She Smoked Cigars

SHE SMOKED CIGARS

By Derek Wheatley

MARYLAND

The family pulled up in an old station wagon, its tyres sloshed through puddles, its wipers frantic in their rhythm. I was on my porch – six houses down and across the street – looking at the grey and rain; something I still like doing to this day – 19 years on. It was the 29th of December, one of those stale days between Christmas and the New Year, where you feel turkey-jaded and have sat through all of those family movies already on cable in the build-up to Christmas Day and are unwilling to even toy with the idea of watching them again on the public stations. I had my Beanie hat pulled low so I could observe in a certain way so that it looked as if I was merely killing time, minding my own business. A moving van had delivered all of the heavy duty items the morning before which had piqued my interest. After the car parked, doors opened and feet swung out. She stepped into a rivulet of water, wetting what looked like cowboy boots, at least from where I was sitting. Her jeans were tight, her coat pea-coloured and heavy looking. Her hair was jet black – either from a bottle or from Satan himself. Her skin was Michigan-winter-pale. She was lean and tall and walked like nothing I had seen before. Fifteen years I had endured to get to here, to her. She walked across the sodden lawn, carrying just a small blue case. Father followed with a suitcase in one hand and what turned out to be the house keys in the other. She followed him inside. Mother – looking suitably stressed – climbed from the passenger seat to open the back door behind her. She presented her blind son to his new environment which he would have to learn through counting steps and instinct.

Later that evening, after a turkey curry and yet more plum pudding, I was outside again, sitting huddled on the red plastic seat which had seen plenty of better days. I looked from the top house and down, at the lights and the illuminate Santas which had become a jolly army. At the only house without decorations, the screen door opened and she stepped out, holding her brother’s hand. She was doing all of the talking but I couldn’t hear what she was saying until they got within two houses of mine. She was describing everything, from houses to trees, to the cracked parts of the sidewalks where tree roots had broken through. She was smoking when she passed. It was too dark to see at the time but it was the hint of the aroma in the air that told me it was some sort of a cigar. This moment of absolute coolness blew me away. By pure chance, I hadn’t turned on the porch light which was dark on the wall above my head. She didn’t see me there in my dark cocoon, wrapped in my black coat, sweating under the light of the girl whose face I had yet to see or whose personality I had yet to enjoy. She guided her brother past the Raeburn’s house before crossing the street, to my side. No, it was too early, even for a swift salutation. I stepped softly across the porch boards, opened the door and stepped into our warmly lit hall. I watched through the high diamond-shaped pane of glass in the door until her head turned towards it and I dropped to my knees sorely, quickly having to reassure my mother that I was fine and that I was just tying my lace.

The following day the car was gone, the signs of life within the house having departed with it. Adam and Aidan – identical twins – came over during the afternoon of New Year’s Eve, where I filled them in on this new arrival, this tsunami of style and substance which had smashed my feelings and thoughts, reshaping them in a way that had yet to settle. The twins were excited by the way I spoke of her and made me promise to call them the next time she took her brother for a walk or appeared on her porch for an extended period of time. During the New Year’s countdown I watched my drunken parents kiss like it was 1965, and that was only the start, their friends and neighbours all kissed and spilled wine on the rugs and sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ out of tune. The porch was occupied by my sister Olivia’s friends drinking foreign beer in their long overcoats and chain smoking Marlboros, littering the lawn with smoking white butts. I had nowhere to go but my room where I thought about how she might be drinking herself or maybe already asleep. Maybe she was visiting her boyfriend from back home, wherever home was. Suddenly, something within me felt wrong which I now know was jealousy rather than food poisoning from the fish sticks which my mother had bought the SuperStore out of for the party. That night I lay awake with her in my mind, faceless but otherwise whole. I could smell her cigars being smoked at the other end of the house. I had an urge to go to the source and find out the name of the brand, but it was too late, too many people were drunk and too much explaining would have to be constructed, so I closed my eyes instead.

