Chapter 2 - Growing up in Paradise

Back then, I was just drifting along and having fun, all the while waiting for Mr. Right to come into my life and sweep me off my feet. I was working at Eldridge National Bank, paying my way, and sharing this great apartment with my two best friends. We were part of a big social group and went out several nights a week. I suppose I was quite the good time girl.

I was still pretty naïve though because unfortunately, I’d built my whole life around making myself attractive to men and trying to please everyone else as well – my parents, my teachers, my employers, and my peers. What a nice person I was. Everybody liked me, but I had no opinion about myself. People who thought too deeply about themselves were labeled as selfish or weird, so I tried hard not to do that. What was I thinking?

I do appreciate how fortunate I am to have been raised by loving parents in a safe, stable atmosphere. Oh sure, I got a swat on the bottom now and then and received many a scolding, all richly deserved as I remember. I suppose my behavior could have been described as irrepressibly obnoxious. Back in those days, my ego and self-esteem were intact and enormous. I was brash and assertive, but I also had a lot to learn. My education continued in school and out, like an episode in the community park when I was about nine years old.

My best friend Kim and I had listened in fascination to some older girls tell about how they had been chased around the park by a gang of rough boys and had barely escaped “getting forked”.

At the time, I had innocently asked, “What do you mean almost forked? Were they going to stick you with something?”

The older girls had laughed at me and said, “You baby, don’t you even know what fuck means? Forked – oh my God!”

I was learning lots of new words. One day Kim and I happened to read in the paper about a man who had been arrested in the park for “exposing himself and masturbating in front of a woman jogger.”

Well, we went right to the dictionary and looked up masturbate. The definition said it meant to manipulate the genitals. We couldn’t figure out what that meant or why anybody would want to do that. Heck, we weren’t even sure what genitals were.

I don’t know what success Kim had with her mother, but my mom looked surprised and embarrassed when I questioned her. “You’re too young to think about things like that Maggie. Just forget about it.”

I went straight to Gramma for clarification. In the privacy of her bedroom, and in hushed tones, I asked her to please explain. “Gramma, what does masturbate mean? What does genitals mean? Kim and I looked those words up in the dictionary, but we still don’t know, and Mom won’t tell me.”

When I was eight years old and in the third grade, Gramma moved in with us. My dad’s mother was 75 years old, small, slender and spry. She was full of pep and good humor. Our house was big enough to accommodate an extended family. It had four roomy bedrooms and a big basement and attic so we could store all kinds of things. My dad and his mother got along well, and Gramma was wise enough not to interfere with how my mom ran the house. Early on, Gramma sat down with Mom and they worked out who would do what around the place.

There was something nice about having Gramma to talk with on summer afternoons out in the backyard or up in her big corner bedroom over a cup of tea. I could talk to Gramma more easily than to my mother. Probably because Mom was shy and soft-spoken when compared to Gramma and hesitated to talk about sensitive subjects like sex. Gramma was a gold mine of information for me. The two of us became good friends in short order. I found a confidant for those things that Mom was clearly uncomfortable talking about.

So first Gramma asked, “Where did you hear those words?”
I explained, “Kim and me read it in the newspaper, but the dictionary information is confusing.” I also told her, “Mom seemed mad at me for asking.”

Gramma sighed, and then looked at me calmly and said, “Masturbate means to play with one’s private parts. Genitals is the correct term for your privates. The man in that newspaper article is mentally disturbed. Sensible, civilized people never do such things in public.”

It took me a while to digest all that information. After I left Gramma’s room, other questions occurred to me, but I thought it best to hold off for a while since the adults were clearly uncomfortable discussing this subject. Kim and I had plenty to mull over now. I would no more have approached my dad about it than run down Main Street stark naked.

Soon after that episode, Gramma decided it was time to tell me about the birds and bees. Actually, I knew pretty much already. I had looked up everything I could find in the dictionary, encyclopedia, and various anatomy and health books in the school and town libraries. Also my girl friends and I eagerly compared notes whenever we got together. Sex was the hot topic for girls from nine to twelve years old. Anyway, one day when I was ten years old, Gramma had tea waiting when I got home from school. Dad was still at work of course, and Mom had gone shopping.

Gramma said, without preamble, “Maggie, it’s time I explained to you how your body works and how babies are made. Your mother’s afraid to talk about it, and it’s high time somebody did.”

Gramma handed me a little book entitled What Every Girl Should Know, and said, “I want you to read this carefully a few times after I get done talking today. Then you can come back to me with any questions. You can ask me anything. Don’t be shy. Lots of girls have gotten in bad trouble just because they were too embarrassed to ask about things.”

Actually, I already knew most of what Gramma told me that day. It was good to have it confirmed though. Some of the things my girlfriends had said sounded too fantastic or yucky to be true, and they had gotten a few facts wrong.

My friends and I used to comb the small school library for interesting books. By “interesting” we meant books with even the slightest reference to sex. After exhausting the supply of the most popular books, I turned to the ones that nobody bothered with. These were dusty old classics like Huckleberry Finn and Treasure Island that my teachers were glad to see me read. But there was big trouble when I selected a book that had escaped notice for years – Peyton Place by Grace Metalious. For the next few days, that book was all I read. Actually, I had picked the book because I noticed it squashed into the corner on the top shelf of the school’s small library. I couldn’t believe my good luck.

