The stage crew meets in a rehearsal room once a week after school, but two weeks or so before the performance we meet every day plus weekends. Often enough to keep Pamela out of trouble, I figured.
Since her parents’ marriage went down the tube, Pamela’s practically gone down with it. If your mom takes off to be with some boyfriend, how can you help but feel she’d rather be her boyfriend’s girlfriend than your mom? And even though you know in your head that the trouble was between her and your dad, how can you stop feeling that you’re not a cute enough daughter, or loving enough, or smart enough to keep her home? That maybe she just doesn’t care all that much?
It doesn’t seem to help that Mrs. Jones is back in the picture now, living in an apartment alone and pestering Pamela with phone calls, wanting to take up where she left off, and thinking everyone will forget what happened. I don’t think Pamela or her dad will ever forget. It’s as though her friends, not her parents, have become Pamela’s family. I’d noticed that Brian, in particular—now that they were going to the dance—was getting his share of affection. Maybe more than his share. Each of them was always a flirty kind of person, but this seemed to be more than the usual kid stuff back in junior high.
Now, sitting around with some of the stage crew at school, legs sprawled out in front of her as though we’d have to use a cattle prod to get her standing again, Pamela said, “So? What are we supposed to do?”
Just at that moment a couple of seniors came in—Harry, from last year, and a blond-haired guy, Chris. As soon as Pamela saw them, she straightened up and kept watching the door to see what the rest of our crew looked like.
I was watching the door for a different reason, though. I’d read the names on the sign-up sheet and knew that Molly, with the huge blue eyes, would be with us again this year. So would Charlene Verona. But the person I was watching for was a senior named Faith, and here she came—rail thin, dressed in the usual black jersey top, long black skirt and granny boots with impossibly pointed toes, black mascara around her eyes. She wore bright red lipstick outlined in black against her pale skin.
We were all glad to see her because she was like a frail sister to us, and we worried about her. Not her health. Her boyfriend.
“Hi, Faith!” I said, grabbing her hand as she passed me and sat down on the other side of Molly. “How are you?” What I really wanted to say was, You’re not still going out with that scumbag Ron, are you?
Mr. Ellis came in then and announced that the spring play would be Father of the Bride. (The stage crew is always the first to find it out.) The set wouldn’t be as elaborate as we’d had last year for Fiddler, he told us—creating a Russian village—but he wanted to keep the play contemporary, and we’d need to put together a complete living room.
Then he assigned crew managers—Harry, sets; Faith, props; Charlene, costumes; Molly, electrical—and let the rest of us choose what committee we wanted to work on. Pamela chose to work on props with Faith, but I wanted something different this time, so I volunteered to work on sets with Harry.
Through it all, I kept watching the door and could see that Molly was too. Last year Ron had sat in on some of our meetings and was totally obnoxious when it came to Faith—the way he’d order her around, push her, insult her. When the meeting was over and he still hadn’t come in, we began to hope that we’d talked some sense into Faith about dropping him. Then we went out into the hall and saw him leaning against a locker, waiting for her. She went over and kissed him, and he guided her on toward the door, one hand on the back of her neck.
Molly sighed. “Maybe he’s changed,” she said hopefully.
“Yeah, and maybe the pope’s Protestant,” I said.
“What’s the matter with him?” Pamela wanted to know.
“Control freak,” said Molly. “First-class, grade-A, the genuine article.”
“And Faith puts up with it?” asked Pamela.
“All the way,” I said.
I think that orthodontists do their training on torture equipment. First they learn how to crunch your lips between your teeth and their fist, and then they work on tightening the wires. I was thinking about this as I sat gripping the armrests of Dr. Wiley’s padded torture chair. I mean, what kind of person decides to make tightening wires around teeth his life’s work? Doesn’t that make you wonder?
Dr. Wiley paused to get something out of a cupboard and caught me studying his certificates and diplomas on the wall. Glowering at them, actually.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I wondered what Marine boot camp you trained in.” That was rude, I know, but I was feeling rude. He hurts me, I hurt him.
At first he was taken aback a little. Then he said, “I try to be as gentle as I can, but some of the pain is unavoidable. I’m sorry.” And then he added, as though he could read my thoughts, “Why don’t we focus on the end result—straight teeth and a healthy mouth. That’s what gives me satisfaction.”
Touché. I don’t want to enter the medical profession, but if I did, I’d be an obstetrician. When you think about it, obstetricians are the only doctors who are called on to treat a happy, natural condition. Everything else is a sickness.
“Your teeth are doing fine, by the way,” the orthodontist told me.
“Any chance the braces can come off early?” I asked.
“We’ll wait and see about that,” he said.
I was surprised when I left the office and entered the lobby to see Sam sitting on a bench waiting for me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my mouth sore. I could feel a headache coming on too.
He grinned and stood up. “I called your house, and your stepmom told me where you were. I just thought you might like to have a ride home.”
I would. I just didn’t feel like talking a lot. All I wanted to do was curl up on my bed and listen to music and be grumpy. But it was nice of him to come for me.
