Forever . . .

by Judy Blume

  “Only about some things,” he said.

  I opened what I thought was a second closet but it turned out to be a bathroom. There were towels strewn all around which Michael picked up in a hurry and dumped into the hamper.

  “God . . .” I said, going through his bathroom cabinet, “you use more junk than I do.” There were three kinds of deodorant, two shampoos, a tube of athlete’s foot cream, acne soaps, medicated skin lotions, several prescriptions, and at least six different kinds of after shaves. “No wonder you always smell different,” I said.

  “Pick out your favorite and I’ll throw the rest away.”

  “I don’t know one from the other,” I said, lining them up on the counter. I took off all the tops and started sniffing. “I like this one.” I held up a bottle of green lotion called Moustache.

  “You would . . . that’s the most expensive of the lot.”

  “Mmmm . . .” I said, sniffing it again. “I have good taste.”

  He took the bottle from me and splashed some on his face.

  “Do you ever put it on your balls?” I asked.

  “I don’t shave them,” he said.

  “I read that in a book . . . this guy put after shave on his balls before he went out with his girlfriends.”

  “Well . . . maybe I would too . . . if I thought anybody was going to smell them.”

  “Who did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . just anybody.” He put the bottle on top of the toilet and unbuckled his jeans.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to try it now . . . so I’m ready . . . just in case.” He stepped out of his jeans, then took off his underpants. “On second thought,” he said, “why don’t you do it for me?”

  “Me . . . ?”

  “It was your idea in the first place.”

  I felt funny about seeing Michael exposed from the waist down, because it’s always been dark when we make love. I’ve touched him a lot but I’ve never looked carefully.

  He sensed my feelings because he said, “You want to know me inside out, don’t you?”

  So I looked. His hair down there is almost the same color as on his head, but curlier. Mine is very dark, much darker than on my head. “Hello, Ralph . . .” I said, kneeling in front of Michael. Ralph was small and soft and just hung there. I shook some Moustache into the palm of my hand but when I reached out toward Michael, he caught my hand and said, “Don’t . . . it stings . . .”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do . . .”

  “But you said . . .” He didn’t let me finish. Instead, he kneeled with me and as we kissed Ralph grew bigger and hard. I undressed myself, while Michael watched. Ralph stuck straight out, as if he was watching too. We made love on the bathroom rug, but just when I was getting really excited, Michael came. I wondered if it would ever work out right between us.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just couldn’t wait . . . it’s been a few weeks.”

  “That’s okay.”

  We got into his bed and fell asleep for an hour and when we woke up Ralph was hard again. This time Michael made it last much, much longer and I got so carried away I grabbed his backside with both hands, trying to push him deeper and deeper into me—and I spread my legs as far apart as I could—and I raised my hips off the bed—and I moved with him, again and again and again—and at last, I came. I came right before Michael and as I did I made noises, just like my mother. Michael did too.

  While he was still on top of me, catching his breath, I started laughing. “I came . . .” I told him. “I actually came.”

  “I know,” he said, “I felt it . . . is that what’s so funny?”

  “I don’t know why I’m laughing.”

  “Did you like it, Kath?”

  “What a question . . . I felt so close to you . . . I’ve never felt so close to you before.”

  “Same here.”

  “Can we do it again?” I asked.

  “Not right now . . . I’ve got to rest for a while.”

  “Oh. Michael . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’d Ralph get his name?”

  He looked at me and smiled. “I named him just for you.”

  Tasha jumped up on the bed and snuggled next to Michael. I’d forgotten she was in the room. Michael petted her for a few minutes, then put his arm around me and fell asleep again. I watched him. I love to watch him while he sleeps. Besides everything else he is really my best friend now. It’s a different kind of friendship from the one I have with Erica. It makes me wish I could share every day with him—forever.

  After half an hour I shook him gently. “It’s 10:30,” I said.

  “Mmm . . . we better get going.”

  “I’m starving,” I told him.

  “Me too.”

  “I need a shower.”

  “Want company?”

  “That’ll be fun . . . are you sure we have enough time?”

  “If we hurry.”

  We went into the bathroom and Michael got clean towels out for both of us and adjusted the water over the tub. “Do you always wear your necklace in the shower?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said. “I never take it off.”

  He soaped my back. Then I did his.

  We dried each other off and I used one of his deodorants. He put Moustache on his face, then we got dressed and went out for something to eat.

  Over hamburgers I asked him, “Well . . . how does it feel to have made it with an older woman?” He gave me a blank look so I added, “I’m eighteen now, remember? But you won’t be for another month.”

  He polished off his Coke. “There’s a lot to be said for older women!”

  On the way back to my house I said, “I’d like to meet your parents.”

  “You will . . . one of these days.”

  “What are they like?”

  “They’re okay . . . a little stuffier than yours, but basically they’re good guys.”

  “What would they say if they knew about us?”

  “My mother would think you’d seduced me . . . and my father would say I’ve got good taste.”

  “Oh, you!”