The station wagon returned on the 2nd of January. I watched its wipers fight with rain and lose; the father crouched and leaned towards the windshield as he guided the car into the driveway. I turned my head down towards the book on my lap, but my eyes were on the four heads that emerged quickly from the car and raced towards the shelter of the porch; the brother holding on to his father’s sweatshirt. I waited until the rain stopped, when the last rinse of rainwater was dripping from the gutters and bare branches, to walk past the house seemingly with a purpose but only with the hope of finding out where the family had come from. All of the blinds were shut when I passed and not even a chink of light through a crooked blind could be detected. The car’s plates were from Maine, proudly displayed the wording: ‘The Pine Tree State’. So it was Maine where this particular flower grew? I made it to the end of the street before turning back but this was when the problems started. She had emerged in an olive green Parka, replete with German flag on the upper arm. Her brother was wearing a yellow raincoat and was now walking without the guide of her hand. I could hear him faintly count out his steps. I stopped momentarily, started again, and checked the street for approaching cars, before crossing. I could either slow or stop and pretend to tie a lace or I could speed up and pass, feign ignorance and bound up the steps to the safety of my porch. I went for the latter. She was speaking softly to him as I passed; words of encouragement in a gleefully proud voice. I went by unnoticed, relieved but also a little disappointed.

‘Do you have a match?’ I saw her coming. They were on their way back, on my side, and I had summoned up enough courage to sit in the uncomfortable chair and put on a suitable air of nonchalance and indifference (completely feigned, something I’m still a master at in fact!), pretending to be out on the porch for the fresh air and the stillness of our neighbourhoods evening. Can you imagine how those words hit me? I looked down at her and her brother; her face was a painting by Vermeer, a song by Dylan, a poem by Whitman. Her brother’s head remained bowed towards the pavement, seemingly locked in the count and the step he had landed on. ‘Sure, just a second.’ Now that response may come across on paper as cool, but it was anything but. It wavered and squeaked from a trachea that was seemingly being stood on by a 300-pound wrestler. I walked past my sister in the front room who was speaking loudly on the phone as MTV roared and flashed in front of her. My parents were in the kitchen, talking about the death of an old man who used to run the theatre where they had gone on their first date. I had a large - incredibly sad – collection of matchbooks in the top drawer of my study desk. (Yes, it was a hobby of mine at the time and whenever someone who knew me went somewhere they would try their hardest to get a matchbook with the place name on it – I even had one from a Strip Club called ‘Fleshed Out’ from my cousin Jerry). The drawer was full of the things and picking a suitable one for her was a job in itself. I settled for a ‘Hilton: Nevada’ matchbook and breathed more deeply than usual on my walk back towards – at the time – what I thought was my destiny.

Then arrived the next “problem”! Should I light her cigar for her or casually pass her the matchbook? Well, my mind was quick to realise the irrational shake in my hands and that trying to light it for her would end in humiliation. When I stepped through the front door she was up on the porch, herself and her brother leaning against the wooden rails, opposite my chair. I approached her, half-human/half-zombie with one arm outstretched, the matchbook just about pinched between my trembling fingers. ‘Cool, you’re awesome. I couldn’t go back in, it’s too obvious. I’m Rhonda by the way, this is Roy.’ ‘Hey!’ Roy’s voice was deep and smooth (for his age) like someone’s who made a living selling flash products through commercial voiceovers. ‘Hi, I’m Oscar.’ ‘Cool name.’ Roy replied. Rhonda was sucking hard on the cigar, the flame leaping and falling as it scorched the exposed tobacco leaves. The cigar was thicker than a cigarillo but slimmer than the cigars that I usually pictured when someone said the word cigar – like say Hannibal’s in the A-Team. She held it in a cupped hand and the smoke she expelled was a deep grey hue, almost attractive in its floating cirrus clouds. I thought of something to say, I thought of what I would or should tell the twins, my hands sweated and my forehead prickled annoyingly, but then she spoke.

