this woman’s work

I love fall weather. Those crisp end-of-summer nights make me feel so nostalgic. Last night I was driving home from the library with the windows down thinking about how autumn sends me back.

On September 20, 1984 I got a boyfriend for my first-ever time. It was a Friday night, I remember, because my sister told my dad that she was taking me to a football game but really she took me to J.’s house and then she went somewhere else with her friends. J. and I had been teasing friends in 9th grade. He made me very nervous but not because I had a crush on him. I decidedly did NOT have a crush on him in 9th grade and he didn’t have a crush on me. He sat next to me in English class and he was two years older than me. I had skipped a grade and he missed a year of school living on a beach in Mexico with his mom and her boyfriend.

I remember the very first time I saw him. He was wearing this yucky brown leather jacket — burnt sienna, if I recall correctly — and had on those four-color Converse tennis shoes before chucks had really come back into fashion. He would sing under his breath all through class and occasionally say something brilliant to the teacher. Everyone thought he was cool but I thought he was just too much — too sensual, too adult, too cocky. He annoyed me. We used to argue a lot.

On the last day of school he asked for my phone number, which surprised me. He called me at the end of June. I remember that because he almost came over for the 4th of July.

We talked on the phone all summer, those long phone calls that teenagers have that go on for hours and hours into morning. He would play his guitar and I would listen, and sometimes we wouldn’t say anything until one of us realized that we’d fallen asleep together there on the phone.

You know how romantic that is when you’re a teenager. You know how clutching that kind of first love can be.

On the first day of 10th grade I was nervous about seeing him again. I didn’t like myself much then (what teenaged girl does?) and he was always so impressive. He was neo-popular at our school — everyone admired him. He didn’t run with a specific crowd but every crowd wanted to claim him. Me, I was a nice little geek with a bad perm. I was too smart, not pretty enough and socially awkward. About the only thing I had going for me was that I was pretty angry. I think that’s the only thing that distinguished me from the rest of the pack, this anger I had that gave me confidence and ambition.

Anyway, despite the bad perm (his first words to me in person that year were, “Hey poodle girl!”) he still liked me.

On September 20th (night of the football game that I didn’t attend) my sister dropped me at his house. He lived on the edge of a golf course that his grandfather owned. He was weirdly poor in the middle of privilege. He, his mom and his sister lived with that rich grandfather but got by with government hand-outs. The house was big but run-down with ancient avocado carpet and a dense, musty smell. We went for a walk on the golf course — pitch dark with just the stars above us. It was cold. I was wearing my sister’s parka and he was wearing … what was he wearing? I don’t remember. It wasn’t that leather jacket, I know.

I was so nervous that my teeth were chattering and I wanted him to declare himself. I was fourteen and ready for someone to save me from my adolescent despair. He was sixteen and ready for drama. I remember standing on the road, each of us on one side and I was demanding that he tell me. Tell me something. Tell me why I was there, why I’d lied to my father to be there. And J. — imagine this all of you former 16-year old girls, imagine this boy standing there in the dark across from you, this boy you’ve decided to fall in love with — and J. said, looking down at the street, “How can I tell you that all I really want, all I really need [here he looked up, full in my eyes] is you?”

Now c’mon. I was a noodle. My knees went weak. My vision went blurry. My heart threatened to strangle me. Well, that was it. We were officially in love. We were (in his words, to come much later) “cosmic partners.”

I didn’t kiss him that night but we sat there in the middle of the street with our hands entwined and maybe we talked but I don’t remember what we said. What I remember is the feel of his warm, curved hands.

Girls like me are ripe for the plucking. It’s no wonder that the next summer we both lost our virginity and that for five more years we couldn’t be rid of each other. The relationship I thought would save me nearly destroyed me. I’m sure it was no picnic for him either.

I think about this. How do I save my child(ren) from these kinds of destructive love affairs? I don’t suppose I can but at least I can live a different family script. I felt so abandoned when I was teetering on the edge of adolescence. My dad had started his new family with his former secretary, my mom was out chasing after her new life. Neither J. nor I had any grown-ups in our lives; we were trying to figure it out on our own.

But at the beginning of fall I don’t remember that. I don’t remember how our relationship ended, I remember how it began. His voice, that empty street and his perfect hands holding mine.

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