The multi-band lineup had been announced, and it would include the Beat and Flock of Seagulls and a really artsy rock band called Talking Heads. By the time June arrived, I’d realized I needed to do something to get Wendy’s attention or she would forget about me over the summer. It might seem strange to worry about someone you’ve never really talked to forgetting about you, but I held out the hope that Wendy had noticed me hanging about—even if she never looked at me. I had been trying to build my confidence to make my big move and talk to her. Finally, I devised a cunning plan. I would tell Wendy that I had gotten Police Picnic tickets and invite her to come along with me. I didn’t actually have tickets, and I had little hope that the plan would actually work. But I was in for a surprise.
One afternoon in the second week of June, I saw Wendy standing near the lockers on the second floor at Thornlea. Thiswas the same location as the purple eyeliner incident a couple of months earlier, but most of the older 213 kids didn’t know about that. I was counting on Wendy not having heard about the purple eyeliner. Even in 213, I couldn’t take any chances about how people might react.
Wendy was emptying the contents of her school bag into her locker. She was alone. This was a rare chance for me. I summoned up all my confidence and adjusted my black jacket on my skinny shoulders. I was wearing my black pointy boots and I had my Adidas bag in my right hand. I acted as if I were just innocently walking down the hall. When I got near Wendy, I stopped about three feet away from her side. I tried not to appear terrified. Wendy turned and looked at me. She was shorter than me. She was cool. She was like Bowie. She flipped that bit of blond hair in the front that was longer than the rest of her hair, just like David Sylvian. Sylvian had gotten that from Bowie. Wendy stared into my eyes, waiting for me to say something. I finally did.
“Hey. So, are you going to the Police Picnic?”
I had found the courage to speak to Wendy. Barely. My voice sounded like it was forming words for the first time. But I had spoken. This was no minimal feat. I looked down immediately so I wouldn’t have to look into her eyes for any hint of judgment or rejection. Her beautiful, cool, girl eyes. Bowie eyes. After a few moments, there had been no answer to my question, so I re-asked it a bit louder.
“Yeah, so, are you going to the Police Picnic?”
This time she answered. “No. I wish.”
Wendy looked a bit uninterested in speaking to me. But that’s the way cool people were. And this was progress. Wewere having a conversation. I hadn’t planned past this point. I struggled to think of the next line and to make it sound natural. Now I was improvising.
“So, like, you didn’t get tickets?”
Wendy momentarily turned to her locker and then looked back up at me. “No. I wish,” she said again. Then she added, “Talking Heads are playing at it, too.”
I nodded. I didn’t really know much about Talking Heads. But I could tell they were cool from the way Wendy said their name. All I really knew was that they had that song that sounded like it had the word “fuck” in it, but it didn’t actually have the word “fuck” in it. I had been to a house party at Rosanna Dray’s place with some of my Grade 9 friends, and when they played that song, everyone sang “fa fa fa fuck” at the chorus part that sounded like “fuck” even though that wasn’t the lyric.
Wendy was still looking at me. She had not turned away. This was my moment.
“Well, I got tickets. So, maybe … well … do you wanna come to the Police Picnic? Like, with me?”
“Umm. Okay.” Wendy smiled.
Just like that, I had a date. I was going to the Police Picnic with Wendy, the older woman. I would be attending the most anticipated summer concert of the year with a teenagegirl version of Bowie. So maybe our “date” wasn’t exactly a romantic or salacious
One afternoon in the second week of June, I saw Wendy standing near the lockers on the second floor at Thornlea. Thiswas the same location as the purple eyeliner incident a couple of months earlier, but most of the older 213 kids didn’t know about that. I was counting on Wendy not having heard about the purple eyeliner. Even in 213, I couldn’t take any chances about how people might react.
Wendy was emptying the contents of her school bag into her locker. She was alone. This was a rare chance for me. I summoned up all my confidence and adjusted my black jacket on my skinny shoulders. I was wearing my black pointy boots and I had my Adidas bag in my right hand. I acted as if I were just innocently walking down the hall. When I got near Wendy, I stopped about three feet away from her side. I tried not to appear terrified. Wendy turned and looked at me. She was shorter than me. She was cool. She was like Bowie. She flipped that bit of blond hair in the front that was longer than the rest of her hair, just like David Sylvian. Sylvian had gotten that from Bowie. Wendy stared into my eyes, waiting for me to say something. I finally did.
“Hey. So, are you going to the Police Picnic?”
I had found the courage to speak to Wendy. Barely. My voice sounded like it was forming words for the first time. But I had spoken. This was no minimal feat. I looked down immediately so I wouldn’t have to look into her eyes for any hint of judgment or rejection. Her beautiful, cool, girl eyes. Bowie eyes. After a few moments, there had been no answer to my question, so I re-asked it a bit louder.
“Yeah, so, are you going to the Police Picnic?”
This time she answered. “No. I wish.”
Wendy looked a bit uninterested in speaking to me. But that’s the way cool people were. And this was progress. Wewere having a conversation. I hadn’t planned past this point. I struggled to think of the next line and to make it sound natural. Now I was improvising.
“So, like, you didn’t get tickets?”
Wendy momentarily turned to her locker and then looked back up at me. “No. I wish,” she said again. Then she added, “Talking Heads are playing at it, too.”
I nodded. I didn’t really know much about Talking Heads. But I could tell they were cool from the way Wendy said their name. All I really knew was that they had that song that sounded like it had the word “fuck” in it, but it didn’t actually have the word “fuck” in it. I had been to a house party at Rosanna Dray’s place with some of my Grade 9 friends, and when they played that song, everyone sang “fa fa fa fuck” at the chorus part that sounded like “fuck” even though that wasn’t the lyric.
Wendy was still looking at me. She had not turned away. This was my moment.
“Well, I got tickets. So, maybe … well … do you wanna come to the Police Picnic? Like, with me?”
“Umm. Okay.” Wendy smiled.
Just like that, I had a date. I was going to the Police Picnic with Wendy, the older woman. I would be attending the most anticipated summer concert of the year with a teenagegirl version of Bowie. So maybe our “date” wasn’t exactly a romantic or salacious
Similar Books