At first, I had skimmed though the pages looking for the sex scenes and descriptions of scandalous goings-on. I was at the age where such information is gleaned from all available sources. Unfortunately I was not going to be able to finish Peyton Place. The librarian suddenly became aware that such a book was included in her orderly little library, and worse yet, had been checked out by a child. She hastily consulted with my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Owens, and a letter was sent to my parents.
Peyton Place was considered by some to be unsuitable reading material for children, even unsuitable for ladies of any age by some older members of the school board. There was considerable consternation about how such a book had been allowed to grace the grade school library undetected for so many years. It must have gotten there in a shipment that had been donated back in the 60’s. In any case, it was now to be removed, and I was directed to return it immediately.

My reaction was predictable, “What? But I got the book in the school library. What’s wrong with it? I’m not a baby.”

My mother, always the peacemaker, calmly told me, “Don’t make a fuss Maggie. You can always get your own copy of the book to read at home someday.”

I know that Mom devoutly hoped I would forget about the darn book, at least until I was grown up. It was okay to have a precocious daughter with lots of intellectual curiosity as long as things didn’t get out of hand. I was famous among my classmates for about a week – I had gotten my hands on some forbidden information, and succeeded in fooling the adults for a while.

One of the best things about school was that you got to sell things - like candy, donuts, or peanuts to help raise money for the PTA. Then the PTA people bought some neat stuff for the classrooms, like globes, star maps, and modeling clay. I used to rush home with my order sheets to show my parents and Gramma. I was always one of the first students to start ringing neighborhood doorbells and asking for sales. No wonder I fit right into Sales and Marketing at Basic Industries.

If there were no “official” sales going on, I made some up. I just loved asking people to buy something, anything from apples to homemade potholders. Sometimes, this proved a great source of embarrassment to my long-suffering mother.

I once picked dandelion leaves and peddled the wilted stuff door to door, coming home proudly with a handful of coins. Other times, I sold homemade potholders and Girl Scout cookies with my parents’ reluctant blessings. I think my favorite thing about being a Girl Scout was the annual cookie sale. I was always a top seller.

But my best campaign of all was selling “good luck stones” which I collected from old Mrs. Green’s house. The house had been coated with stucco into which the contractor had imbedded colored pieces of glass. It was the only house in town with such splendid decoration, maybe in the whole world. Now, however, the glass bits were falling from the crumbling stucco and lay about the house like gems from a pirate’s cave, irresistible treasure for the local urchins.

With Mrs. Green’s permission, I harvested the largest, shiniest bits of glass, displayed them in a decorated shoebox, and set off on a neighborhood sales trip to sell “good luck stones”. Well, most people thought I was priceless – what a cute little girl and such imagination! Another handful of coins was my reward for being enterprising. My mother sighed and added this venture to the growing list of embarrassments she had to endure. What would the neighbors think?

I guess I was a little smart Alec during most of my grade school days. I was always waving my hand in class to answer questions, but just as often to ask questions. I didn’t realize that sometimes, it was much better to keep my mouth shut, especially when the teacher made some serious pronouncement. I was fond of piping up to contradict classmates and even teachers if I thought I was right.

Then one day, Mrs. Evans, the fifth grade science teacher got annoyed with me and said, “You always have something to say, don’t you Maggie?”

I didn’t understand what she meant by that, so I just said, “Yes”, but I was very puzzled as to why she’d even ask that. I found out after the next parent-teacher conferences.

Mom, Dad, and Gramma were sitting at the kitchen table when I came in the back door one evening. They called me over and told me to sit down. I knew about the conference and thought they were going to tell me how pleased they were with my good grades.

Dad started with, “Maggie, your grades are excellent, but some of your teachers think your manners need work.”

I started to assure them that I always said please and thank you and never acted up in class. I didn’t even run in the hallways or on the stairs.
Then Gramma said, “Listen Maggie, your teachers mentioned that you seem too forward. Yes, that’s the term they used, too forward.”

“What does that mean Mom, Dad?” I asked.

That had given me pause all right. I’d never been told that before, nor had any of my friends as far as I knew. Did it mean I should sit at the back of the classroom? I didn’t sit in the front rows anyway. I was one of the taller students.

So I asked, “We have assigned seats. Are they going to move me to the back?”

Mom spoke up then and said, “Maggie, it means you talk too much. You don’t give the other kids a chance to answer or ask questions in class, and it also means you sort of talk back to the teachers. That’s not polite.”

“But sometimes they forget stuff and sometimes they don’t even know about the things in the books I read.” I was getting agitated.

Then Gramma tried to explain in a way I would understand saying, “Maggie, remember when we were at the church picnic last summer and old Mrs. James sat with us for a while? Well, she had to add something to everything your mother or dad said. You started to pipe up too, and I shushed you and said it wasn’t polite to monopolize the conversation. Well, that’s sort of what you’re starting to do in your classes. I don’t think you realize it. We all know you mean well, but you have to learn to let others have their say too. And remember, it’s never a good idea to contradict the teacher.”

