anymore, because Mom and Dad “leaned toward the Buddha”) cookies on a tray. We didn’t know it yet, but this would be her last New Year’s Eve with us. It wasn’t any different than the previous ones. She looked into space a lot, didn’t say much, and kissed my father when midnight came, as if she were punching a time card.
Things changed when I was thirteen. That year, Sherry Heller invited Charlie and me to her basement New Year’s Eve party so we could all watch her make out with her big-nosed boyfriend from Midland Catholic. He was a football player. He even put his hand up her shirt while the rest of us—the ten or so who showed up—watched from the mold-stained outdoor furniture that had been brought out of storage for the party.
“Want to try that?” Charlie asked.
“No,” I answered, knowing he was kidding.
“How about you?” he asked, winking at Marina Yoder.
She considered him. “Nah. I’ve got a cold.”
I studied him. Other girls didn’t like him because he wasn’t groomed. But I liked that. He bought his clothes old—frayed, holey, faded. He liked oversized hooded sweatshirts with tattered cuffs—the more tattered, the better. If he had a string hanging from the seam of a ripped-up flannel shirt, he’d leave it there. Where normal people would want to cut it off, Charlie would want it to dip in his soup and let the liquid drip down his elbow.
He wasn’t a slob, but his hair was greasy sometimes, and if it was, it was because he wanted it to be. I don’t think there was one time I ever saw him with combed hair. It suited him messy, sweeping over his thick eyebrows, and made him look mischievous and interesting.
Mrs. Kahn gave up trying to make Charlie “look decent” in the fourth grade. I remember the day clearly. It was picture day. November sometime. I wore a pair of green corduroys and a nice blouse with embroidery around the collar. Charlie wore a gray sweatshirt with an oily stain on the sleeve, and his mother argued with him the whole way to the bus stop. She was holding a crisp-ironed white button-down church shirt and a comb. He finally turned to her, grabbed the shirt, threw it to the side of the road, thick with decomposing leaf mold, and ground it in with his foot.
Before she could react, he snatched the comb and flung it far into the trees, and said, “Just go home. Who cares about stupid school pictures?” And she went home, like a trained monkey, after a lifetime of Mr. Kahn treating her like a trained monkey.
The night of Sherry Heller’s New Year’s Eve party, I still had that fourth-grade picture in my wallet. His hair finger-combed over his left eye, and the edge of the oily stain on the sweatshirt barely visible in the bottom right corner.
After another twenty minutes of Sherry and her boyfriend making out, Charlie nudged me and looked at the door. We walked the mile home together and celebrated the new year in the middle of the tree-lined road, full moon lighting the way, Charlie sucking on a Marlboro and me spinning around like a ballroom dancer on crack because I drank too much Coke.
“Veer?”
“Yeah?”
“I say we never go to a fucking New Year’s Eve party again.”
“You’re on,” I said, still spinning.
“It’s always a letdown.”
“Not for Sherry’s boyfriend, I bet.”
“Yeah, I bet they’re doing it on the glide-o-lounger right now, squeaking up a storm.”
“Ew.” I thought about my mother, pregnant at seventeen—gone for nearly a year at that point.
I was still thinking about her when Charlie asked, “Aren’t you curious, though?”
I stopped spinning and stumbled to the ground, right on the double yellow lines. Charlie lit another cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs.
“My dad says boys are only ever after one thing.”
“Right.”
“He says that I shouldn’t even think about boys until after college.”
“Huh.”
I didn’t know what else to say, so I got up slowly and tried to get my
Things changed when I was thirteen. That year, Sherry Heller invited Charlie and me to her basement New Year’s Eve party so we could all watch her make out with her big-nosed boyfriend from Midland Catholic. He was a football player. He even put his hand up her shirt while the rest of us—the ten or so who showed up—watched from the mold-stained outdoor furniture that had been brought out of storage for the party.
“Want to try that?” Charlie asked.
“No,” I answered, knowing he was kidding.
“How about you?” he asked, winking at Marina Yoder.
She considered him. “Nah. I’ve got a cold.”
I studied him. Other girls didn’t like him because he wasn’t groomed. But I liked that. He bought his clothes old—frayed, holey, faded. He liked oversized hooded sweatshirts with tattered cuffs—the more tattered, the better. If he had a string hanging from the seam of a ripped-up flannel shirt, he’d leave it there. Where normal people would want to cut it off, Charlie would want it to dip in his soup and let the liquid drip down his elbow.
He wasn’t a slob, but his hair was greasy sometimes, and if it was, it was because he wanted it to be. I don’t think there was one time I ever saw him with combed hair. It suited him messy, sweeping over his thick eyebrows, and made him look mischievous and interesting.
Mrs. Kahn gave up trying to make Charlie “look decent” in the fourth grade. I remember the day clearly. It was picture day. November sometime. I wore a pair of green corduroys and a nice blouse with embroidery around the collar. Charlie wore a gray sweatshirt with an oily stain on the sleeve, and his mother argued with him the whole way to the bus stop. She was holding a crisp-ironed white button-down church shirt and a comb. He finally turned to her, grabbed the shirt, threw it to the side of the road, thick with decomposing leaf mold, and ground it in with his foot.
Before she could react, he snatched the comb and flung it far into the trees, and said, “Just go home. Who cares about stupid school pictures?” And she went home, like a trained monkey, after a lifetime of Mr. Kahn treating her like a trained monkey.
The night of Sherry Heller’s New Year’s Eve party, I still had that fourth-grade picture in my wallet. His hair finger-combed over his left eye, and the edge of the oily stain on the sweatshirt barely visible in the bottom right corner.
After another twenty minutes of Sherry and her boyfriend making out, Charlie nudged me and looked at the door. We walked the mile home together and celebrated the new year in the middle of the tree-lined road, full moon lighting the way, Charlie sucking on a Marlboro and me spinning around like a ballroom dancer on crack because I drank too much Coke.
“Veer?”
“Yeah?”
“I say we never go to a fucking New Year’s Eve party again.”
“You’re on,” I said, still spinning.
“It’s always a letdown.”
“Not for Sherry’s boyfriend, I bet.”
“Yeah, I bet they’re doing it on the glide-o-lounger right now, squeaking up a storm.”
“Ew.” I thought about my mother, pregnant at seventeen—gone for nearly a year at that point.
I was still thinking about her when Charlie asked, “Aren’t you curious, though?”
I stopped spinning and stumbled to the ground, right on the double yellow lines. Charlie lit another cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs.
“My dad says boys are only ever after one thing.”
“Right.”
“He says that I shouldn’t even think about boys until after college.”
“Huh.”
I didn’t know what else to say, so I got up slowly and tried to get my
Similar Books
All Bets Are On
Charlotte Phillips
Glasswrights' Progress
Mindy L Klasky
In the Lone and Level Sands
David Lovato
Hero is a Four Letter Word
J.M. Frey
Over You
Christine Kersey
Trinity Blacio
Embracing the Winds
Heroes Never Die
Lois Sanders
Peanut Butter Sweets
Pamela Bennett