When I was between my sophomore and junior year I went to summer school to take an art class. There were two girls in the class and me--I cannot remember anyone else. We may have been the only ones but I kind of doubt it.

One girl had dark curly hair and dark eyes; she was very pretty and had a great sense of humor. Her father was involved somehow with the Excedrin product--I think he invented it. I cannot remember her name. The other girl was her friend Tami. She had blond hair and blue eyes and olive-colored skin.

Tami had long straight hair and she wore halter tops. I used to stick paintbrushes in through the sides of her halters--I think they were made of that orange Indian print material. I guess she made them herself. She and her friend did not shy away from me. As a matter of fact I think my bold advances with her breasts attracted them both to me. I think I said something every time I stuck a paintbrush in there--something like boobies or kitties. I always used the soft large size oil paintbrushes. Maybe they tickled her. Apparently Tami liked it, though I did not keep it up. It was a bizarre ice breaker.

I was an outcast in high school. A weird kid interested in music and being different. I was typecast and I accepted it. These girls were not from Berkeley Heights, where I had grown up. Our high school was shared with Mountainside, an upscale community to the South on the other side of the Watchung reservation. They had grammar schools but no high school. So these two did not have my history--at least not throughout their growing up. It was like I was really a stranger. This must have also been attractive. I was not a geek, not to them.

After the summer they must have learned who I was; I never saw them any more. It was as if they went to different schools after that--I never thought about how sad that was until now. But during the summer the three of us spent a lot of time together and after summer school ended I spent a lot of time making out with Tami.

I remember three distinct episodes.

Tami used to have a supply of blond hash and we would smoke it in a water pipe (a little brass thing) filled with wine. I think I remember actually drinking that vile fluid once, but these memories are very hazy--is it any wonder? I do remember sitting on a flattened-out cardboard box in her back yard getting high. I suppose we did some kissing after that. I never went any farther. She spent some of her childhood in Vietnam; she taught me to curse. I cannot even remember what it meant but I can still say it the way she did and strangely I can hear her voice when I say it.

Another time there was no hash and so we went up in back of the Blue Star Cinema in Scotch Plains and drank a bottle of Robitussin. I got really sick and puked. It was not very romantic.

The last time I remember we went up in my bedroom to make out. I had these very ugly bedspreads made out of this rough blue material with thick piping outlining the top of my single beds. I know my mom knew what we were doing. She had been a waitress in Brooklyn before the depression and she told me about couples having sex in the dark bar booths. My mom was no stranger to sexual desires and the look of a boy and a girl when they were on their way to fulfilling those desires.

We were on my bed, kissing the way only teenagers can and I unbuttoned her pants. I slipped my hand in past the waistband of her panties. I could feel her pubic hair. It was very soft and silky. I felt it with my fingertips for a little while--I think I must have been waiting for a sign. But that is as far as my hand went--as far as we ever went.

The memory still fills me with longing and my heart beats faster. I was not a virgin, actually, and I never asked her if she was. But I felt innocent. There were no clear signals. I did not venture farther because she did not signal that she wanted me to. At least, I did not get the signal. I think I loved her. I can't remember. I think I love her still-yes, I am sure I love her still--isn't that strange? But with a young love I have only in memories.

I heard she got married to Chuck somebody-or-other, that she has children. God, they are likely older than we were then by now. Another old, old friend of mine, Steve, knows Chuck and where he is. But I won't contact Tami. That part of my life is closed; there is no reason to disturb my memory of it. It is sweet and innocent and will forever be young and peaceful. Like a soft slow breath taken at the very end of childhood like Tami's silky private hair: a momentary rest before I ran head long into life.

Copyright © 2000 Ron Heacock All Rights Reserved

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