  When we got to my house we sat in the den for an hour—otherwise my parents might have been suspicious. I thought how nice it would be if we could just go upstairs, to bed, together. I was hoping we’d make love again but Michael said he was kind of exhausted. Probably from just getting over the flu.

  17

  Jamie is in love. His name is David and he’s in her math class. She says he looks a lot like Michael. They’ve decided to act as if they hate each other in public so no one will be able to guess the truth and tease them. When I hear that I’m glad I’m not thirteen anymore. He’s been calling Jamie every night, tying up the phone for ages, which makes it hard for Michael to get through to me. So my parents have limited both our calls to fifteen minutes each.

  This summer Jamie is going back to camp in New Hampshire. She says she can’t wait. It doesn’t matter to her that she won’t see David for seven weeks, which proves that love at thirteen is nothing like love at eighteen.

  I don’t know what I’m going to do about the summer. I’ve been job hunting, but so far, no luck. Mrs. Handelsman says I shouldn’t worry, that something will turn up by June. But it’s already the middle of April and I’m worried. So is Michael. He hasn’t found anything either and he’s counting on a good summer salary to help with next year’s expenses at school.

  On Monday morning Erica was waiting outside my homeroom. “I got the job on The Leader,” she said.

  The Leader is Westfield’s weekly newspaper. There were at least a hundred kids after that job. “You’re really lucky,” I told her. “I wish I could find something exciting like that.”

  On Tuesday morning she was waiting for me again. “Sybil’s pregnant,” she said, shifting her books from one arm to the other. “I found out last night.”

  “Oh no . . .”


  “And she doesn’t know who the father is.”

  “Oh God . . .”

  “And she’s too far gone to have an abortion . . . the baby’s due in early July.”

  I counted on my fingers. “That means she got pregnant in October . . .”

  “Uh huh . . . and never even missed a day of school.”

  “Jesus . . . why didn’t she say anything?”

  “She wanted to have the baby and she knew if her parents found out they’d make her have an abortion.”

  “You mean they didn’t notice?”

  “She’s so fat . . . you know . . . she just kept wearing those tents of hers and nothing showed . . .”

  “Didn’t she go to a doctor?”

  “Yeah . . . but she told him she was married and gave him a phony name and address . . .”

  “What’s she going to do with a baby?”

  “Oh, she knows she can’t keep it. She’ll put it up for adoption as soon as it’s born.”

  “Then why have it in the first place?”

  “For the experience, she told me.”

  “Will she be able to graduate?”

  “I guess so . . . nobody knows but my aunt and uncle, my parents and us. And the only reason she told in the first place was they wanted to send her to Duke University for the summer . . . to this fat people’s clinic.”

  I shook my head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I know . . . neither can I.”

  “I’d have an abortion . . . wouldn’t you?”

  “In a minute . . . my mother’s so worked up about Sybil she made an appointment for me to see her gynecologist . . . she wants me to take the Pill. I told her, Relax, Mom—I’m still a virgin, but she said she’d feel better if she knew that I was prepared for college, in every way.”

  “Are you going to take it?”

  “Sure . . . I like the idea of being ready for anything . . . and maybe it’ll even help Artie . . . make him feel more secure.”

  The last Thursday in April is Career Day at our school. This year I was hostess to Sharon and my grandmother so I got to eat lunch in the teachers’ cafeteria. The food wasn’t any better there. Grandma and Sharon hit it off very well, trading anecdotes about their work.

  After lunch there was a special assembly and all the guests gave short talks about their careers. Then the audience split up into groups and visited with the three speakers of their choice. Both Grandma and Sharon were among the most popular and had full classrooms at all three sessions.

  At the end of the day Mrs. Handelsman couldn’t thank me enough. We walked back to her office together. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you about those extra schools,” she said. “What ever happened?”

  “My parents wouldn’t give me permission,” I answered.

  She touched my shoulder. “I’m sure everything will work out for the best.”

  “I hope so.”

  I didn’t tell her that Michael and I have another plan. Since both the University of Vermont and Middlebury are on the trimester system, he will take off the winter semester and teach skiing in Colorado. He’ll make up the lost credits at summer school and that way he can still graduate in four years and we can be together every weekend, all winter long. He’s already written to Vail, Aspen and Steamboat Springs, stating his qualifications.

  “You’ll be accepted . . . don’t worry.”

  So on Career Day my mind wasn’t really on Sharon or Grandma or any other speakers. There was just one thing I could think about—college acceptances—which were due in the mail any day.

  Two days later they arrived and I was rejected at Michigan, but accepted at Penn State and Denver. Michael got into University of Vermont but not Middlebury. A week after we heard from our schools, Erica was accepted at Radcliffe.

  “I’m really not surprised,” she said, when I called to congratulate her. “Did you hear about Sybil?”

  “No . . . what now?”

  “She got into Smith, Wellesley, Holyoke and Stanford . . . everywhere she applied. She didn’t tell them she was pregnant.”

  “She’s too much . . . What about Artie?” I asked, “Anything new?”

