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  “Michael Wagner . . . isn’t that a nice name?”

  She looked up and smiled at me. “It must have been a good party.”

  “It was okay . . . I’m seeing him Friday night . . . and Saturday too.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Summit . . . he goes to school with Sybil. Can I borrow your nail scissors when you’re done? I can’t find mine.”

  “Here . . .” Mom handed them to me. “But don’t forget to return them this time.”

  “I won’t.”

  My mother’s name is Diana—Diana Danziger. It sounds like she should be a movie star or something. Actually, she’s a librarian, in charge of the children’s room at the public library. Mom is naturally thin, so she can eat four cupcakes at one sitting or polish off as much beer as she wants. We are exactly the same size—five-feet-six and 109 pounds—but she is sort of flat chested and never wears a bra.

  While I was cutting my toenails my sister, Jamie, came into my room, holding up a pair of jeans. “I embroidered them while you were at Sybil’s. What do you think?”

  “They’re just great,” I told her. “They’re fantastic!”

  “Want me to do a pair of yours?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.”

  “By next weekend?”

  “Yeah . . . I guess I could.”

  “Jamie . . .” I said, hugging her, “you are an absolute angel!”

  Jamie is in seventh grade and looks a lot like me but her eyes are fabulous—big and round—and if you look into them you get the feeling you can see deep inside her. Sometimes they seem very dark, with just a rim of green and other times they sparkle and are greenish-gray all over, like my grandfather’s. The rest of us have ordinary brown eyes but my father’s brows grow straight across the bridge of his nose. He told me that when he was in college he used to shave them up the center.

  Jamie untangled herself from me. “What’s next weekend?” she asked.

  “I’m seeing someone I met last night,” I told her, “and the truth is, I don’t know how I’m going to live through this week.”

  “You mean you’re in love again?”

  “I have never been in love.”

  “What about Tommy Aronson?”

  “That wasn’t love . . . that was childish infatuation.”

  “You said it was love . . . I remember.”

  “Well, I didn’t know anything then.”

  “Oh.”

  “Some day you’ll understand.”

  “I doubt it,” Jamie said.

  I wish she hadn’t brought up the subject of Tommy Aronson, because I did like him a lot last year, but only for a few months. Now he’s at Ohio State and the news I get is he’s so busy making it with every female on campus he may flunk out. I hope he does. Sex was all he was ever interested in, which is why we broke up—because he threatened that if I wouldn’t sleep with him he’d find somebody who would. I told him if that was all he cared about he should go right ahead. So he did. Her name was Dorothy and she turned up in my English class this year.

  Michael was different from Tommy Aronson right away. He called me every night.

  “Hi . . . it’s me, Michael,” he said on Tuesday.

  “Hi . . .”

  “I’m sitting on the bed with this beautiful fifteen-year-old . . .”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah . . . her name’s Tasha . . . she’s gray and furry and she’s got a beard but I love her anyway.”

  I laughed. “A schnauzer?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “The beard. Isn’t fifteen kind of old for a dog?”

  “In people years she’d be 105.”

  “Can she still get around?”

  “Sure . . . she just doesn’t bark much anymore. Wait a second and I’ll put her on . . . say hello to Katherine, Tasha . . . don’t be shy . . .”

  “Hello, Tasha . . .” I said. “Arf . . . arf . . .”

  The next night I asked Michael if he plays tennis.

  “Not really . . . why, do you?”

  “Uh huh . . . I’m on the school team,” I said.

  “Oh, a jock, huh?”

  “Hardly . . . just that and modern dance . . .”

  “A dancer too?”

  “Um . . . sort of . . .”

  “You jump around wearing one of those things?”

  “What things?”

  “You know . . .”

  “A leotard, you mean?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I wear one.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “Some day, maybe . . . if you’re lucky.”

  On Thursday night he said, “Did I tell you I’m trying to get my ski instructor’s pin by next year?”

  “No . . .”

  “Yeah, I am. Do you by any chance like spinach?”

  “Ugh, no . . . why, do you?”

  “It’s only my favorite food.”

  “Like Popeye?”

  “Like Popeye.”

  “In that case, maybe I’ll try to develop a taste for it . . . but I can’t promise . . .”

  “Hey . . . you know tomorrow’s Friday?”

  “I know.”

  “How’s 7:30?”

  “Fine.”

  “Well . . . see you then . . .”

  “See you then. Oh, Michael . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  I was nervous about seeing him again. On Friday, right after school, I washed my hair. I couldn’t eat any dinner. My parents gave me a couple of funny looks but neither one said anything. Jamie had embroidered my jeans with tiny mushrooms and I’d bought a light blue sweater to go with them. I once read that boys like light blue on a girl better than any other color. I was ready half an hour early.

  As soon as I opened the door we both started talking at the same time. Then we looked at each other, laughed, and I knew it was going to be all right between us.

  Michael followed me into the living room.

  My mother and father were stretched out on the floor, hooking a rug—Jamie’s latest design. She paints the canvas and the three of us put in the colors. Hooking rugs is very easy and lots of fun but I wasn’t sure what Michael would think and for a minute I was sorry I hadn’t asked them to turn on the TV and just sit there.

