off his pajama top, then said, “Let’s take yours off too . . . it’s in the way.”
I slipped my nightgown over my head and dropped it to the floor. Then there were just my bikini pants and Michael’s pajama bottoms between us. We kissed again. Feeling him against me that way made me so excited I couldn’t lie still. He rolled over on top of me and we moved together again and again and it felt so good I didn’t ever want to stop—until I came.
After a minute I reached for Michael’s hand. “Show me what to do,” I said.
“Do whatever you want.”
“Help me, Michael . . . I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t,” he said, wiggling out of his pajama bottoms. He led my hand to his penis. “Katherine . . . I’d like you to meet Ralph . . . Ralph, this is Katherine. She’s a very good friend of mine.”
“Does every penis have a name?”
“I can only speak for my own.”
In books penises are always described as hot and throbbing but Ralph felt like ordinary skin. Just his shape was different—that and the fact that he wasn’t smooth, exactly—as if there was a lot going on under the skin. I don’t know why I’d been so nervous about touching Michael. Once I got over being scared I let my hands go everywhere. I wanted to feel every part of him.
While I was experimenting, I asked, “Is this right?”
And Michael whispered, “Everything’s right.”
When I kissed his face it was all sweaty and his eyes were half-closed. He took my hand and led it back to Ralph, showing me how to hold him, moving my hand up and down according to his rhythm. Soon Michael moaned and I felt him come—a pulsating feeling, a throbbing, like the books said—then wetness. Some of it got on my hand but I didn’t let go of Ralph.
We were both quiet for a while, then Michael reached for the tissue box by the side of the bed. He passed it to me. “Here . . . I didn’t mean to get you.”
“That’s all right . . . I don’t mind . . .” I pulled out some tissues.
He took the box back. “I’m glad,” he said, wiping up his stomach.
I kissed the mole on the side of his face. “Did I do okay . . . considering my lack of experience?”
He laughed, then put his arms around me. “You did just fine . . . Ralph liked it a lot.”
I settled next to Michael with my head on his chest.
“Kath . . .”
“Hmmmm?”
“Remember last night when I said I loved you?”
“Yes.”
“Well . . . I really meant it . . . it’s not just the sex thing . . . that’s part of it . . . but it’s more than that . . . you know?”
“I know . . . because I love you too,” I whispered into his chest. Saying it the first time was the hardest. There’s something so final about it. The second time I sat up and said it right to him. “I love you, Michael Wagner.”
“Forever?” he asked.
“Forever,” I said.
10
“Do you still like each other?” Jamie said, as soon as I got back from Vermont. She and Mom and Dad were waiting up for me in the den. I collapsed on the sofa. Seven hours in a Volkswagen is a long time.
“Well, of course we do . . . why shouldn’t we?”
“Daddy said sometimes spending a lot of time together can end a romance faster than anything else.”
My father actually blushed when I looked at him. “Were you hoping this would end it?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly, Kath,” Dad said.
“Then why would you have said such a thing?”
“It was a general discussion . . . not one about you and Michael.”
“We also discussed how being together can make a romance even stronger,” my mother said, to rescue my father, I think.
“Well, that’s more like it!” I said, looking at Dad. “Being together made ours stronger.”
“I’m glad,” Jamie said.
When I got into bed, half an hour later, my father came into my room. “You think I don’t approve of you and Michael . . .” he began.
“Do you?”
“Of course I do. I’m just afraid you’ll get too involved . . . that’s all.”
“What’s wrong with being involved?”
“Maybe that’s the wrong word. What I mean is, I don’t want to see you tied down.”
“Who’s tied down?”
My father sighed. “Will you stop throwing questions back at me . . . what I’m trying to say is, you’re too young to make lifetime decisions.”
“I’m not making lifetime decisions.”
“You have to consider the future, Kath.”
“What about it?”
“There you go again.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “. . . but the future will take care of itself.”
The next morning I waited until my father had gone off to his tennis game and Jamie left for school. Then I caught my mother on her way into the shower and asked, “Does Daddy want me to stop seeing Michael?”
“Of course not.”
“Because I won’t . . . not even if he asks me to . . .”
“He’s not going to ask you . . . he’d just like to see you get around more with other people . . . the way you used to . . .”
“But I don’t want to . . . I don’t want to be with any other boy.”
“I understand, Kath . . . and deep down inside, so does Dad . . . he’s just having trouble accepting it . . .”
“I can tell.”
“Say, aren’t you going to be late for school?”