As we turned off Wayne Avenue, Sam said, “We’ve got an invitation. Mom wants to have a little dinner for us before the dance. You know, restaurant style, but at our place.”
“Your mom?” I said. She didn’t even know me.
“Yeah. She likes to do stuff like that.”
“Who all will be there?”
“You and me and anyone else we want to invite.”
“Well, okay,” I said.
We drove a little farther, and Sam glanced over at me. “You look like you have a headache.”
“I do, actually. I’m not very good company after I see the orthodontist,” I said.
He reached over and squeezed my hand. “You don’t have to say anything.”
Would Patrick have come to pick me up after a dental visit? I wondered. I didn’t know, but I was glad to get home and glad that Sam didn’t ask to come in.
“Thanks,” I told him, and when he leaned over and gave me a kiss, he said, “You even smell like the orthodontist,” and we laughed.
I’d barely stepped inside the house when Elizabeth called.
“He’s coming!” she said.
“Who?”
“Ross! To the dance!”
“Oh, Liz, that’s great!”
“He’s coming down on the train, so his brother won’t have to drive him. Mom says she’ll be more comfortable if he stays at Lester’s, but if that doesn’t work out, he can stay with us.”
“I’ll ask,” I promised. “And listen. Sam’s mother is giving a dinner for us in their condo before the dance. You and Ross want to come?”
“In their condo?”
“Yeah. She likes to… you know… make like a restaurant, Sam says. Then you won’t have to worry about where to take Ross before the dance.”
“Okay. Sure!” said Liz.
I was about to phone Lester when he walked in the door. He and his two roommates live in a second-floor apartment in a big Victorian house in Takoma Park. They get it rent-free from an elderly man named Otto Watts, who lives downstairs, with the understanding that one
of them will always be there at night in case Otto needs him. They pay their own utilities and do odd jobs around the place.
“I smell lasagna,” he said, hanging up his jacket. Sylvia must have invited him for dinner.
“Hi, Les,” she called from the kitchen. “It’s spaghetti, actually.”
She always fixes something soft and easy to chew on days I get my braces tightened. That’s the kind of things moms do, I guess. I watched Lester pick up a magazine and slouch down on the couch. He seemed relaxed and in a good mood, but I knew I couldn’t just spring something on him. So I said, “Lester, if you could do a favor for a friend of mine that would mean everything in the world to her, would—?”
“No,” said Lester, without looking up.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask. Next to the prom, it’s the most important dance of the year, and—”
“I am not taking Pamela to the dance, no matter how sad, lonely, miserable, misunderstood—”
“I’m not talking about Pamela.”
“Elizabeth’s miserable and misunderstood?”
“No. It’s about sleeping over at your apartment.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Not Elizabeth! Her date!”
“Al, start at the beginning,” he said.
“I’m trying! Liz met this great guy at camp. He lives in Philadelphia, but he’s going to come down on the train and be her date for the Valentine’s dance. Her mom said they’d be more comfortable if he didn’t stay there, and I wondered if he could possibly spend the night at your place when he comes.”
Lester looked at me over the top of the magazine. “Somebody else picks him up at Amtrak and brings him to the apartment?”
“Right.”
“Somebody else picks him up for the dance and brings him back afterward?”
“Right.”
“And somebody else sees that he gets to the train on time the next day?”
“Right again. All you have to do is let him sleep on your couch.”
“Without Elizabeth.”
“I promise. You don’t have to worry about Elizabeth. She wants to stay a virgin,” I said. Then I thought about Ross kissing her naked breasts at camp. “Technically, I mean. Below the waist, anyway.”
“I don’t think I need to know all that,” said Lester. “Tell her it’s okay.”
“Thank you, Lester!” I said, and immediately called Elizabeth to tell her. She said to tell Lester that if she could ever do a favor for him, all he had to do was ask.
“Thanks but no thanks,” said Lester. “She’s too complicated for me.”
5
How Could He?
At dinner that night I got a shock. I mentioned that Les was going to let Ross stay at his place the night of the dance, and Sylvia asked if the dance was on a Friday or Saturday night. Dad said he hoped it wasn’t a Saturday because there was church the next morning. And then—like, out of the blue—he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Al, that I sort of went out on a limb here and signed you up for a class at church. I hope you don’t mind.”
It was so unlike him that I could only stare. “What?” I said. “What kind of class?”
“It’s called ‘Our Whole Lives,’ and it’s for high school students only.”
I tried to take that in. “Whole, meaning…?”
“Intellectual, spiritual, physical,” Dad began.
“Sexual,” said Lester, and shoved some spaghetti into his mouth.
I exploded. All I could think about was that church function where they handed out purity rings. “You’re sending me to church to learn about sex?”
“It’s only once a week for a couple of months,” Dad said.
“We studied that back in junior high!” I spluttered.
“I know, but this is from a different perspective. I’d really like for you to take it, Al.”
I pushed away from the table. “No! What right did you have doing that without even asking me?”
“No right at all, really. But they had an opening and—”
“Why did you do this?” I yelled, ignoring the surprise on Sylvia’s face. “What got you started on this? It’s Sam, isn’t it?”