I didn’t quite understand why it was polite to keep quiet when you knew you were right, but I sure didn’t want to make people mad at me, so I resolved to talk less in class. I started to make a little check mark on my notebook page whenever I asked or answered a question in class. Then I’d keep quiet for a while even if I knew the answers. I would never go beyond two check marks in any of my classes. Of course, I never again questioned what my teachers said to me. I didn’t want them to think I had bad manners. I didn’t want them to say I was too forward again.

But then came puberty that hit me in the sixth grade at age 11, and all that joy de vivre and confidence somehow drained away – maybe in my menstrual flow. Now some of the boys acted funny, snickering and slyly pointing when I walked by. Of course they did this to all the girls my age now, being especially cruel to the plain or fat ones. I had slimmed down pretty much by now from my chubby little girl days and my figure was developing noticeably.

At first, I didn’t like it one bit. It seemed as though my body had played a trick on me. My clothing didn’t fit right anymore, and I had to worry about “that time of the month”, but worst of all was being told by my parents that now I had to act like a lady.

However I soon came to terms with growing up because moving on to Junior High was exciting. Classes were held in the same building as the actual high school. You could rub shoulders with seniors in the hallways. There were lots of new activities too, like clubs, sports, and musical groups.
Then one day I met Bobbi in the school library of all places. I was looking up information for a science report. Bobbi was having a hard time finding the books on her required reading list. She asked me to help.

“Excuse me, can you give me a hand here? These books are all out of order or something,” said a petite brunette in exasperation.

“Sure. Let’s see your list.” I said, walking over to her. I chuckled to myself when I saw that she was trying to find the books by title alphabetically rather than by author’s name, but I kept a straight face and just said, “We keep the fiction books under the author’s names in our library.”

“Oh yeah? Well, why didn’t somebody explain that to me?”

After a few more minutes, I heard, “God, these books are thick. How am I ever going to read all three of them?”

Then she walked over to where I was sitting surrounded by reference books, pushed a few aside, sat down, smiled and said, “My name’s Bobbi. I’m new here.”

I introduced myself and we started to talk. She and her family had just moved into Eldridge from back east – Newark she told me. Bobbi wore her shiny dark brown hair in a pixie cut and had startling, deep blue eyes. She was this little ball of energy, talking non-stop, giggling, and completely without pretenses or inhibitions. I liked her right away and invited her to sit with my friends and me the next day for lunch. I think that’s one of the reasons why Bobbi remained one of my best friends all these years. You don’t forget the first person to welcome you into their group when you’re the new kid in school.

My closest friend for years had been Kim, and when Bobbi came to town, the three of us formed a real bond. We had other pals too. There were about ten of us who sat together in the cafeteria and hung out at McDonalds. In the summer, we’d all congregate at the pool. Trading gossip and fashion and grooming tips took up most of our time. There was always the latest diet to discuss. None of us were thin enough it seemed. All we saw on TV, in the movies, and fashion magazines were stick thin models and very slender young stars. We told each other that if the camera added five pounds as we had heard, all of us were fatsos compared to them.

Let’s see – there was the cottage cheese and dietetic fruit diet, the yogurt diet, the high protein/low carbohydrate diet, the carrot, celery, and cracker diet, the fruit juice only fast, and the ever popular water diet. The big problem with this last one was that you had to pee all the time. We tried various combinations of all of these, but found it was hard to pass the two-week mark. By that time, you were ready to kill for a slice of pizza. Of course, the fruit juice plan only lasted two days, three if you could stand it, and you could really lose about five pounds on it. But none of us were really overweight – just obsessed with our looks.

Bobbi was just what the doctor ordered. Her mom sold Avon cosmetics and used to give lots of samples to Bobbi. You can imagine the fun we had at sleepovers experimenting with makeup. Also Bobbi was so happy-go-lucky. Nothing got her down. She never seemed to worry about studying or bad grades. She always knew all the words to the latest songs and what clothes were cool. She could help us rearrange our wardrobes to look like the girls on TV and in the movies. Well maybe not exactly like them, but pretty close.

We had this Saturday afternoon routine. We’d hop on the bus and go to the clothing stores at the mall. Then we’d try on all kinds of clothes and see how they looked. We had no intention of buying. The prices were far beyond our meager teenage budgets. The three of us had lots of fun with this. It really was a great help to us because it gave us a sense of what worked and what styles and colors looked best on us. I don’t remember if we annoyed the sales clerks. Probably not, because we were always very polite and careful with the clothes.

Hairstyles were of utmost importance too. Bobbi’s hair was thick and straight. I envied her to death. She could look so sophisticated. Kim had soft, wavy auburn hair. It looked so romantic when she pinned it up and let a few little tendrils escape around her face. Mine on the other hand, was somewhere in between – plain old medium brown, thick and coarse, not really straight, but somewhat wavy with a mind of its own. I had to use lots of gel and giant sized rollers to keep it under control.