  “So far he’s on the waiting list at Temple but that’s it.”

  “Maybe if he’s not accepted anywhere else his father will change his mind and let him go to the American Academy.”

  “That’s what I said but Artie doesn’t believe it.”

  I wrote to Denver right away, accepting, even though my parents felt I should wait a few weeks and think it over since Denver is so far away. Then I explained to them about Michael’s plan. They weren’t overjoyed.

  18

  When the weather turns warm we have a salad for supper once a week—tunafish, hard-boiled eggs, cheese and raw vegetables—usually on Wednesdays, because that’s my mother’s late day at the library.

  I was peeling foil off a wedge of cheese when my father said, “How would you like to play tennis all summer and get paid for it?”

  “Are you kidding . . . I’d love it,” I told him, popping the cheese into my mouth.

  He smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  “You’re serious?” I asked. “Is the tennis club looking for someone?

  “No . . . but Foxy is.”

  “Foxy?”

  “Sam Fox . . . the director of Jamie’s camp,” Dad said. “I spoke to him this morning . . . he’s built three new courts . . . all weather composition . . . and he needs an assistant tennis counselor . . . the boy he originally hired has hepatitis.”

  “I can’t go to Jamie’s camp,” I said, spearing an egg yolk.

  “He’ll pay you $350,” Dad said.

  “I don’t care if it’s $3000 . . . I’m not going to New Hampshire.”

  Mom and Dad exchanged looks.

  “It’s out of the question,” I told them, suddenly having trouble getting the egg down.

  “I told Foxy I was sure you’d be interested in the job . . .”

  “Well, you can tell him you were wrong!”

  “May I be excused?” Jamie asked.

  “Go ahead,” my mother said. When she was gone Mom turned to me. “Daddy went to a lot of trouble to find you a good job.”

  “Who asked him to?”

  My mother put down her knife and fork. “I can’t say I like your attitude.”

  I fought back tears. “Do you think I’m stupid . . . do you think I can’t see what you’re trying to do . . .”

  “This has nothing to do with Michael,” my father said.

  “Don’t lie . . . please!”

  “All right,” Mom said. “We both think you could use a change of scenery . . .”

  “A change of scenery! Did you forget I’m going to Denver . . . you know Michael and I only have until September.”

  “Camp is just seven weeks,” my father said.

  “Just seven weeks!”

  “Will you stop repeating everything I say,” Dad shouted.

  “Seven weeks may not be a lot to you but to me it’s forever!”

  “Let’s try to discuss this rationally,” Mom said.

  My father lowered his voice. “Look, Kath . . . I already told Foxy it was a deal . . . that you’d take the job.”

  “You told him! What right have you to answer for me? I’m not a child anymore . . . I’m eighteen . . .” I didn’t care that I was crying now. I wiped my nose and eyes with my dinner napkin.

  “Last summer you said you’d love to be a counselor at Jamie’s camp,” Mom reminded me.

  “That was last summer . . . things have changed!”

  “I’d like you to give it some thought,” Dad said.

  “I already have . . . and my mind’s made up . . . so you can call Foxy and tell him to find somebody else.” I threw down my napkin and stood up.

  “No,” my father said. It hit me then that his mind was made up too. I understood the whole thing, just like that. “Let me get this straight,” I said, very slowly. “You’re telling
me that I have no choice . . . is that right?”

  “That’s right,” Dad said.

  “Mom . . .” I began.

  “I think you should give it a try,” she said.

  “What does that mean . . . an hour, a day, a week . . .”

  “I think you should go for the summer.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I said. “I always thought you were really fair . . . both of you . . . but I can see I was wrong . . . way wrong . . .”

  “I know how it seems now, Kath . . .” Mom said.

  I held up a hand. “Don’t feed me any of that crap about how grateful I’ll be when I’m older . . .”

  “I wasn’t going to . . .” she answered, but I didn’t stick around to listen. I ran out of the kitchen and upstairs, to my bedroom.

  I was all cried out when Jamie knocked on my door, later. “I don’t think they should make you go,” she said.

  “Did you tell them that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “They said I should stay out of it.”

  “I could just walk right out of here . . . I wonder if they ever thought of that . . . I could just pack my things and take off . . .”

  “You won’t though . . . will you?” Jamie asked. She looked really worried.

  I rolled over on my bed and sighed. “No . . . I guess not . . .” It’s strange, but when it comes right down to it I never do fall apart—even when I’m sure I will.

  “I’m glad,” Jamie said.

  We didn’t discuss the situation at home the next day or the day after that but it was understood that I would take the job at camp.

  And now I had to tell Michael.

  I thought about waiting until his birthday. It’s just a week away. I opened my bottom dresser drawer and pulled out the present I’d bought for him—a bluish-green Shetland sweater, the exact color of his eyes. I’d returned two others before I’d found this one. The first looked too big when I got it home and the second itched when I tried it on. This one was just right. I took the top off the box and held the sweater to my face. It smelled new. But would it be fair to wait until his birthday—would it be honest? No . . . I had to tell him right away.