  “Michael,” I said, “I’d like you to meet my parents.” Then, “Mom . . . Dad . . . this is Michael Wagner.”

  My father stood up and he and Michael shook hands. Mom pushed her glasses up on her head so she could get a good look at him. She can see only close up when she’s wearing them.

  Michael cleared his throat and looked around. “This is really something,” he said.

  My mother was pleased. She said, “Thanks . . . we like it too.”

  I have to explain about our house. It’s very ordinary on the outside but on the inside it’s really something, like Michael said. All the walls are painted white and are hung with a million of Jamie’s paintings and tapestries which are all done in bright, beautiful colors. Her artwork is not your everyday twelve-year-old’s. She is what is called a gifted child. When you combine my mother’s plants with Jamie’s artwork you don’t need anything else—our furniture is very plain and it’s all kind of beige so that you don’t notice it, which is the whole idea.

  Jamie came tearing down the stairs then, yelling, “Is he here yet? Did I miss him?” When she saw Michael she blushed. “Oh . . . he’s here.”

  Michael laughed.

  “This is my sister, Jamie,” I told him, “. . . in case you hadn’t already guessed.”

  “Hi, Jamie,” Michael said.

  “Hi,” she answered.

  In many ways Jamie is still a little girl. She looks up to me—at least that’s what my parents say. And I think they might be right. It took a long time for me to realize that, but when I did it helped me get over being jealous of all her talents. Not that I don’t get a pang now and then, like when Michael
admired everything she’s made and I know he wasn’t just saying it to make her feel good but that he was really impressed.

  As soon as I got into my jacket Michael and I left. We went to the Blue Star Cinema and held hands. All I could think about was later and being alone with him.

  After the movie we stopped off at a diner on Route 22. When we’d finished eating Michael said, “Do you know any place to park around here?”

  “No,” I told him. “But we could go back to my house.”

  “Your parents won’t mind?”

  “They’d rather have me bring my friends home than sit in a car somewhere.”

  “Okay . . . it’s back to your house, Katherine.”

  I really do know where people go to park. There’s a dark, dead-end street not far from where I live and there is also the golf course and the hill. Erica lives on the hill. She’s always finding used rubbers in the street. I can’t understand how someone could just throw a thing like that out a car window and forget about it.

  My mother and father talked to me about parking when I first started going with guys who drove. They explained how it isn’t safe, not because of anything we might do, but because there are a lot of crazies in this world and they have been known to prey on couples who are out parking. So I’ve always invited my boyfriends home.

  We have a den on one side of the living room that’s very private. It’s got a door and everything. It’s small but there’s a fireplace with two tilt-back chairs in front of it, a stereo built into the wall unit and a comfortable sofa under the windows, with the kind of cushions you sink into. There’s a big, beautiful hooked rug on the floor with a lion’s face in the middle.

  My mother and father go to bed early—between 10:00 and 11:00, unless they go out or have company. They were already asleep when I got home with Michael. I have no curfew but I am supposed to let them know when I get in, and that I’m okay. I tiptoe upstairs and whisper, “Psst . . . I’m home.” Usually my father hears me and mumbles something. Then he rolls over and goes back to sleep.

  Michael had turned on the stereo and was poking the fire when I came back downstairs. I closed the den door and sat down on the sofa. He took off his glasses, put them on the side table, and joined me. We put our arms around each other and I lifted my face. But after a short kiss he said, “You brushed your teeth?”

  “Yes.”

  “You taste like toothpaste.”

  “Is that bad?” I asked.

  “I don’t mind . . . but it makes your mouth cold.”

  “It does?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “It’s okay . . . it’ll warm up in a minute.”

  “I hope so.”

  When we kissed again Michael used his tongue. I wanted him to.

  We sat together on the sofa for an hour. Michael moved his hands around on the outside of my sweater but when he tried to get under it I said, “No . . . let’s save something for tomorrow.”

  He didn’t pressure me. He kissed my cheek, then my ear, and whispered, “Are you a virgin?”

  No boy had ever come right out and asked me that—not even Tommy Aronson. I told Michael, “Yes, I am . . . does it matter?”

  “No . . . but it’s better if I know.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “Don’t get defensive, Katherine. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  “Okay then . . . let’s just forget it. I like you just the same. I like being with you.”

  “I like being with you too.”

  It occurred to me in the middle of the night that Michael asked if I was a virgin to find out what I expected of him. If I hadn’t been one then he probably would have made love to me. What scares me is I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  4

  My father is a pharmacist. He owns Danziger’s Drugs in town and Danziger’s Two in Cranford. He is also very big on physical activity. He works out at a gym four times a week and plays tennis every morning from 7:30 to 8:30.

  I suppose I get my physical coordination from him. I’ve been playing tennis since I was eight. I play a good game. One of Jamie’s goals is to play tennis like me, even though when it comes to sports she is hopeless. I think she should stick to the things she does well. I mean, you can’t excel at everything. I know better than to want to be great at music and art, like Jamie. I’m realistic about myself. I think a person has to be.