You didn’t need many words. She could talk; but not boringly or about herself exclusively. She was more interesting than anyone I had met before; hell, she was more interesting than anything I had read or watched or even dreamed of before. Roy stood motionless with the tightest of smiles on his face; a smile – I was sure – of pride to have a sister like this one. I found out that their father was a barber who had lost his business back in Maine, so together with his wife they decided to relocate and move to Maryland and more specifically to this town to work with his brother on a development out on Route 4 where a pharmaceutical plant was being built – a guarantee of work for 18 months. Her uncle owned the contracted company so there would be no sudden expulsion this time. She told me she loved baseball and the Mets were her and Roy’s team. She loved old English novel (‘like Austen and the Bronte sisters’), screwball comedies (‘Bringing Up Baby’, ‘Monkey Business’), visiting art galleries (‘more for the quiet and air-y spaces than the art’), and she also love Roy and his ‘almost constant companionship’. He still just smiled slightly, until she hugged him from the side, then he hugged her back. It was getting dark, the streetlights an orange haze. Rhonda had nearly finished the cigar, the smell now a little sickening but I wouldn’t dare show it. Without a warning, she took Roy’s hand and he moved swiftly with her movement. ‘Thanks for the match. We’ll both see you around I guess.’ ‘Yep, I’m usually here.’ And then they were gone, into the streets sheen. I hadn’t told her a thing about myself besides my name, but I felt a feeling that was something akin to getting high (of course I wouldn’t actually know what ‘high’ felt like until 3 years after this meeting and that was largely by accident when I scoffed a brownie at a party and ended up laughing at two goldfish swimming in loops around a dirty-water bowl.).

She returned three days later. I had been waiting on the porch for most of those days, trying to keep warm in many layers of clothing and drinking far too much cocoa. My mother kept shouting for me to come in but I claimed continuously that I was fine where I was, reading ‘The Naked And The Dead’, slowly and with great deliberation. I was somewhat ambushed by her. I was so fixated on Mailer’s prose that the words ‘Hey, is it a good book?’ startled me into an immediate and natural reaction. I didn’t have time to get unnerved by her presence or for my words to fall out like verbal diarrhoea. My answer appeared cool and logical. Before I knew it she was smoking her cigar and seating next to me, albeit on the floor. I was too young and inexperienced at the time to offer her my seat. She tucked her feet under each opposite knee and in a meditative-stillness happily puffed away. Sometimes she talked and other times she didn’t. My skin would feel itchy during the silences, like I just HAD to say something, but what? So then I said: ‘Where’s Roy?’ Now remember, I’m 16 years of age, in the midst of puberty and desperate for the affections of a girl – especially one as cool as Rhonda! I’m also inexperienced with girls, verbally clumsy and at times socially retarded. So I answer her answer in a voice of incredulity and stupidity: ‘How can he WATCH TV? Yes I emphasised the WATCH, just like that. Such was her character’s coolness, she didn’t take offence or in fact didn’t even blink twice, she just said: ‘He listens of course, feels the characters if it is a comedy, sympathises with the tones in their voices. You know, Roy could pick holes in a bad acting performance quicker than you or me. Of course we get to see the actions and facial tics and that’s what we take 80% of the performance from. He hears the vocal inflections and the change in a character’s mood. He’s so good at writing off movies after ten minutes if he feels the actors are not up to it. I genuinely feel he could be a critic when he is older. It’s not all about visuals right? Sounds, tones and moods can blow your mind. Next time you have a film on, blindfold yourself, I do it a lot, and it’s revelatory!’ If I wasn’t in love before, I was now. My body slumped in the seat. I was her’s.

My mind was all Rhonda. I was the stereotype of a man head-over-heels: interrupted sleep, a decrease in appetite, crippled concentration. She was visiting more often and I was getting to know Roy, who was as clever as could be and really funny. With Rhonda by his side he was untouchable. He had a cheerleader, a friend, and a confidant in her. The cigars were a problem for him though, the smell, the probable effects on Rhonda’s health and his small part in the deception of their parents every time they left the house for some ‘fresh air’. Rhonda loaned me a couple of books by Russian writers and I gave her a couple of war films after we had spoken about the difference between straight-out war films with the bullets and the blood (a la ‘Platoon’) and the more training/psychology war films (a la ‘Birdy’). We were still dealing with VHS then, clunky and annoying to fast forward/rewind. Its things like that which remind me of how long ago this actually was. Clinton in the White House – pre-Lewinsky, downtown was empty with closed store fronts (like they are now - post-collapse) and the music charts witnessed a sea change with a wave of ‘clean’ rappers infiltrating the plastic pop that had managed to sail through the choppy waters of Grunge, led by the recently deceased Cobain. Rhonda and I now spoke of little things – just friends catching up – like what happened during our school days or what we were having for dinner that night. I had started to notice that the closer you became to someone, the smaller the talk; which seemed acceptable.