“So I’ll miss first period study hall . . . big deal!”
“If you want I’ll drive you over as soon as I’m dressed.”
“Okay.”
I got my books together and found my clean gymsuit in the laundry room. Then I went out to the garage and started the car. I’ve had my license since September but I hardly ever get any driving practice.
Mom came out of the house pulling on her hat and gloves. She wears the same kind of white knitted hat that I do only she doesn’t pull it over her forehead the right way. She shoves it back on her head because she says it make her face itch.
“Brr . . . it’s cold out!” Mom opened the car door.
“Want me to drive?” I asked.
“No . . . the side streets are still icy.”
I slid over and my mother got in behind the wheel.
On the way to school I said, “Mom . . . were you a virgin when you got married?”
My mother kept looking straight ahead but she tightened her grip on the wheel.
I quickly added, “I mean, I know you said you were, but . . .”
“How about Dad . . .”
“There were double standards then . . . boys were supposed to get plenty of experience before marriage.”
The car behind us tooted. “The light’s green,” I said.
“Oh . . .” We drove up East Broad Street and under the railroad tracks.
“Are you glad you waited?” I asked.
“I don’t think of it in terms of waiting . . . I was just twenty.”
“If you had it to do all over again, would you still wait until you were engaged?”
“Everything’s different now. I wouldn’t have married so young in the first place.”
“But would you have waited?”
“I can’t answer that . . . I just don’t know.”
I didn’t say anything more but when we got to school instead of just dropping me off my mother pulled into the lot and turned off the ignition. “Look, Kath . . .” she said, “I’ve always been honest with you about sex . . .”
“I know.”
“But you have to be sure you can handle the situation before you jump into it . . . sex is a commitment . . . once you’re there you can’t go back to holding hands.”
“I know it.”
“And when you give yourself both mentally and physically . . . well, you’re completely vulnerable.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“It’s true,” my mother said. “It’s up to you to decide what’s right and what’s wrong . . . I’m not going to tell you to go ahead but I’m not going to forbid it either. It’s too late for any of that. I expect you to handle it with a sense of responsibility though . . . either way.”
“I wasn’t asking for personal reasons, Mom . . . I was just curious, really . . .”
“Of course . . .” She reached out and touched my face. “Well . . . have a good day.”
We looked at each other for a minute and then I did something I haven’t done in a while. I leaned over and kissed my mother.
“I absolutely can’t believe it,” Erica said, after I told her about my weekend. “You’re still a virgin!”
“I’m not saying one way or the other.”
“But I can tell.”
“How?”
“I just can . . . I’d know in a second if you weren’t.”
We were in the cafeteria, at our usual table and Erica was eating a hotdog, the lunch special of the day. I am probably the one living American who doesn’t like hotdogs so I had a cheese sandwich on my tray—that and a package of Oreos. “Look,” I said, “what I do with Michael is private . . . it’s not something I want to talk about . . .”
Erica gave me a hurt look. “Sure . . . okay . . .”
“Try to understand, Erica . . .”
“I do . . . I do . . .”
“When you’re in love you want to keep it to yourself . . . that’s all I’m saying.”
“So you really do love him?”
“Yes.”
“And he loves you?”
“Yes.”
“He actually came right out and told you?”
“Uh huh.”
“God . . . that’s romantic!”
“I thought you don’t believe in romance.”
“I don’t,” Erica said, slurping up the end of her milk.
We carried our trays to the side table. “Don’t you want to know about me and Artie?” Erica asked.
“Well, sure . . . but I don’t want to pry.”
“We played strip poker on Saturday night.”
“You didn’t!”
Erica laughed. “Right down to our birthday suits.”
“Suppose your parents had walked in?”
“They respect my privacy.”
“So do mine . . . but still . . .”
“Anyway, we didn’t do a thing but touch. I’m beginning to feel like a therapist.”
“You could be doing him more harm than good.”
“I’ve thought about that . . . but he’s very open about his problem. He’s not gay . . . we’ve determined that. He’s just impotent. I’ve been reading up on it and I’m almost sure I can help him.”
“But Erica . . . if you want to get laid so badly why don’t you find somebody else?”
“I could get laid tomorrow,” she said, “but that’s not the point anymore. I want to make it with Artie.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I can help him, for one thing, and because . . . well, just because.”
“I don’t know . . . it still sounds to me like you’d both be better off if you’d just forget it.”
“No chance . . . we really like each other . . . even though it’s nothing like you and Michael . . . not everybody can be so lucky . . .”