It was important to look our best for our weekly walk downtown on Friday evenings. We’d meet other kids we knew and stop in for sodas, pizza, or ice cream at the couple of fast food restaurants. It was sort of a tradition with the younger teenagers who weren’t old enough to drive. We got to hang out with our wider circle of friends and trade gossip. But the highlight of the whole thing was to check out the older kids, both boys and girls, who cruised around the streets in their own cars. We were quite pleased if we were singled out with a wave, a yell, or honking horn once in a while.

Another social activity I took up in junior high was roller-skating, and that led to a memorable adventure. Oh sure, I used to roller skate when I was a little kid, using those clamp-on skates. For the first few times at the “grown-up” skating rink, I rented a pair of skates. Then I begged Mom and Dad to let me buy a pair of shoe skates for myself. The roller rink was called the Sylvan Skateway. I don’t know where that name came from. There wasn’t a forest nearby, only a clump of trees behind the building that stood a mile out of town on the highway.

The Sylvan, as we called it, was a popular spot for young teenagers and grade school kids. You could even have birthday parties at the rink. Parents quickly learned to appreciate this feature. Instead of having a dozen or more screaming kids in your living room for three hours on a Saturday afternoon, you could simply order a cake and some snacks, pay for the admission tickets, and have the other parents drop off their kids at the rink for your party. It worked like a charm. The Sylvan employed “skate guards” to patrol the place and make sure nobody got too rough or engaged in any out-of-line behavior.

Our skating days ended once we were old enough to drive because the rink was really for the younger kids. Of course, there were those Friday night “starlight parties”. You had to be at least 12 years old to get in. There was this big glass disco type ball that hung in the center of the ceiling. It was activated on Friday nights and the lights were dimmed to create a romantic effect. The thing was none of the jocks from high school or even the junior high went to these things. The attraction for us girls was that some of the rougher guys who drove their own cars liked to drop in on Friday nights to see if they could entice any of the sweet young things to leave with them. These guys were really good skaters, and when you skated with them, you felt like you were flying. It was exciting to sit on the bench waiting for one of them to ask you to skate.

Bobbi, Kim, and I could always depend on one of our parents to drop us off and pick us up at the end of the evening. There was this sort of luncheonette attached to the rink where you could get burgers, hotdogs, fries, shakes, and stuff. We always allowed at least half an hour after the rink closed to hang out there. Then after feeling those exciting glances and stares from the “dangerous boys”, it was time to hop into the safety of one of our parents’ cars and go on home to dream.

On one of those Friday nights, my dad was a full fifteen minutes late picking us up. We had gone outside to wait for him. While we were standing under the streetlight, a big, old, black Buick pulled up. There were four guys inside. We didn’t know their names, but I had skated with the driver and Bobbi with one of the others. I wasn’t nervous at first because I knew my Dad would be arriving any minute. So we traded wise cracks with them.
“Hey little dollies, the night’s young. How about we show yuz a real good time,” the driver asked smoothly.

“In that old tank? We’d end up walking home,” Bobbi retorted.

Kim only stood in the background smiling shyly.

I was bold enough to add, “It’d be too crowded anyway.”

Then a rough looking guy with very short hair leaned out the back window to say, “You kin sit on my lap Honey Girl.”

“Or mine Sweet Thing,” said a deep voice from the back seat.

Then the fellow sitting up front who’d been very quiet opened the door, got out and said, “Get in now girls. We’re gonna take yuz for a ride.”

Now there was an air of menace about them, and the driver got out too. They stepped towards us. Where was my dad?

Kim gave a little squeak and quickly ran back into the luncheonette.

Bobbi, never afraid of anybody, said, “Fuck off scumbags.”

I was really scared. The driver who had longish blond hair and really piercing light blue eyes, put his arm around me before I could move away. He said in a low voice, “Don’t nobody get all worked up now. We ain’t gonna hurt yuz.”

My voice shaking, I mumbled, “My dad will be here to pick us up any minute now, so we c-can’t go with you.”

Blondie kept looking straight into my eyes and said, “You and me will get together another time then. What’s your name and phone number Honey? Tell me the truth now.”

Frantically, I tried to come up with a real sounding name. I said quickly, “Eleanor, Elly Fenstermacher. I live on Spruce Street. You can look it up in the phone book.”

Just then, my dad pulled up and tooted the horn. I stepped away quickly and headed towards our car. Kim, looking much more confident now that my dad had arrived, emerged from the café and walked gracefully to the car.

Bobbi stared at the guys for a few more seconds, then said, “Assholes!” tossed her head, and strutted provocatively to my dad’s car.

A few minutes later, as Dad drove us home, he casually asked, “Who were those guys in the black car? Didn’t look like anybody I know. You girls have to be more careful who you talk to.”

I didn’t realized what a close call I’d had until the next day when Bobbi told me, “I’d have bashed that blond guy with my skates if he hadn’t let go of you. Lucky your dad arrived in time.”

Just a few weeks after that episode, my grandmother passed away. I still have a hard time saying Gramma died. I always say she passed away. It sounds less final. It implies that she’s gone somewhere else and I’ll get there too someday and see her again. Maybe I will. Even now, there are times when I long to be able to run up to Gramma’s room to pour out my worries and hear her common sense answers that always put my mind at ease.
Even now hot summer days bring back memories of all those summer afternoons spent at the community pool with my friends.

