Anthony Gates approached in seventh grade, and again, I flashed the parent card, apologizing profusely and telling him I thought he was an awfully nice guy, but my dad … gosh, but thanks so much, I was really flattered. (I mastered the art of the nice rejection early in life, as you can see.)
The truth was, I believed in Love. After my father moved out, I resolved that Life Would Still Be Happy. I was helpful with my baby brother, cheerful in the mornings to counterbalance Hester. I made sure I always skipped out to my dad’s car when he came to pick us up for his nights and pretended to love bowling because he loved bowling. Made Mom tea when she came in from work. Always kept my room neat. Smiled when I felt like crying, and when I did cry, made sure I went into my closet so no one would hear.
Love would be my reward. I yearned for love. I’d have it, and not with any ordinary boy, either. It would be overwhelming, undeniable, meant to be Love with a capital L. The kind that caused Johnny Depp to swing from a rope outside the mental hospital in Benny & Joon. The kind that made John Cusack hold up the boom box in the pouring rain so Peter Gabriel could do the talking for him. My parents had obviously failed miserably on that front, but I would never make their mistakes (whatever those were). Hester was cynical and bitter, having been sixteen when Dad left and all too aware of why our parents’ marriage failed. She took the other extreme a child of divorce might embrace—swearing that she’d never let a man have so much as a toehold on her heart. She’d roll her eyes as I wept at romantic movies and advise me to stop being such a putz, but I wouldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.
Okay, so back to Gwen’s basement. Her parents were upstairs watching Seinfeld, and we were playing some variation of Truth or Dare that involved a boy and a girl going into a closet and making out. Prior to the party, Annie and I had spent roughly a thousand hours discussing whom we’d most want in the closet with us … her vote was the extremely cute Jack Doyle, the man she’d end up marrying. Me … I didn’t really have a leading contender. Until the actual night.
Gwen lived four doors down from the Rousseaus, and she’d worked up the nerve to ask Mark to stop by her party. For some reason, Mark agreed. It was a huge triumph for Gwen … Mark was sixteen already! He had his driver’s permit! He was on varsity lacrosse and soccer! He shaved! Mark, as we all knew, was dating Julie Revere, and Julie’s little sister rode the bus with Corinne Breck’s cousin, and Corinne, who was in our class, said that her cousin said that Julie’s sister said that Julie said she might let Mark go all the way.
We were all hugely aware of him … not one of the girls had touched the giant bowl of Cheeto balls for fear of getting orange gunk stuck in her braces, and most of us were sipping Diet Coke instead of the far too childish punch. I was so glad I’d worn my denim miniskirt with the cropped pink angora sweater. And yes, Mark had checked me out ten minutes earlier when he’d come in (thank you, padded bra!), causing me to blush furiously even as I pretended not to see him.
When Mark’s turn came during Truth or Dare, I didn’t hear the question he was supposed to answer. A roaring sound filled my ears. My face burned. I adopted a casual pose, and when Mark’s dark eyes stopped on me, I gave a little smile, even though my heart raced fast enough to make me sick. He stood up, crossed the circle and held out his hand. “Okay, kid. Time to go slumming with me,” he said with the crooked grin that would torture me for the next decade and a half.
Gwen and my friends Carla and Jenna fell silent with the wonder of it all, jealousy stamped clear on their faces, the idea of me being chosen as bitter to them as it was miraculous to me. Annie didn’t look at me, for which I was grateful … would’ve broken into squeals if she had—but her face glowed with excitement just the same. I stood up, brushed off my skirt and took Mark’s hand. Followed him into the closet, practically floating with the surrealism of the moment. Mark Rousseau was holding my hand! Taking me into a closet! It was more than I ever dared to dream.
The closet was crowded; an air-conditioning vent ran through the space, so we had to stand close. Mark smelled wonderful—a mix of soap and sweat—and I could hear him breathing. He took my other hand. My palms were sweaty, but his were warm and dry, and my body temperature shot up well into fever range, sweat dampening my forehead. “You’re cute, Callie,” he whispered … the first time he said my name, and I almost threw up with the thrill of it all.
“Thanks,” I whispered back, swallowing a little bile. My heart thudded so fast and hard it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it.
“You ever been kissed before?” There was a smile in his voice, though I couldn’t see it in the dark.
I bit my lip. “Um … not really,” I whispered.
“Is it all right if I kiss you now?” he whispered back.
“Sure,” I managed.
It was a soft, gentle, wonderful kiss, chaste and perfect, his lips soft and warm. Something flipped in my stomach as his mouth moved against mine, and suddenly, to my mortification, a little moan escaped from my throat. That kind of moan. An oh, baby moan. Dang it! Mark laughed quietly, pulling back.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” I answered, too horrified to say anything else.
Then he kissed me again. This wasn’t a magical, perfect first kiss. This was … oh, it was warm, and mature, deeper and, oh, Lord, hot. My knees weakened in a near painful rush. The pit of my stomach tingled. Mark’s hands slid down to my ass, and he pulled me against him. Oh!
Then he stopped. “Okay. We’re all set, then,” he said casually, the way a cool guy would. He stepped back and opened the closet door, the bright light and giggles from the other kids like the rude buzzing of an alarm clock calling me from a soft and lovely dream.
My first kiss! My first kiss was from Mark Rousseau, and it had been perfect. And that second one—holy crap! I floated back to my place in the circle, next to Annie. She asked me something, and I murmured some nonsensical syllables in response, but I didn’t hear, couldn’t see, was absolutely heedless of the sharp and curious glances from my friends. My heart pounded and kept pounding, faster and faster, the rhythm repeating over and over, Mark Rousseau kissed me. Mark Rousseau kissed me.
Of course, I fell crazy in love with him. Made a point of appearing in his path here and there, noting when, during a football game, he might head to the concession stand and hustling there myself so we’d innocently run into each other. He always said hi, sometimes even using my name. I began riding my bike past his house occasionally (well, four or five times a week, to be honest). I even joined the cross-country team because they warmed up near the lacrosse team.
Mark didn’t break up with Julie. Didn’t hold up a boom box under my window and play Peter Gabriel songs. Didn’t swing outside my window to get a glimpse of me.
But he did say hi, and when you’re a freshman and a high school junior says hi, that’s pretty huge. The next year, he went off to college—and I didn’t date anyone until he did … I was so hoping he’d notice me and wanted to be free just in case. But he didn’t; he left for the University of Chicago after high school. I dated a nice boy or two. Went to college myself. Had a relationship. Even fancied myself in love, sort of, though the feeling lacked that capital L feeling.
After college, I lived in Boston for a few fun and impoverished years, but in the end, it wasn’t for me. My job at a large PR firm was pleasant enough, though the pay was mediocre at best. I had some great friends, we had fun, I dated a bit, but I missed Vermont. Missed my family, especially Bronte and baby Josephine. It was time to go home. Settle down. Find some guy and get married. Find Love with a capital L.
Back to the clean air and rushing rivers of Georgebury I went, back to the funeral home,