Forever . . . Read online

  “Everybody says the first time is no good for a virgin. I’m not disappointed.” But I was. I’d wanted it to be perfect.

  “Maybe it was the rubber,” Michael said. “I should have bought the more expensive kind.” He kissed my cheek and took my hand. “I love you, Kath. I wanted it to be good for you too.”

  “I know.”

  “Next time it’ll be better . . . we’ve got to work on it. Did you bleed?”

  “I didn’t feel anything.” I wrapped the beach towel around my middle and went to the bathroom. When I wiped myself with tissues I saw a few spots of blood, but nothing like what I’d expected.

  On the way home I thought, I am no longer a virgin. I’ll never have to go through the first-time business again and I’m glad—I’m so glad it’s over! Still, I can’t help feeling let down. Everybody makes such a big thing out of actually doing it. But Michael is probably right—this takes practice. I can’t imagine what the first time would be like with someone you didn’t love.

  13

  We were sitting around the kitchen table the next day, having Sunday brunch. I thought for sure that as soon as my parents saw me they’d be able to tell. But after a while I realized that they were acting the same as always, so I guess my experience doesn’t show, after all.

  I smoothed some cream cheese on my bagel and decorated the top with a few dots of lox. My father and Jamie pile their bagels high but I can’t eat mine that way. Mom is the same as me. She sort of mashes hers in, making a spread out of it.

  When the phone rang, Dad said, “I’ll get it . . .” He can reach the wall phone from his seat at the table. “Hello . . . who’s calling, please . . . just a minute . . .” He covered the phone with one hand and said, “It’s for you, Kath.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Tommy Aronson.”

  Tommy Aronson? I mouthed his name and my father nodded. “I’ll take it upstairs,” I said.

  I picked up the extension in my parents’ bedroom and cleared my throat before I said, “Hello . . .”

  “Katherine?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Tommy Aronson . . . remember me?”

  “I remember.”

  “I’m home for the weekend.”

  “The weekend’s just about over.”

  “I’m not going back until tomorrow morning.”

  “Have a nice trip.”

  “I see you haven’t changed.”

  “Have you?”

  “Why don’t you come out with me tonight and decide for yourself?”

  “Sorry . . . I can’t make it.”

  “Oh, come on . . . I’ll behave.”

  “It’s not that . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “I’m going with someone.”

  “Oh . . . anyone I know?”

  “No.”

  “Well . . . in that case . . . what’s your girlfriend’s number?”

  “I have a lot of girlfriends.”

  “The little one . . . you know . . .”

  “Erica?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Her last name’s Small and she’s listed in the book.” I hung up before he could say anything else. The nerve of him, coming back into my life today, of all days! And asking for Erica’s number just to make me jealous—as if I care one way or the other!

  I went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table. My cheeks were burning. “That was Tommy Aronson,” I said.

  “We know,” Mom told me.

  “What did he want?” Jamie asked.

  “To go out tonight.”

  “Are you going?”

  “Of course not . . . I wouldn’t be caught dead with him!”

  “You used to like him,” Jamie said.

  “A long time ago . . . things have changed.”

  “Is Michael going to be your only boyfriend?”

  “For now,” Mom answered, before I could. She smiled and offered me another half bagel.

  I shook my head. The phone rang again. “That Tommy can’t take no for an answer,” I said, picking it up. “Hello . . .” I sounded irritated.

  “Kath?” It was Michael.

  “Oh, hi . . .”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing . . . I thought you were someone else . . . hang on a second and I’ll take it upstairs.”

  “How’re you doing?” he asked me when I picked up the extension.

  “I’m fine . . . and you?”

  “Okay . . . I just wanted to tell you I thought about you all night.”

  “Same here . . . about you, that is.”

  “And that it was very special for me.”

  “For me, too . . .”

  My mother came to my room that night. “I cut this article out of today’s Times,” she said, handing it to me. “I think it has a lot to say . . . you might find it interesting.”

  I got comfortable in bed, adjusted my lamp, and looked at the article. Maybe Mom could tell about me after all. The title was What about the right to say ‘no’? and the subtitle was Sexual liberation. It was written by the director of medical clinics at Yale. He said that he always asks adolescents (am I still considered an adolescent?) four questions when he talks to them about sex.

  1—Is sexual intercourse necessary for the relationship?

  2—What should you expect from sexual intercourse?

  3—If you should need help, where will you seek it?

  4—Have you thought about how this relationship will end?

  He went on to explain each question. In his discussion of question two he said that enjoyable love-making, culminating in orgasm, isn’t easy. It usually requires mutual education. It takes time, effort, and patience to learn to make love.

  That made me feel better about last night. It’s funny, because I used to think if you read enough books you’d automatically know how to do everything the right way. But reading and doing are not the same at all.