It wasn’t until around 2 months after they moved in that I was invited onto their porch. I was summoned by a loud whistle – Rhonda placing two fingers against her tongue and blowing. I had been trying to whistle like that since I was eight, with no success. I was a little nervous as I walked the short distance. There was a light rain and it had been falling for a few hours; everything was drenched and dreary, but the house was an exception. The porch lights were on – bright bulbs, probably the maximum available wattage. I jumped the two steps, making a louder bang than wished for on landing. Rhonda was wearing tight black pants, sensible Winter shoes, a body smuggling coat – zip open – and a white t-shirt with the words ‘Drama Queen’ in blue printed across her chest. She looked cold and it made me want to zip up her coat, ‘Hey Oscar, whatcha been doing?’ In truth, I had been doing little else but thinking of her. I looked in the window to see her Dad sitting on the sofa with a beer in his hand. ‘Very little, how about you?’ I was going to say: ‘how aboutchu?’ but it would make me feel like an imposter. How could I impose myself on coolness, something I had never known? ‘I got suspended from school on Friday.’ ‘Holy shit!’ ‘Yeah, this prissy little bitch, Hallie, called me a dyke so I hit her. It’s not that I mind being called a dyke, it’s just that I don’t like her and have always wanted to punch her. It was the perfect excuse.’ ‘But what did your parents say?’ ‘Well my Mom is pissed but my Dad is okay about it. He feels she deserved it. Hallie is one of those bitches who lives to be in a stuck-up clique that share make up and who feel that boys should crawl behind them for months on end until the girl accepts their devotion and gives them a hand job as a reward.’ ‘Oh.’ That’s exactly what I said…. ‘Oh.’

She took an umbrella from a large brass bin inside the door and walked off the porch into the rain. ‘Come on.’ ‘Okay.’ I walked outside of the umbrella’s catchment area; afraid to get too close to her, until she pulled my arm towards her. ‘You’re getting wet you dick.’ I didn’t reply, mainly because her body’s warmth was now my body’s warmth and we were two parts of one. We were walking away from our street, towards the wooded area that was visible from wherever you stood on any porch in the neighbourhood. Most of the trees were bare but such was their density that they themselves became the cover from anything untoward that might be going on behind them. These woods gave me the creeps when I was a kid but I liked them now; they still gave me the creeps but it was in that creepy thrill way – like when you are in your house on your own and you turn the last light off downstairs and as you go upstairs a part of your brain tells you that someone or something is going to chase you and no matter how irrational this may seem you get a flutter in your stomach and you quicken your pace of ascension. The trees were dispatching large drops from their branches which hit the umbrella with a steady frequency. The ground beneath us was mulch, the colour unnameable. All of Fall’s leaves had long lost their colour and shape, leaving behind a spongy mess. I had to hold the umbrella while Rhonda lit her cigar. She leaned back against a tree and I dutifully followed with the umbrella. Our faces were only a foot apart. She was talking but I could hardly hear over the adrenaline rushing around inside me. I could kiss her now, I would only need to launch my head a few inches forward…..But I couldn’t, so I didn’t.

We returned to the porch after Rhonda took a quick stop to grab a handful of wet grass to chew on. Noting the alarm on my face she assured me that it helped with smoky breath. She spat the wad of mashed grass into the road just before we reached her house. Roy joined us on the porch. He was wrapped up well and was wearing a Davy Crockett hat on his head. He took a seat on the old porch swing that whined under his weight; I braced myself for its fall but against all odds it hung on. We wasted the evening talking about nothing in particular. You know the way three young people can have numerous conversations about nothing, all at once? I got home after 9pm. Rhonda spent ten minutes with me on my porch, smoking. I again wondered what she would tell her parents if asked. Could she say she was walking me home in some kind of gender-tradition-role-reversal? All that night, lying in bed I thought of the walk to the woods and the proximity of my face to her’s. That may have been my one and only opportunity, a thought alone that gave me a sickness in my stomach. The thing was: I either step up and make my move or I live with regret, and at 16 that would definitely have been my first serious regret. You have these kinds of ultimatums in your mind when you are young. Every single thing is a part of your education. Rhonda was there as my first real interest in the opposite sex. I would need to soak up the experience of those first serious feelings while at the same time try to push things on with her as best as I could manage and if that wasn’t enough, I’d need to read her feelings at the same time, an impossible task when all three were taken together. It was enough to make a young, girl-shy, virginal, geek cry!