I can still remember the smells associated with the swimming pool – fresh popcorn, pretzels with mustard smeared all over them, and the heady scent of fresh cut green grass warmed by the sun. I even recall the smell of chlorine and the cleansers used in the bathhouse as sweet. A summer without swimming almost every day was unthinkable. There’s nothing to compare to the feeling of walking home from the pool as the heat slowly fades from the summer day. You’re sort of tired and hungry, but you feel good because you know Mom will have supper almost ready when you get back to your house.

She’ll call out to you, “Hang up your wet suit and come in and set the table.”

There seemed to be no rush to plan our lives, worry about our grades, SAT scores, or getting into a good college. There was no peer pressure to experiment with drugs. What we considered flirting with the devil was to sneak a smoke or a sip of our dads’ beer. I guess Eldridge was too set in its conservative ways, too old fashioned for racier stuff. Lying on my blanket at poolside, I’d watch the jets with those long exhaust trails so high up they were soundless. I’d watch until they were out of sight and dream about the day when I too would be a passenger going to exciting places. How lucky we were.

I tanned easily, but remembered Gramma’s insistence that I apply sunscreen and cocoa butter liberally. “You’ll thank me when you’re an older woman and still have a nice skin Maggie. You don’t want to end up looking like a crocodile.”

I just loved that cocoa butter. It smelled like chocolate.
When I first started going to the pool, I learned a lot from the older girls by just keeping quiet and listening to them talk in the girls’ locker room after swimming. They would yell back and forth to each other over the partitions while getting dressed.

I remember listening in fascination to conversations like, “Now remember Jeanette, I’m supposed to be sleeping over at your house tonight. If my mom calls to check, be sure and say I’m in the can or the shower or something.”

“Yeah, yeah I know the drill. You and Jake have a good time,” was the flippant reply.

“Hey, has anybody met that Robert Wilson yet? He’s got the dreamiest bedroom eyes, and I heard from Pauline that he’s not shy. She told me he gave her a ride home yesterday, and had his hand up her skirt before she knew it.”

I also learned what their favorite brand of tampons was, the best mascara to use when swimming, and sometimes even what emergency measures to take if you had foolishly engaged in unprotected sex. The folklore at that time prescribed 24 hours of feminine suppositories that could be easily purchased at the drugstore.

Then the summer I was 14, I met Deke. He was somebody’s cousin visiting from Chicago. He was 18 and drove his own car He was just leaning against the fence looking bored when I first saw him, wearing long, baggy shorts, a sleeveless tee shirt, and sandals. He stared blatantly at the girls, confident that he looked ultra cool.

A little while later, he came on over to our blanket where I was sitting with his cousin Adam, Bobbi, Kim, and a few other friends. I knew it was important to appear that I wasn’t impressed with him, but his dark, gel-slicked hair and darker eyes were exciting. He had bought a bag of popcorn and casually offered it around.

“What do you kids do for excitement around here after dark?” he asked with a smirk.

I guess he thought we were a real bunch of hicks. Then he sat down next to me and said, “You’re Maggie, right? Have some popcorn.”

I took a handful, well just a little handful because I didn’t want to look like a pig. I tried to be real cool, but dropped a few pieces as I stuffed it into my mouth. When I looked down at the blanket, I saw a piece right next to my little toe. I was about to pick it up, but Deke’s hand was there all of a sudden. He stuck the popcorn between my toes and laughed.

Then he said, “If you’re real supple Maggie, you can pop that right into your mouth. Yeah, I’d like to see you do that.”

Of course, I just said something like, “Yuck,” and threw the bit of popcorn into the grass, but I guess I did smile at him.

Then Adam told Deke to get his swimsuit on and join us in the pool, but Deke said, “No thanks. I prefer skinny dipping in the dark.” He got up to leave then but turned back and said to me, “Gimme your phone number Maggie. I might wanna call you sometime.”

This was big time stuff. Trying to seem sophisticated, I said, “Do a little work and look it up. We’re the only McCauleys on Elm Street.” I knew my parents wouldn’t let me go out with him, but I looked forward to his call.

He did call, that very evening after supper. He said his that he wanted to show me a really good time. I wasn’t sure what to do. On one hand, I got the shivers just thinking about being alone with him, and on the other, I had a pretty good idea of what he wanted to do with me.

When I told him my parents had to meet him first, he laughed and said, “Ah c’mon honey, I don’t do the parent thing. Just tell them you’re going out with your girlfriends and I’ll pick you up at the corner. There’s this club I know out on the highway, a real wild place. C’mon honey, wear something sexy so I can show you off.”

There was something in the tone of his voice that scared me. His voice was like a deep- throated purr, husky and full of implications. I finally stammered, “No, no. Sorry, I can’t go out with you.” I quickly put down the receiver and walked outside on the front porch.

