hall. Luckily the principal lets me off with a warning since I'm a first-time offender, and I'm only a little late to math, my last class of the day. I just sit there in a fog, waiting for class to end, and when it finally does, you'd think I'd rush down the hall, out the door, and over to Farm Hill Road to see if Frank's there or not, but I just go at my usual pace. Either he'll be there or he won't, so who cares if I walk fast or slow?
When I turn onto Farm Hill Road, I know without even looking that Frank's not there. It's not even that I don't hear his motor running, it's just this sinking feeling I have in my stomach, like I just ate a hundred matzo balls that my grandmother made for Passover, which weigh about a pound and a half apiece. I can't believe it's all over. The best thing that ever happened to me in my entire life.
Finito.
Done. The End.
There's nothing for me to do but walk over to Bessie's fence, but I don't even click my tongue to call her over. I'm too depressed to do anything but stand here and pick at my split ends. They're easy to see with the sun shining on my hair, and who cares if I wreck it now that Frank is gone?
I wish I had someone to talk to about all this. But who, Shirley? Yeah, right. For all Shirley knows, I don't have a clue about the birds and the bees. When I told Shirley I got my period she said, “Oh God, already?” like I'd done it too soon. Like I could help it. Then she gave me a box of pads and spent a good twenty minutes showing me how to wash out my underwear (cold water andWoolite does the trick). And that was our big mother-daughter talk about the facts of life. And Fred is even worse. He'd totally kill me if he knew about Frank. Fred thinks I'm his private property or something. Like once when I was eleven, I asked him when I could start dating. He said, “When you're thirty-five,” but he was only kidding. I think.
So who's left—Mike? I don't know if I'd even tell Mike about Frank. Most girls don't get along with their older brothers, but Mike and I have been tight ever since I was a baby. When Shirley used to walk me in my carriage, Mike trotted along right beside her, helping her push it. And when someone came up to check me out, Mike would point to himself and say in this tough-guy voice, “That's
my
sister. You can look but you better not touch.” God, I wish Mike were still around. Mike left home the minute he could and he hardly ever comes to visit. We talk on the phone sometimes, but it's just not the same.
If Ronnie hadn't moved away, I'd probably tell her about Frank, but Ronnie's gone. Pennsylvania, for God's sake. I miss her so much. You know how when someone looks really sad and someone else says to her, “What's the matter? You look like you lost your best friend?” Well, I
have
lost my best friend. Ronnie and I were pretty much inseparable. We spent so much time together that Donald Caruso called us lezzies. Or rather, he called me a lezzie, which is really stupid because if I was one, then Ronnie would have to be one too, right? And now even with Ronnie gone, Donald still teases me about being alesbian, always asking me where my girlfriend is in that stupid tone of voice he uses. I wish Donald could meet Frank. Then he'd shut up about me being queer in two seconds flat.
I guess I should just go home, but I don't exactly want to. And besides, my feet feel like they weigh about three hundred pounds. Each. I want to sink down into the ground and never move again, but just when I'm about to give in to gravity, I hear something. Something that sounds awfully like a car. And not just any car: Frank's car. I'm afraid to look, because what if my ears are playing tricks on me? I wait until the sound gets louder and then when I finally look up, Frank's practically on top of me and I have to run to where he's pulled over so he doesn't leave without me. But it turns out there's no chance of that since he's turned the motor off. Which is weird, because usually
When I turn onto Farm Hill Road, I know without even looking that Frank's not there. It's not even that I don't hear his motor running, it's just this sinking feeling I have in my stomach, like I just ate a hundred matzo balls that my grandmother made for Passover, which weigh about a pound and a half apiece. I can't believe it's all over. The best thing that ever happened to me in my entire life.
Finito.
Done. The End.
There's nothing for me to do but walk over to Bessie's fence, but I don't even click my tongue to call her over. I'm too depressed to do anything but stand here and pick at my split ends. They're easy to see with the sun shining on my hair, and who cares if I wreck it now that Frank is gone?
I wish I had someone to talk to about all this. But who, Shirley? Yeah, right. For all Shirley knows, I don't have a clue about the birds and the bees. When I told Shirley I got my period she said, “Oh God, already?” like I'd done it too soon. Like I could help it. Then she gave me a box of pads and spent a good twenty minutes showing me how to wash out my underwear (cold water andWoolite does the trick). And that was our big mother-daughter talk about the facts of life. And Fred is even worse. He'd totally kill me if he knew about Frank. Fred thinks I'm his private property or something. Like once when I was eleven, I asked him when I could start dating. He said, “When you're thirty-five,” but he was only kidding. I think.
So who's left—Mike? I don't know if I'd even tell Mike about Frank. Most girls don't get along with their older brothers, but Mike and I have been tight ever since I was a baby. When Shirley used to walk me in my carriage, Mike trotted along right beside her, helping her push it. And when someone came up to check me out, Mike would point to himself and say in this tough-guy voice, “That's
my
sister. You can look but you better not touch.” God, I wish Mike were still around. Mike left home the minute he could and he hardly ever comes to visit. We talk on the phone sometimes, but it's just not the same.
If Ronnie hadn't moved away, I'd probably tell her about Frank, but Ronnie's gone. Pennsylvania, for God's sake. I miss her so much. You know how when someone looks really sad and someone else says to her, “What's the matter? You look like you lost your best friend?” Well, I
have
lost my best friend. Ronnie and I were pretty much inseparable. We spent so much time together that Donald Caruso called us lezzies. Or rather, he called me a lezzie, which is really stupid because if I was one, then Ronnie would have to be one too, right? And now even with Ronnie gone, Donald still teases me about being alesbian, always asking me where my girlfriend is in that stupid tone of voice he uses. I wish Donald could meet Frank. Then he'd shut up about me being queer in two seconds flat.
I guess I should just go home, but I don't exactly want to. And besides, my feet feel like they weigh about three hundred pounds. Each. I want to sink down into the ground and never move again, but just when I'm about to give in to gravity, I hear something. Something that sounds awfully like a car. And not just any car: Frank's car. I'm afraid to look, because what if my ears are playing tricks on me? I wait until the sound gets louder and then when I finally look up, Frank's practically on top of me and I have to run to where he's pulled over so he doesn't leave without me. But it turns out there's no chance of that since he's turned the motor off. Which is weird, because usually
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