  My father keeps warning my mother that if she doesn’t start to work out at the gym soon, she’ll wind up with flabby thighs. I can’t imagine my mother with flab anywhere but just a few months ago I overheard her divorced friend tell her, “You really should take better care of yourself, Diana. Roger is so attractive and he’s at that dangerous age.”

  “Bullshit,” my mother answered. But when I was nine and Jamie was four we had this babysitter who had a thing for Dad. As soon as my parents left the house she would run up to his closet and touch all his things. She even smelled some of them. Finally, I told Mom and we never had that sitter again.

  During Christmas vacation when both of our stores are fantastically busy I help out selling cosmetics and Jamie sometimes gift wraps. You wouldn’t believe how many people buy last minute Christmas presents. They’ll take absolutely anything they can get their hands on.

  In January business slows down and toward the end of the month my parents go away for a week, usually to Mexico. Then my grandparents come to stay with us. They are my mother’s parents. My father’s are both dead. My grandmother, Hallie Gross, once ran for Congress, but she lost. She and my grandfather practice law together in New York. Since Grandpa had his stroke he hasn’t handled any cases but he still goes to the office every day. My Uncle Howard, who is my mother’s brother, really runs the show. Grandma is too busy with politics and Planned Parenthood and NOW to see many clients. I can’t believe she is almost seventy years old.

  The night before my parents left for their vacation they said it would be all right for me to have some friends over. Michael brought Artie Lewin and I asked Erica. One thing about Erica—you never have to worry about her getting along with anyone. You can fix her up with the worst guy in the world and she’ll act like he’s someone special. That doesn’t mean she’ll make out with him but she will find something to talk about and he’ll always call and ask to see her again. Grandma says Erica would make a great politician.

  Artie turned out to be my height, with a good build, nice speckled eyes and terrific teeth. He was perfect for Erica. She goes for guys with good teeth.

  For a while we all sat around and talked, then Artie said, “How about a game of backgammon?”

  “We don’t have it,” I told him.

  “Never mind that,” Artie said, “I have mine in the car.”

  “You brought it with you?” Erica asked.

  “I always bring it along . . . just in case.”

  “I case . . . what?” Erica said.

  “In case we run out of things to do. But if you don’t play backgammon I have Monopoly, Clue, Yahtzee, chess . . .”

  “Scrabble,” Michael added.

  “Oh yeah . . . Scrabble . . .”

  “A regular traveling game show,” Erica said.

  “So what do you say?” Artie asked.

  “Backgammon,” Erica told him.

  “Great . . . don’t go away . . . I’ll be right back.”

  We laughed as Artie ran out to the car to get his set.

  Erica’s a whiz at backgammon. She plays a very offensive game. But by 10:00 she was down two games to Artie and the challenge was on.

  Michael and I sat on the sofa. I reached for his hand and traced the lines of his palm with my finger. “Very interesting,” I said.

  “You read palms?” he asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Oh . . . a long life line . . . that’s good. And over here I see a girl with brown hair . . .”
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  “I see one too,” he said, looking into my eyes.

  My insides turned over. I moved as close to him as I could. I rested my head on his shoulder and held onto his hand. He put his arm around me.

  At 10:30 we convinced Artie and Erica to take a break and go out for pizza and when we got back Mom and Dad had gone to sleep. Michael built us a fire in the den and we turned out all the lights. Erica and Artie sat together in a tilt-back chair but after a few minutes they got up and went into the other room, closing the door behind them.

  “I love your hair,” Michael whispered, burying his face in it. “It always smells so good.” He kissed my ears, my neck and my lips. Then he got up and walked across the room. “Lie down next to me, Kath . . . here, in front of the fire.”

  This was the fifth week in a row we’d seen each other. I’d asked him to go slow with me and he promised he would. I stretched out beside him. I felt his body against mine. He reached under my sweater and tried to unhook my bra but he had a lot of trouble and I wondered if I should help him out or just lie still and wait. He got it undone. His hands were cold at first but I didn’t flinch. I pressed myself as tight against him as I could.

  “I’m crazy about you.” He touched me and we kissed until the same record had played three times. But when he fumbled with the snap on my jeans I sat up and said, “No . . . not now . . . not with them in the other room.”

  Michael rolled over onto his stomach and kind of groaned. I bent down and stroked his hair. “You’re not mad, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah . . . but this is really rough . . .”

  “I know it . . .”

  “Give me a minute by myself, okay?” he asked.

  “Sure.” I needed a minute alone too. It wasn’t easy to stop.

  I opened the den door slowly, not sure what I would find on the other side, but Erica and Artie were sitting at the kitchen table, playing Monopoly. Erica never loses at that game. She steals from the bank.

  “Well . . .” Erica said, looking me over, “we were beginning to give up on you two.”

  “We . . . uh . . .”

  Erica held up her hand. “Please . . . spare us the gory details.”

  “Where’s my buddy?” Artie asked.