“Of course not. I just heard about it at church, and it sounded good to me.”
“Well, it doesn’t sound good to me.” I looked helplessly about the table, but Sylvia gave me a sort of bemused “Sorry” look, and it was obvious I’d get no help from her. “I’m not going!” I said, standing up and banging my chair against the table. “You didn’t show even an ounce of respect for me, Dad, by signing me up like I was five years old. Now you can unsign me.” I went upstairs and slammed my door. Hard.
I sure didn’t need this. My teeth were still hurting from the orthodontist. I’ll have to admit, though, that once I was in my room, I was as puzzled as I was angry. What made him do it? I kept asking myself. I don’t think it was Sylvia’s idea. It had to be that he was worried about Sam. Maybe he just didn’t feel he knew him as well as he’d known Patrick. Maybe it was the way I’d been talking to Sam on the phone when he called the Melody Inn that one time—maybe something about that had set him off.
I was still sitting on the side of my bed hyperventilating when Dad tapped on the door and came in. I glared at him. He pulled out my desk chair and turned it, facing me. “May I?” he asked, sitting down.
“Do I have a choice?” I said.
“I overstepped, Al, and I’m sorry. I didn’t ask you first because I was afraid you’d say no.”
“You guessed right,” I told him. “I hardly know anyone at that church! I’ve hardly ever gone.”
“Well, maybe this is a good time for you to get acquainted, then,” Dad said, trying to be cheerful.
“Dad, we were practically raised heathen! I’m not prepared!”
“You were not raised heathen, Al. People can be good without belonging to a church. Those kids aren’t any different from you.”
“You’re worried about Sam and me. Admit it.”
“Honey, I’ll worry about all the boys you’ll meet from here on,” he said truthfully.
“Why weren’t you worried about Patrick?” I demanded, remembering the time in his basement when his mom was out and he was giving me a drum lesson. The way he ran his hands up my sides close to my breasts and I could almost feel myself beginning to melt.
Dad frowned a little. “Should I have been?”
“Maybe,” I said, just to torment him a little. And suddenly I thought I knew. “It was that newspaper article, wasn’t it? ‘Desperate Girls’!”
I saw the color creeping up into my dad’s face. He was actually blushing!
“It was! It was!” I crowed.
“Well, it did get my attention,” he told me.
I sat studying my father, trying to remember everything that reporter had written. The title, “Desperate Girls,” and then the subtitle, “Looking for Thrills, Looking for Acceptance, Looking for Love.” “You think that’s me?”
“No. I hope not, anyway. But listen, Al. You’re not going to tell me everything from here on, and I’m not going to ask. I know that. It’s normal. But the teen years are hard on parents because of that. I promised Marie I’d do the best I could with you. And after I met Sylvia, I promised myself I wouldn’t dump all the responsibility for raising you on her. I read things. I listen to the people at work talk about problems they have with their kids. I try to keep up with what’s going on, and I’ve heard wonderful things about that class at Cedar Lane.”
“What things?”
“It’s all about communication and respect and intimacy. Younger kids can’t even attend.” He was trying to appeal to my ego, I could tell.
“How do you know so much about it?” I asked.
“No student can take it unless a parent attends two sessions, so I—”
“You’re going to be there with me?” I cried.
“No, no. I’ve already gone to the sessions for parents so I could see wha
t they talk about and what you’d be reading.” And then he leaned forward and looked right into my eyes. “I know I went about this all wrong, Al. But I’m asking you to do it for me. Humor an old dad who’s been a single parent for much too long.”
I don’t know if it was because I felt sorry for him right then or because I needed his car to learn to drive in, but I finally—reluctantly, grumpily—said an almost inaudible “Okay.”
When I came downstairs later, Dad and Sylvia had gone out, but Les was still hanging around looking for leftovers in the fridge.
“Why didn’t Dad make you take that class when you were in high school?” I grumbled.
“Because I already knew how to put a condom on a banana,” said Les.
“I have to put a condom on a banana?” I gasped. “Why do I have to know how to do that?”
“Because a man might want you to do it sometime,” said Lester.
I was a “Desperate Girl,” all right, but I wasn’t looking for thrills or acceptance or love right then; I was looking for a sane human being to talk to. I got on the phone with Elizabeth. “You’re not going to believe what Dad’s making me do,” I said. “He’s signed me up for a sex class at church.”
“At church?” she said. “There’s probably nothing to it, then, Alice. You’ll just sign a chastity card or something.”
“I don’t think so,” I told her. “We practice putting a condom on a banana.”
“What?” she cried. “In front of the congregation?”
Even I had to laugh a little. “Not then. I think Dad’s worried about Sam.”
“Listen, we haven’t done half the things some of the sophomores do,” Liz said.
“Yeah,” I joked. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“Well, whatever you learn in that course, teach me,” said Elizabeth. “If you learn it in church, it must be okay.”
I was curled up on my bed listening to a CD, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in, when I got a call from Patrick on my cell phone.