That wasn’t far enough away, so I walked on down the street. I didn’t want to be there when the phone rang again as I knew it would. Deep inside, I knew I was still a little girl, or maybe my common sense had kicked in, thank God. I just wasn’t ready for the real thing. It was one thing to talk about guys like that with my friends, but when confronted with one, I wanted to run and hide.

My dad remarked the next morning at breakfast that there had been two strange phone calls the night before after I had gone out for a walk. “Somebody asked for a Mrs. Jones, and later the same voice asked for Henry. Anyway, the guy said sorry wrong number and hung up each time.”

On rainy days, my pals and I went to the mall or the movies, or just hung out at somebody’s house exchanging gossip, watching TV, and planning our futures. The next day was wet. When Bobbi and Kim heard about my episode with Deke, they nodded knowingly. Bobbi said she’d seen him later that same night down at the WaWa Store talking to Pauline Gruber. He was lighting her cigarette.

“I’ll bet she went out with him,” I said a bit wistfully.

“Yeah, probably,” said Bobbi, “but I didn’t get a chance to see the whole thing. I was with my mom, just picking up some milk and bread.”

Those were the days. We could plan and dream from the safety of our loving families. We could complain about the rules and restrictions our parents insisted upon. We loved the feeling of excited anticipation as we contemplated our futures. The future was anything we wanted it to be back then.

Another fond memory is the sleepover parties we had at each other’s houses. It was usually for someone’s birthday, but sometimes we just decided to get together and have a great time staying up half the night gossiping, talking about boys, experimenting with makeup and hairstyles, painting our nails, and eating some forbidden treats. One of our favorite pig-outs was to take a half-gallon of vanilla or chocolate ice cream and let it soften just a little. Then we’d take a jar of chunky style peanut butter and mix that into the ice cream. Next, we’d dish it out and top each helping with chocolate syrup and a big blob of CoolWhip, or sometimes, even real cream Rediwhip. Heavenly.

Another secret pleasure was getting hold of a pack of cigarettes. We were all anxious to try smoking, but of course it had to be on the sly. That was most of the attraction anyway. Well, at one of our sleepovers, we were all puffing away when Bobbi’s mom decided to check on us.

“Get the window open real wide,” Bobbi whispered.

We managed that and were frantically waving most of the smoke away. Unfortunately, the window also held an air conditioner. In my haste to blow a mouthful of the evil haze outside, I leaned on the air conditioner and it began to tilt.

“Oh God Maggie, don’t let it fall. I’ve got to let my mom come in,” pleaded Bobbi.

Well, I got my arm around it, but I nearly pulled a muscle hanging onto it until Bobbi’s mom left the room. My arm was sore for days, but I saved our bacon and we all had a good laugh about it.

That was my last lazy summer. The next year, I had a babysitting job – eight to five, five days a week. Boy, did I work. The kids were eight and ten years old. Their mother and father both worked at day jobs, and once school was out for the summer, somebody had to keep tabs on the kids. I thought it would be easy. Just watch that they didn’t get hurt, take them to the pool and playground, make lunch and snacks for them.

Well, the girl was the older one, and just wouldn’t let me alone. Talk about questions! I had to lock the bathroom door, or she would have followed me in there. The little boy was normal I guess, but I had to keep an eye on him – he was always moving. On top of all that, I was expected to keep the house neat and sort all the recyclables - all for five dollars an hour.

I really worked for my pay. If I forgot to mop the kitchen floor, Mrs. Simpson always noticed. If one of the kids had a scraped knee, I had to explain all about it in detail. Mr. Simpson mostly kept quiet. He was the one who paid me each Friday when he got home from work. That meant I had to stay until 5:30 on Fridays if I wanted my pay then instead of waiting until Monday. I did get paid in cash though. Actually, I lost five pounds that summer, mostly from running after those kids and rushing around to make sure the house was neat before Mrs. S got home.

The next summer I was 16 and could get a grown up job. I applied for a cashier position at the supermarket downtown. Although I had gotten my driver’s license right after my 16th birthday, my dad told me, “No way are you going to drive your mother’s car to work every day. You can take the bus.”

Working the register was simple really. All you had to do was swipe the bar-coded spots over the scanner and prices and descriptions appeared on the display screen. If it was something sold by the pound, you just activated the built-in counter scale, keyed in the product code and weight and price appeared on the screen. The real intricacies of the job were learning how to deal with unpriced items, cat litter, leakers, and picky customers. You didn’t even have to figure out change. You just keyed in the amount tendered and the machine displayed the change due.

But all in all, it was an interesting job and the time went by quickly. I actually enjoyed ringing up the groceries quickly and getting everything neatly packed in paper or plastic bags. It gave me a feeling of satisfaction, and I enjoyed chatting with the regular customers. I worked there the next summer too, before my senior year in high school.

The manager was Mr. Clemmons, a pleasant, balding, middle-aged man. He asked me to stay on part time during the school year, “Please consider it Maggie. I consider you one of our most efficient cashiers.”

But my parents said, “You can save enough money from summer jobs. Besides, you’ll need that time for school work and some time for fun too.” So I thanked Mr. Clemmons, and promised that I would return to work there the next summer.