  Question three didn’t interest me that much so I jumped ahead to question four, which made me very angry. Why should I have to think about the end with Michael when we are just at the beginning? And I didn’t like the way he said, Rejection is rejection whether we call it divorce, puppy love or adolescent turmoil. Anyway, who says a relationship has to end?

  “What did you think?” Mom asked over breakfast.

  “About what?’

  “That article?”

  “Oh . . . well, it was pretty good.”

  “Did you agree?”

  “With some of it . . . like a person shouldn’t ever feel pushed into sex . . . or that she has to do it to please someone else . . .”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Mom said.

  “I’m answering you hypothetically,” I told her, “not personally.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You’ll never believe who called me yesterday,” Erica said. We were sitting in English, which we both have second period. Mr. Frazier wasn’t there yet.

  “Tommy Aronson?” I asked.

  “He called you first?”

  I could see that Erica was surprised, and hurt too. “Just to get your number,” I said.

  “Oh, wow . . . for a minute I really wondered.”

  “Did you go out with him?”

  “No . . . but he came over.” Erica must have seen some expression on my face that made her add, “We didn’t make out, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything . . . what you do is your own business.”

  “Not that he didn’t try,” Erica said, “and not that I wasn’t curious . . . he has a very sexy body.”

  “So how come you didn’t?”

  “Because he’s so dull . . . he doesn’t have an idea in his head. Compared to Artie he’s a real nothing . . . even if he does have a perpetual hard-on.”

  We both laughed as Mr. Frazier walked into the room, smoothing down his hair. His zipper was at half-mast, as usual.

  I was surprised that
Erica didn’t say anything about the fact that I am no longer a virgin. She said she’d be able to tell in a minute. I was sure she’d ask me all about it. So in a way I will always be grateful to Tommy Aronson because if she hadn’t had him on her mind she’d have put me through the third degree. And I’m not sure that I’d have told her the truth.

  About school, I have two things to say. One, senior year is a bore, except for activities and history, and two, everyone is just marking time until graduation and all the teachers know it.

  About my other friends, which I also haven’t mentioned, I already know that after graduation we won’t be seeing much of each other. It’s funny how you can grow away from your friends, when just a few years ago they were the most important people in your life. We used to travel in a pack—there were eight of us and we did everything together. We still share a table at lunch but I don’t talk to them on the phone every night, the way I used to, and I certainly don’t share my innermost thoughts with them either. Erica is the only one of them I really care about now.

  I used to be best friends with Janis Foster. Since ninth grade Janis has been going with Mark Fiore. He’s finishing his first year at Rutgers now. Naturally Janis is going to Douglass. She and Mark have their entire lives mapped out. They know exactly when they’re going to get married and exactly when Baby One and Baby Two will be born. They’ve even picked out names. Sometimes, on Sundays, they go looking at houses, and at lunch on Monday Janis will tell us they know just where they want to live seven years from now. They make life seem so dull.

  Lately, avoiding Janis and Mark has been tricky. She knows I’m going with Michael and wants to meet him. We’re in modern dance together and Janis is always after me to make plans for us to go out together. I’m running out of excuses. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t want to waste a night with Michael by spending it with them. She must be really dense not to get the picture.

  That night Michael called right after dinner. “Can I come over . . . just for a little while?”

  “I have to finish a paper on Somerset Maugham,” I told him.

  “I’ll only stay an hour. I miss you, Kath.”

  “I miss you too,” I whispered.

  “See you in a little while.”

  “Okay.”

  I raced upstairs and took a shower and shampoo. If I don’t wash my hair at least every other day it gets oily and looks terrible. I put on a fresh pair of jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “I brought my books,” Michael said, after we’d kissed hello.

  “Good . . . because if I don’t get this paper in by Friday I’m going to fail. We can work at the kitchen table.”

  As soon as we got our books arranged Jamie wandered in. “I want a pretzel,” she said.

  “Take the box and please leave,” I told her.

  “Okay . . . okay . . .”

  A few minutes later she was back. “They made me thirsty . . . I need some juice.”

  “Jamie . . .”

  “Okay . . . I can take a hint.”

  “It’s not that we don’t want you in here,” Michael told her. “It’s just that we have a lot of studying to do.”

  “Sure.”

  At 10:00 Michael gathered his books and I walked him out to his car. “Get in for a minute,” he said.

  We put our arms around each other and kissed. “I don’t know how I can last until Friday,” Michael said. “I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Me neither.”

  We kissed again.

  Like my mother said, you can’t go back to holding hands and anyway, I don’t want to.

  14

  “There’s no school on Friday,” Erica said. We were in the locker room, changing into our gymsuits.

  “I know . . . some kind of special teacher’s meeting.”

  “So you want to see a preview of a new Robert Redford picture?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d love to!”

  “We’re taking the 8:45 train.”

  “I’ll meet you at the station.”