My parents went to a party the following Saturday night. They had been arguing most of the day, I couldn’t figure out about what but the body language between them was frosty. My mother wore a close fitting dress and wore more makeup than I had ever seen her wear. They left in a silent hurry. I had no idea where my sister was but she was usually away drinking and smoking pot on a Saturday night, generally setting herself up for a Sunday hangover. I got brave and called Rhonda and Roy to come over. Rhonda seemed to be happy to just get out of the house after spending her week of suspension grounded. I imagined her hanging out her bedroom window at night, hurriedly puffing away on sneaky cigars. Roy stayed at home - for which I was selfishly glad. Rhonda destroyed a cigar in record time on the porch before we went into the warmth of the house and turned on MTV. We talked through the crap songs and shut-up when the good ones came on. I warmed up some nachos and melted cheese on top of them and took a jar of salsa from the fridge. I felt comfortable and good. We drank Coke and told silly jokes. Rhonda took her shoes off and curled her feet in underneath herself. Every time I sat after getting up for something, I moved that little bit closer, immediately wondering if she might have noticed it that time. She was wearing a t-shirt her Dad was ready to throw out, a faded Eagles tour t-shirt. ‘Do you like The Eagles?’ ‘No, they’re crap!’ Exchanges like this made us laugh hysterically - we were giddy and childish. We tried to come up with a ‘secret handshake’ for about a half hour until she proclaimed that they were lame anyway; more laughter. The only downside was the way the time slipped away. It would end soon and who knew when we could get a time as cosy and perfect as this again.

‘Hey Oscar?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Are you still a virgin?’ Well, I’m sure you can imagine what impact that question had on me; or maybe you can’t, and if not, believe me, you’re lucky! Now, believe it or not, in 1995 16 year olds weren’t dropping their trousers in company, quite as much as they seem to be now, but the way in which Rhonda asked the question: flippant and slightly expectant of the inevitably negative response, upset me a little. But you know what? I said: ‘No, of course not!’ somewhat incredulously. I made a face, eyes wide and mouth in an O. ‘Really? Who was the lucky lady…..or ladies?’ ‘Her name was Joyce.’ The name popped into my head; Joyce was a girl in my chemistry class, a nerdy, nose-picking girl with corkscrew hair and gold framed glasses. I would not want to lose my virginity to that girl! ‘So……more details?’ ‘Em, it wasn’t really memorable. It was in the storage shed down the end of her back yard.’ Was I flexing some creative muscles that I didn’t know I had? ‘We had our trousers down, she handed me a condom. I put it on. We got it on!’ She was laughing, my face was burning up. She had to be on to me. I needed to switch this back on her. ‘How about you? If you don’t mind me asking?’ ‘Me? Yeah, my cherry was popped, pickled and discarded.’ ‘Oh, okay.’ I was disappointed, which I knew was stupid. ‘Two guys. One was a boyfriend for a couple of months before we did it in the back of his car. He moved to Bismarck soon after. The second, well, I was drunk. He was in his thirties. He made me feel so special in my inebriation. It was the 4th of July at a party in the local park. Fireworks in the sky, anything but behind a disused kiosk in the dark. He disappeared ten minutes after and I didn’t see him again.’ ‘What a dick!’ ‘You said it. Have you guys got any ice cream?’

After clearing our bowls of the delicious strawberry treat, something very unexpected but very exciting happened. Rhonda sighed loudly, before suddenly placing her head on my shoulder. Within seconds, I had an all too familiar twitch in my pants which I had to subtly adjust without moving my shoulder just in case she moved her head away. I was all hips for a second before pulling at my waist band and freeing my erection up, while also concealing it in the crumples of my cargo pants. I held out two minutes before tentatively placing my cheek on her head. She didn’t say anything, not a sound. Adverts flashed on the TV but I couldn’t concentrate on them. Now, how do I twist my neck and kiss her in a flowing movement reminiscent of some smooth Lothario? Do you want the truth? Of course you do. Well, I was held in place when I heard a soft snore. She was asleep. Out for the count. In the land of nod, and all the other expressions out there for sleeping. If you can’t beat them, join them. I closed my eyes too. I was tired, it was late and the pain of a constant 2 hour erection had moved from uncomfortable to numbness, my muscle a buzz. I dozed off. The shudder of the door being bashed open scared the shit out of me. Rhonda’s head straightened. It was Olivia, drunk and laughing at what could only be her shadow, or maybe something that happened earlier. She smelled of smoke and something like burnt butter. She made one of those shrilling ‘Wwhhoooo!’ sounds. Rhonda laughed as if the very suggestion of us as a romantic union was charming but ridiculous. Olivia struggled to navigate her way to the kitchen. Rhonda got up and put her coat on. She summoned me out to the porch with a sweep of her head; the mess that was her bed-head making her look even cuter.