By now, Bobbi, Kim, and I were part of the regular high school crowd. There was another group that we thought of as “those girls”. It was like they shared some important secret. Never mind that they didn’t do their homework, wore their sweaters too tight, and talked back to their moms. They were the ones the guys always paid attention to. Guys nudged each other when “those girls” walked by, and made suggestive remarks you could just barely hear. I sometimes longed to be one of them. They exuded confidence in their own charms and disdain for girls like me. They never worried about what the teachers thought of them and made a great show of acting bored in class – as though they had much more important things on their minds.

One day, after school, I watched as Pauline Gruber took out a cigarette and lit it with a little silver lighter. She did it with a quick, practiced movement, and tilted her head upward to blow out the first puff of smoke. Then Lois said something that they both laughed about, and with a deliberate swinging of their hips and provocative over-their-shoulder glances at the boys, they strode off down the street.

I desperately wanted to be like them. Or at least enough like them so that the really neat guys would pay some attention to me. I was classified as a nice girl and a good student. Actually, I basked in the praises of my teachers, parents, and guidance counselor. I was torn between wanting to be like the popular girls at school and pleasing my elders. It would be a continuing source of conflict for me. Nobody told me, and it never occurred to me that I should be most concerned with pleasing myself.

One day, the guidance counselor announced, “It’s time to make some decisions people. You need to get specific about your futures so you can prepare properly.”

Mr. Hanson tweaked his bow tie as if to call attention to it and passed out some forms to us saying, “I want these all filled out and back by Friday.”

I had to write down something, so I quickly decided that I would become a nurse. Helping others and wearing a nice white uniform seemed like a good choice. Also, it was a career that guys approved of. What was I thinking? I was thinking about what other people would think of my choice, not what I might really want to do.

I did well at school and never felt bored in class. After school, there were games and dances to attend. Each season brought new social activities. The dances were fun as we waited for the guys to get tired of sitting on the sidelines watching the girls dance with each other. The band knew how it worked. Play the fast numbers first so the girls could dance and the guys could watch, working up their courage to get out on the floor.

In my sophomore year, I tried out for the varsity cheerleading squad. It was whispered that you had to have reasonably well-developed boobs and a body to go with them to qualify, as well as a nice, loud voice. Of course, you had to perform cartwheels, rolls, and splits too, and know the words to all the cheers by heart. You had to maintain a B average as well because of the time spent traveling with the team to all the football and basketball games.

I’d always been very impressed with the cheerleaders. They were all so pretty and confident looking. All the guys stared at them and tried to find reasons to talk to them. I loved the uniforms too – little short, pleated skirts topped with turtleneck sweaters. They wore neat looking sneakers in our school colors, blue and gold. They got to go to all the football and basketball games, and they rode on the bus with the teams. They always sat right up front on a bench just a few steps away from the field or playing floor. Of course, the school had to take boy cheerleaders too if they qualified, but in Eldridge no guys wanted to be cheerleaders. We weren’t that advanced and diversified I guess.

I decided that I’d make it my business to become a cheerleader too. That way, I thought, it wouldn’t matter if I got good grades and liked my classes. The guys at school would see me as a cheerleader first and hopefully forget that I was a top student. Kim and Bobbi used to watch me practice the cheers and tumbling routines. They gave me pointers and suggestions, but were not interested in trying out to be cheerleaders themselves.

Kim was too shy really, preferring to remain on the sidelines and not call attention to herself. Bobbi couldn’t be bothered to worry that much about keeping her grades up or being on time for practice and games. But they were glad for me and happy to help. Bobbi borrowed her dad’s video camera and made tapes of me doing the cheers and routines so we could do critiques of my style. This was great fun for all of us and a great help to me. To this day, I believe it was what made the difference and helped me to win a spot on the varsity cheerleading squad.

I had been right. Being a cheerleader made for instant popularity and entrée to the in-crowd. Bobbi was popular already, and Kim had a steady boyfriend, Fred, who was a varsity player. So by our sophomore year, we were fully integrated into Eldridge High’s elite society. It was great. We had lots of fun, and never were at a loss for what to do on weekends. Bobbi and I didn’t have steady boyfriends that year, so we could have a great time and not be curtailed by having to cater to some guy’s ego. Kim, however, had to defer to what Fred wanted to do most of the time. Not that Fred wasn’t a good friend and a nice guy, it was just that Kim seemed so settled already, and she was only going on 16.

Then I fell big-time for Tom Skrippens. Tom was also a jock like Fred. In fact, that’s how we got together. Being a cheerleader, I naturally got to talk with the guys on the football and basketball teams on the bus whenever we went to a neighboring high school for a game. Tom and I knew each other and often talked casually about sports and schoolwork.
Then one night on the way home from a basketball game, Tom made his way up the aisle to where I was sitting near the front of the bus, and asked quietly, “May I sit with you Maggie?”

“Sure,” I answered, feeling flattered and interested.

His seemingly simple question was loaded with significance. It meant that Tom was interested in me. The aisle seat next to me was empty because the other cheerleaders were already sitting with their favorite guys. I shifted my bag to the floor to make room for him. Tom settled himself in the seat, straightening his varsity jacket.