  “No . . . we can pick you up . . . say around 8:30.”

  “Great . . . and tell your mother thanks for asking me.”

  When I got home from school I found a small package in the mail, from my grandmother. As I ripped it open I wondered if it could be a birthday present two weeks early. As soon as I saw what was inside I knew it wasn’t. First I read the note.

  Dear Kath,

  I hear that you and Michael are officially going together. Thought these might come in handy. And remember, if you ever need to talk, I’m available. I don’t judge, I just advise.

  Love,

  Grandma

  I pulled out a whole bunch of pamphlets from Planned Parenthood on birth control, abortion and venereal disease.

  At first I was angry. Grandma is jumping to conclusions again, I thought. But then I sat down and started to read. It turned out she had sent me a lot of valuable information. Could my mother have put her up to it?

  I went to the phone and dialed her office.

  “Gross, Gross and Gross . . . Good afternoon . . .”

  “Hallie Gross, please,” I said.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Katherine Danziger.”

  “One moment . . .”

  “Kath?” It was Grandma.

  “Hi,” I said. “I got the stuff you sent.”

  “That was fast. I just mailed it yesterday.”

  “It was here when I got home from school.”

  “You’re not angry, are you?” Grandma asked.

  “Me? Why should I be angry?”

  “You shouldn’t be . . . but sometimes you jump to conclusions.”

  “Me . . . jump to conclusions?”

  “You.”

  “Look . . . I’m glad you sent that stuff . . . it’s very interesting . . . not personally or anything . . . but in general.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Do me a favor though . . . don’t tell your mother and father . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “Sometimes it’s hard for parents to accept the facts . . . so let’s keep it between the two of us, okay?”

  “Sure . . . okay. I’m coming into New York on Friday . . . maybe I could meet you and Grandpa for lunch.”

  “We’d love it,” she said. “I’ll make a reservation at Basil’s . . . 12:30?”

  “Fine.”

  “See you then.”

  “Right . . . bye.”

  That night I got into bed early and read all the pamphlets. When I’d finished I thought, well, I can start a service in school I know so much, which might not be a bad idea, considering there is a girl in my gym class who, until this year, never knew that intercourse was how you got pregnant, and she’s already done it!

  The next morning, during study hall, I went to the phone booth near the office and called Planned Parenthood of New York City. The phone rang three times before any one answered. Either it was very hot in the booth or I was nervous because all of a sudden I was sweating like crazy.

  “Hello . . . can I help you?”

  “Yes,” I said, coughing twice. “I’d like some information about birth control . . . that is, about getting it.”

  “One moment please . . .”

  She connected me with someone else. “You wish to make an appointment?”

  “I guess so.”

  “May I ask your age?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No . . . we don’t require parental permission . . . but if you’re a teenager we have special sessions.”

  “Oh . . . I’ll be eighteen in two weeks.”

  “Then you could come in this Thursday at 4:00.”

  “I was hoping I could get an appointment for Friday. You see, I live in New Jersey and I’ll be in the city then.”

  “Hold on a minute, please.” I heard a click. After a few seconds she came back on the line. “Friday afternoon will be fine.”

  “Oh, that’s great.”

  “Your n
ame, please?”

  “Katherine Danziger.”

  “Would you spell the last name?”

  “D-a-n-z-i-g-e-r.”

  “Very good . . . come to the Margaret Sanger Clinic at 22nd Street and 2nd Avenue at 3:00.”

  “Thank you . . . I’ll be there.”

  On Friday morning my father asked me if I needed any money for my day in New York.

  “I’ve got some saved up,” I told him.

  “Then use this for train fare,” he said, handing me a five.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “And have a nice day.”

  Going to a private screening with Juliette Small is a lot different than just going to the movies. This was the third time she’d invited me to join her. I like Mrs. Small. She acts like a regular person. You would never know she’s famous. There were about twenty-five other people at the screening, besides us, and Erica said most of them were reviewers, like her mother.

  After the picture Mrs. Small asked me, personally, what I thought of it.

  “Well . . .” I told her, “I just love Robert Redford.”

  “Don’t we all . . .” Mrs. Small said, “but I mean about the story.”

  “Oh, the story . . . I liked it . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “I don’t think it could happen that way in real life . . .”

  “Exactly!” she said. “But you wanted it to, didn’t you . . . you were hoping it would turn out just that way.”

  “Yes,” I told her.

  “You see . . . that’s the whole point.”

  “It’s going to be a smash,” Erica said.

  “In spite of my review, you mean?”

  “In spite of anybody’s review.”

  “I agree with you, completely,” Mrs. Small said. She got into her coat. “Well, that wraps it up . . . I’m yours for the rest of the day. Where shall we begin . . . the Guggenheim, the Whitney . . .”

  “How about lunch?” Erica said.

  “You’re hungry already?”