‘She’s bombed!’ ‘She’s always bombed on a Saturday night.’ It was so cold and my body was rigid as if trying to contain the heat it had built up indoors. My breath escaped in dense clouds. Rhonda was surrounded by blue smoke, so thick it looked as if you could grab it. ‘Did you fall asleep?’ ‘Yeah, for a little while. I feel that weird way now when your eyes have folded down and you can’t open them properly.’ ‘Yeah, I get that. Sorry for dropping off. I get a bit sleepy when I’m comfortable.’ She took another puff before crushing out the ash, cupping half a cigar. ‘Okay Oscar, see you tomorrow.’ I thought a hug would be appropriate after we had opened up to each other and the little sleep together, but……no. I watched her walk up the street for a second less than what would be deemed creepy by society, before stepping inside to the warmth and the sound of Olivia singing along to a song on the TV. My erection had subsided to my considerable relief. It was 11:44pm. I took the cordless phone into the room to call the twins before waking up and realising that it was far too late for that. I slept in my clothes. A full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. I couldn’t figure it out why this was. Had I some sort of breakthrough yesterday? Maybe. Time would tell…

Adam and Aidan arrived fifteen minutes after my call. Adam had taken a razor to his head; he looked weird, kind of like a big baby. They still hadn’t seen Rhonda. I didn’t want them to either. It was selfish but it felt like she was mine now. ‘So what happened?’ Adam. ‘Yeah, did you get some tit?’ Aidan. ‘Or maybe more?’ Aidan. ‘Stop, let him talk!’ Adam. ‘She fell asleep on my shoulder.’ ‘After sex right?’ Adam. ‘No, in front of the TV, you dicks!’ ‘That’s the big news you called us over for? Come on dude, we are missing ‘The Cosby Show’ for this?!’ ‘What’d you two do last night then? If you are so cool? Well? Masturbate in your beds to distant images in your heads of the girls from Baywatch?’ They looked at each other before cracking up. I smiled, I didn’t want to but I did. ‘When are we going to see her?’ Adam. ‘You’re not, not if I have anything to do with it.’ ‘Don’t be like that Oscar. We’ll behave ourselves.’ Aidan. ‘Nope, not happening, ever. Now come on, I need to go to the store for my Mom.’ My parents had made up since last night, so much so that my father had made her toast, tomatoes and scrambled eggs. My mother had made the coffee. My father was singing Queen songs in a low octave. This expression in song usually meant one thing, (never ask me how I know this!) yes, the unthinkable. An act that a 16 year old almost always thought about, but an act that made said 16 year old sick when he imagined his parents doing it. Yes, they had sex!

It snowed heavily overnight and I woke to a white street on April 1st. If it were a week day, school may have been cancelled but it was Saturday morning. I lay back in bed, warm under the heavy duvet. Thump! Thump! It was my window that was being hit. I suspected the twins but when I pulled back the curtains another snowball slammed against the glass. It was Rhonda and Roy. He was shaping the snowballs and she was throwing them. One more hit the glass before she waved. I was wearing a white vest like the one John McClane wears throughout the first ‘Die Hard’. It felt weird, her seeing me like this. I held up an open palm, signalling that I’d be out in 5 minutes. When I did get dressed and was putting on my coat and hat, my mother started on about breakfast. ‘Later Mom!’ Straight away I took a snowball to the chest. Another hit me on the left ear. I jumped from the porch, ducked towards the ground and created one quick snowball. I threw it to the right, over compensating so as not to hit Roy, but it didn’t even come close to Rhonda either. I decided to run instead. Rhonda took Roy’s cuff, ‘Run, Roy, RUN!’ They took off through the untouched snow of the row of front yards, making it by four houses before Rhonda slipped and fell on her face. I was immediately on top of her, shovelling snow down her collar. She was laughing, Roy was laughing, I was horny! ‘Okay, okay, you win.’ She wriggled and twisted, turning to face me. I was on my knees, thighs spread across her midriff. My coat was reassuringly long. She smiled. I was not functioning correctly, still and staring right into her eyes. ‘Eh, Oscar? Time to get off me dude.’ ‘Oh, yeah, sorry.’