“Good game wasn’t it Maggie?”

“Oh yeah Tom. You did great scoring those two points to break the tie.”

Just then one of Tom’s buddies yelled to him to come on back to them to rehash the game. Tom turned around and said, “Nah. Catch you tomorrow Jack.”

Tom had draped his arm casually over the seat back when he turned to respond, and when he looked back to me, his arm slid down a little, lightly touching my shoulders. This gesture was a definite signal that he was claiming me as his girl. Now the other guys would suppress any romantic overtures to me out of respect for Tom Skrippens. I remember that night as the beginning of our “serious” relationship.

I don’t remember what else we talked about on that bus ride. I only remember my feelings and what we did as we rode through the darkness back to Eldridge High. There was condensation on the inside of the bus windows, so Tom and I began to play X and O’s. This gave us the opportunity to lean against each other as we used up all the misty space on the window. The bus ride ended too quickly, and then we were all piling off and heading home or looking for the lucky adults whose turn it was to carpool us to our doors.

“Good night Maggie. See you tomorrow,” had been Tom’s parting words.

I slowly walked home remembering how his arm had felt around my shoulders and how he’d smelled of Irish Spring soap from his hasty shower after the game. Tom Skrippens was interested in me. I couldn’t wait to tell Bobbi and Kim.

Tom was really cute, nice and tall too. He was well liked by everyone and considered a good guy, meaning he wasn’t into drugs or other weird stuff. I liked his broad shoulders, auburn hair and green eyes too. There was something about Tom. I mean when I first really looked at him and talked with him, this feeling came over me that I already knew him very well.
We laughed at the same jokes, and shared the same opinions about most of our teachers. We had the same friends now that we were in high school. It was funny that we’d grown up not knowing the other existed because we came from opposite end of town and attended different grade schools. Our friendship deepened over the next few months because we both made sure to be at the right places at the right times so we could “casually” bump into each other.

Then, in my junior year, Tom and I became a real couple. We were “going steady”. Lots of my friends had paired up by then as well, and we more or less went out in a big group like old married couples. We started talking about serious things, like politics, where to go to college, what we wanted out of life. My parents tried to gently discourage me from dating Tom exclusively. However, since Kim was in a steady dating relationship with her boyfriend Fred, and Bobbi was what polite folks called “lively”, my parents had little to work with.

I really liked Tom and we had a great time at the Junior Prom. Dancing with Tom was heaven. I could feel the heat from his body as he held me closer with each slow dance. He was wearing Canoe after-shave, and I could smell it when I nestled my head on his shoulder and my nose touched his neck. I could feel him shiver just a bit when my lips bumped his neck. Tom and I became teenage lovers the week after the prom.

It would have happened on prom night, except that neither of us could figure out how to do it in the car since we were all dressed up in fancy clothes. Tom had on a rented tux, and we hadn’t planned ahead so we had no protection with us. We prided ourselves, as did most of our crowd ever since going through the sex education classes, on being careful and responsible.

Soon after, I started to dream about all those traditional things - marriage, children, and my own house. The nesting instinct had set in big time. I even practiced writing my “married” name – Mrs. Thomas Skrippens. I just bopped along in a dream world for the rest of my junior year. Everything I planned for the future revolved around Tom. Kim and I even started talking about the furniture and draperies we’d have in our houses after we got married, and how we’d all remain friends and probably live right here in Eldridge.

Bobbi couldn’t stand us when we went on like that, and told us, “You two sound like a couple of old ladies. Lighten up and live a little.”

I thought Tom and I understood each other. We had the same opinions and beliefs on environmental issues, diversity, traditional values, and used to have some interesting discussions on those topics. So it wasn’t all just sexual attraction. One small problem was that while my family had always been Protestants, Tom’s were Catholic. Still, nobody made a fuss about those things these days, and I even considered converting just to please Tom’s relatives. I of course dreamed of a big, fancy wedding. Heck, I even started thinking about names for the children we’d have. It was all becoming very cozy. In school, we spent a lot of time together. We were in most of the same classes, and usually sat together now for lunch in the cafeteria. The rest of the kids took it for granted that we were a couple.
I can remember feeling so happy when it was time to go to school because it meant I’d be seeing Tom. I dressed to please Tom now – nothing too flashy or revealing. Tom didn’t like it when other guys stared at me. We made love regularly now. I wasn’t on the pill, although I should have been. Tom always used protection. Well, almost always. I still remember the month when I truly thought I’d gotten pregnant. It had been one of those nights after a movie and pizza. We were parked on a back road out of town.

Tom said, “Oh nuts, I’m out of rubbers. Look, Maggie, I’ll be real careful. I promise.”

I of course couldn’t say no to him, and I think he was very careful. However, that month, my period was almost a week late. I guess it could have been due to my being so nervous, but every day was agony. Every morning at school, Tom would give me this questioning look, and I’d have to shake my head no. Finally, to my great relief, I woke up Saturday morning to find I wouldn’t be a teenage mother after all.

I casually called Tom and told him, “Everything’s fine today – all back to normal.”

I never heard a guy give such a big sigh of relief. The most distressing episode of my junior year ended happily.