11
Usually March is a slow month. There aren’t any school holidays, the weather is still cold and dreary, the teachers get after you to work harder, and I can’t believe that it will ever be spring.
This March was different. I felt on top of the world. Michael and I saw each other whenever we could. We went skiing at Great Gorge, twice, and one Sunday we went to Madison Square Garden to a Rangers’ game with Erica and Artie. The Rangers lost and Artie took it very hard, as if he’d been personally responsible or something. I tried to cheer him up on our way out of the Garden. “Win some . . . lose some . . .” I said.
Artie shook his head.
“Look . . . it was just a game.”
“Nothing is just a game.”
“So they’ll win next time.”
“Next time isn’t good enough.”
We walked to a Beef & Brew and were seated in a booth. While we were waiting to give our orders Erica said, “Did you know Artie’s been accepted at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts?”
“Hey . . . that’s great,” I said. “You’re really on your way now . . .”
“On my way nowhere . . .” Artie said. “My old man won’t let me go.”
Erica turned to him. “You didn’t tell me that . . .”
“Yeah . . . well . . . he just made up his mind. It’s a four year college or nothing.”
“He can’t do that,” Erica said.
“No . . . who do you think’s paying the tuition?”
“Listen . . .” I said, “you can major in drama anyway.”
“The eternal optimist speaks again,” Artie said.
“I’m sorry . . . I was just trying to look on the bright side of things.” I glanced over at Michael, hoping he would come to my rescue but he didn’t say anything. I guess he knew about Artie’s father already.
“You’ve got to stand up for your rights!” Erica said. “Refuse to go anywhere but the American Academy . . .”
“Lay off!” Michael said, suddenly, and something in his voice made Erica stop.
All four of us studied our menus then, or pretended to, and the silence in our booth was uncomfortable. Finally the waitress came along and said, “Okay . . . what’ll it be?”
Later, when Michael and I were at my house, alone, I said, “I’ve never seen Artie that way . . . he was so depressed.”
“I know.”
“Usually he’s all fun and games.”
“That’s his public image.”
“Is the private Artie different?”
“Just sometimes . . .”
“Did you hear him jump on everything I said?”
“I heard . . . but I’ve seen him that way before. He’ll be okay in a couple of days. You’ve got to understand how he feels about school . . . he really hates it. I don’t think he’ll make it through one year of college, let alone four . . .”
“I didn’t know . . .”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Do you think he and Erica are good for each other?”
“That’s not my business . . . besides, every girl at school has the hots for him since the play and he’s not interested .
. . that must prove something.”
“Would you be . . . interested . . .”
“Oh, sure. I only go with you because I can’t get anything better.” He pulled me down next to him. “We can’t do anything to help Artie, right now.”
“I suppose not . . .”
“We can help Ralph, though,” he said, moving my hand to his belt buckle.
On Thursday Michael called to say that Sharon and Ike were taking some time off to go skiing and they’d asked him to join them and his parents said, yes, he could miss a week of school, because this was a special occasion, and the three of them were leaving the next morning and wouldn’t be back until the following Sunday.
“Ten days?” I said. “Two entire weekends?”
“It’s very important, Kath . . . I’m working toward my instructor’s pin . . . you know that.”
“I know . . . I know . . .”
That first weekend my parents didn’t leave me alone for a minute. You’d have thought I was a widow. They took me out to dinner on Friday night, and on Saturday Jamie and I went shopping. Then Grandma called and asked me to stay overnight at her apartment so I packed a bag and Mom and Dad drove me into New York.
On Sunday morning Grandpa and I went for a walk in Central Park and that afternoon, Grandma took me to see a revival of Gone With the Wind, her all-time favorite picture, which she has seen sixteen times, so far. After it, when she asked me what I thought of Clark Gable, and I told her that his ears stuck out, she shook her head and said, “I’m disappointed in you, Kath.” But I knew she was just teasing.
The school week dragged on. Jamie said I looked like a sick dog—well, that’s how I felt. At dinner one night my father asked me if I’m going steady with Michael.
“We don’t call it going steady,” I told him. “But we are going together.”
“Does that mean you can’t see anyone else?” he asked.
“That means I don’t want to see anyone else.”
“I went steady once,” Mom said, stirring a teaspoon of honey into her tea. “And I wore his school ring on a chain around my neck. His name was Seymour Mandelbaum.”
“Seymour Mandelbaum?” Jamie said and cracked up.
“I was a junior and he was a senior,” Mom told us. “I wonder what ever happened to him.”