Olivia questioned me about her one night. It was clear that she was on to me. ‘She’s not into you, you know? Because if she was you’d be dating by now.’ What would she know? I called her a pothead and she gave me a dead arm. She was most likely correct in her summation but I didn’t want to hear that. I was going to make my move soon then I’d prove her wrong. I went back out on the porch and looked up at her house. Did you ever try to will something to happen with your mind? Like try to make something move or will your team to score that last second jump shot, or make someone leave their house, walk to your house and plant a passionate one on your lips? I sat there, trying to Jedi-mind-trick her door open. But nothing happened – of course. Her Dad’s car was in the driveway but there didn’t seem to be any life behind the parts of the windows I could see. For the next 8 days there was no sign of her. The car remained in the driveway, lights stayed off at night. On the 9th night, she closed her door with a bang and walked towards me. I was reading a book under the porch light which I quickly put aside. I stood to meet her. ‘Where have you been?’ ‘My uncle’s house. It’s a long story. I’d rather not go into it if that’s cool?’ ‘Of course.’ She was lighting a cigar with a zippo. She sighed with pleasure as she released the smoke. ‘So, whatcha been doing? Reading aside of course!’

The conversation turned around and around, mainly at her command. She told me Roy was still in her uncle’s with their mother. Her Dad was in the house making calls that she wasn’t allowed to hear. He had sent her for a walk. ‘Hey Oscar, you know that girl you lost your virginity to?’ ‘Yeah?’ Shit. Would I have to start inventing things again? What had I said the last time? ‘Was she a virgin too? ‘No, she had been with a guy for a year or so. It wasn’t long after they broke up that I….you know?’ ‘Wow, good for her, I’d really like to take a guy’s virginity. It should be such a special thing and I think I would like to be part of that sometime. I’d make that experience something they’d remember, just by talking them through it. Sort of helping them to feel that everything they were doing was okay.’ Shit. Fuck. Right then I knew that I fucked up. I also knew that she knew I had lied. To this very day, that conversation and the lie that preceded it haunts me. My first love had surely just told me that she would have been willing to be with me in the most intimate of ways. What had tripped me up was the fragile ego of a teenager. She turned the conversation away to something else after that but I was still thinking about telling her that I had really lied about the other girl. But how would that look? Pathetic is the answer, pathetic and desperate. She finished her second cigar before hopping to her feet. I was balancing on the porch rail. ‘Okay, later dude. Thanks for your company, as always.’ She looked at me differently then. I knew it then and I know it even more now. I watched her drift homewards in the laconically cool way that she possessed. I went straight to bed, angry at myself, bruised of heart and cursing vanity.

After school, three days later, I knocked at her door. I hadn’t seen their car since that last night we spoke. No one answered. I looked through the window and knocked again, nothing. Two days after that, on a Friday, I was walking back from the bus stop when I saw the moving van. Two men and a teenager were carrying the contents of the house out with quick steps. I hurried to the yard. ‘Excuse me, where are you bringing this stuff?’ ‘An address in Florida.’ Utter panic. ‘Can you tell me where?’ ‘I’m afraid not young man.’ With that, he continued back towards the house. Florida? What was in Florida? This couldn’t be right. People don’t just leave a place without telling their friends where they were going. I walked back to my house, confused and upset. I did cry that day. I remember it; it felt like I was being suffocated by sadness. The following evening I called the twins to tell them. They came over and the conspiracy theories started: The Dad had racked up huge gambling debts and had to flee; they were in witness protection all along and their whereabouts had been compromised; he was in the CIA and on a special case where he had to follow some sort of money trail. It went on like that for the evening, but it was fun and it took my mind off the pain of her sudden departure.

I never did hear from her again. We didn’t have the foresight to exchange numbers when we were hanging out or maybe we just weren’t at that stage of friendship yet – because as you know, there are various stages! You’ll be happy to know that I did actually lose my virginity a couple of years later to a girl named Lorrie. It was terrible, at least my part in it was. But she was kind and I improved with each turn. You only lose it once though, it’s important who you lose it to also, just don’t lie about it because you could be shooting yourself in the foot!

The End