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Authors: Michael Lee West
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best friend, Miss Wilma, had talked to Dr. O’Malley’s nurse, Miss Jane, who reported the lovebirds had been spotted at the Skyline Drive-In, the Dairy Queen, and the balcony at First Methodist, holding hands under the hymn book.
I just knew they were sleeping together. In my girlish mind, I wondered if sex was a binding agent, no different from an egg wash that seals the edges of puff pastry. A word about Barb. She’d tormented me in elementary school, but during my sophomore year, she’d picked me to be her new best friend. Her parents taught at the university in Augusta, and the walls in their house were lined with plaques and diplomas. Their house was smaller than Aunt Bluette’s but it was well tended and drop-dead gorgeous, filled with watercolor paintings, French antiques, bone china, and Persian rugs.
“I like warm colors,” Lucinda Browning said when she saw me staring at an orange-and-brown afghan.
“I do, too,” I said.
“I just made chocolate-dipped strawberries,” Lucinda said. “Let me get you one.”
She was a true foodie, always in her kitchen making puff pastry from scratch. “The secret is temperature,” she told me. “The dough must be chilled and put into a 400-degree oven.”
While Barb sat at the kitchen counter and painted her nails, Lucinda showed me how to make Italian granitas in an ice cube tray and how to add bacon bits and chives to corn muffin batter. I could have spent hours looking at her KitchenAid attachments and her full set of Le Creuset bakeware, but Barb wanted to fix me up with guys. When that backfired, she spurned me. Then worms turned up in my home ec cake, and I got an F. A dead crab was also found in my aunt’s truck.
Though Barb was a witch, I could see why a guy would pick her over me. She had educated, talented parents. A beautiful home. Gourmet food. But I still thought Coop might show up to the hospital, just to make sure I hadn’t gone into a coma or something, but the only O’Malley to darken my door was Coop’s father.
Summer ran by like spilled sorghum. I moped on the sticky hot screened porch, taking bronchodilators and reading cookbooks. The radio kept playing “I Do (Cherish You)” by 98 Degrees. Aunt Bluette sat down beside me. “Teeny, you got the pip?”
“No, ma’am.” The “pip” was a chicken disease. Once it took hold, it could wipe out a whole poultry farm. If I looked that bad, I wasn’t long for this world.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Does this have something to do with Cooper?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re too young to be this heartbroke,” she said.
“How do you know what I feel?”
“Everything shows on your face, Teeny. You can’t hide nothing. All the Templetons are that way.” She was silent. “He didn’t get under your skirt, did he?”
“No, ma’am. But I wish he had.” I looked up, trying to see if I’d shocked her. Nobody in Bonaventure was more Baptist than my aunt, and no one was kinder. She laid her rough palm against my cheek.
“I just hate seeing you all tore up,” she said. “He was your first love, wasn’t he?”
I blinked and tears spilled down my cheeks.
“Oh, honey. Don’t cry. A lot of folks glorify their first loves. But that’s all it is.”
No way, I thought. This was hard-core love.
She must have seen something in my face because she began stroking my hair. “Everybody goes through this. Cooper will always be the one you can’t forget. But your heart will come back to you. It’ll come back when you love again.”
The last days of August were hazy, thanks to a rainy spell. A damp, yellow hotness squatted over Georgia. I heard that Coop had gone to college in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, leaving both me and his longtime love.
Right before school started, Aunt Bluette bought me a ’88 Olds convertible and paid a man to paint it turquoise. To help pay for gas, I got a carhop job at Sonic. When classes began, my seatmate in biology was Aaron Fisher, the cutest guy
I just knew they were sleeping together. In my girlish mind, I wondered if sex was a binding agent, no different from an egg wash that seals the edges of puff pastry. A word about Barb. She’d tormented me in elementary school, but during my sophomore year, she’d picked me to be her new best friend. Her parents taught at the university in Augusta, and the walls in their house were lined with plaques and diplomas. Their house was smaller than Aunt Bluette’s but it was well tended and drop-dead gorgeous, filled with watercolor paintings, French antiques, bone china, and Persian rugs.
“I like warm colors,” Lucinda Browning said when she saw me staring at an orange-and-brown afghan.
“I do, too,” I said.
“I just made chocolate-dipped strawberries,” Lucinda said. “Let me get you one.”
She was a true foodie, always in her kitchen making puff pastry from scratch. “The secret is temperature,” she told me. “The dough must be chilled and put into a 400-degree oven.”
While Barb sat at the kitchen counter and painted her nails, Lucinda showed me how to make Italian granitas in an ice cube tray and how to add bacon bits and chives to corn muffin batter. I could have spent hours looking at her KitchenAid attachments and her full set of Le Creuset bakeware, but Barb wanted to fix me up with guys. When that backfired, she spurned me. Then worms turned up in my home ec cake, and I got an F. A dead crab was also found in my aunt’s truck.
Though Barb was a witch, I could see why a guy would pick her over me. She had educated, talented parents. A beautiful home. Gourmet food. But I still thought Coop might show up to the hospital, just to make sure I hadn’t gone into a coma or something, but the only O’Malley to darken my door was Coop’s father.
Summer ran by like spilled sorghum. I moped on the sticky hot screened porch, taking bronchodilators and reading cookbooks. The radio kept playing “I Do (Cherish You)” by 98 Degrees. Aunt Bluette sat down beside me. “Teeny, you got the pip?”
“No, ma’am.” The “pip” was a chicken disease. Once it took hold, it could wipe out a whole poultry farm. If I looked that bad, I wasn’t long for this world.
“I’m okay,” I said.
“Does this have something to do with Cooper?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re too young to be this heartbroke,” she said.
“How do you know what I feel?”
“Everything shows on your face, Teeny. You can’t hide nothing. All the Templetons are that way.” She was silent. “He didn’t get under your skirt, did he?”
“No, ma’am. But I wish he had.” I looked up, trying to see if I’d shocked her. Nobody in Bonaventure was more Baptist than my aunt, and no one was kinder. She laid her rough palm against my cheek.
“I just hate seeing you all tore up,” she said. “He was your first love, wasn’t he?”
I blinked and tears spilled down my cheeks.
“Oh, honey. Don’t cry. A lot of folks glorify their first loves. But that’s all it is.”
No way, I thought. This was hard-core love.
She must have seen something in my face because she began stroking my hair. “Everybody goes through this. Cooper will always be the one you can’t forget. But your heart will come back to you. It’ll come back when you love again.”
The last days of August were hazy, thanks to a rainy spell. A damp, yellow hotness squatted over Georgia. I heard that Coop had gone to college in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, leaving both me and his longtime love.
Right before school started, Aunt Bluette bought me a ’88 Olds convertible and paid a man to paint it turquoise. To help pay for gas, I got a carhop job at Sonic. When classes began, my seatmate in biology was Aaron Fisher, the cutest guy
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