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Authors: Frances Pergamo
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intensity.
âAnd now youâve realized you donât want every girl on the beach?â Karen asked, although she couldnât believe such a bold query had passed her lips.
He shook his head. âNope. Just one.â
She thought she was hearing things and was suddenly afraid to let go of the witty repartee. After all, they were alone on the beach, and Karen didnât want the discussion to lead where she wasnât ready to go. âDo I know her?â she asked.
âIf you come to the dance here at the wharf tomorrow night, sheâll be the one slow-dancing with the lifeguard.â
âHow can you go to a dance dressed like that?â Grandma protested when Karen trotted down the stairs in hip-hugger jeans and a black halter top. Unable to voice all of her complaints in English, Grandma resorted to her native Czech, which Karen understood well enough.
âItâs okay, Grandma.â Karen realized she was trying to placate a woman who had grown up back when women didnât even show their ankles. âThis isnât a dance where people get dressed up, I swear. It isnât like the Czech socials or the dinner dances we go to. Everyone there will be wearing jeans. Some people even come in shorts.â
âIs Anya going?â Grandma asked.
âYes, and Danny, too,â Karen answered patiently. She didnât particularly feel like listening to her grandmother question the morals of an entire generation or lecture her about teenage life in the 1920s. Karen was too excited about going to the dance on the wharf and seeing Mike there. She recalled what he had said about slow-dancing and imagined what the night might hold in store.
Karen never wore makeup, and she rarely let her hair down. But in trying to see herself through Mikeâs eyes, she found in herself a newborn vanity that forced her to look in the mirror with greater attention to detail. A little mascara accentuated her lively hazel eyes, and the clear, roll-on lip gloss she had bought at the town pharmacy tasted like strawberries. Her hair, which also smelled like strawberries from her favorite shampoo, fell in silken, sun-streaked strands around her perfectly oval face and past her shoulders. She even fastened a strand of puka shells around her neck and adorned her earlobes with small silver half-moons. At quarter after seven, she was ready to go.
âYou be home by eleven?â Grandma asked without leaving much room for debate.
âI think it ends at eleven, so can I have until eleven-thirty?â Karen asked.
âWho will bring you?â came the inevitable question.
âIf Aunt Vera doesnât drive us home, then one of Dannyâs friends will give me a ride,â Karen replied as vaguely as she could. Deep down she hoped to be chauffeured back in a green Mustang. Just the thought made her breath catch in her throat.
Karen exploded out of the porch door and trotted toward the road. When she turned around to wave, Grandma was standing in the doorway, making the sign of the cross.
Karen quickened her pace as the wharf came into view. She could see the swarms of teenagers and young adults who were congregated on the overlook and on the wharf porch. Some were even strolling on the beach. The place pulsated with the sound of a live band. And Karenâs whole body pulsated with anticipation.
She immediately spotted her cousins and her friends near the entrance. A few feet away from them stood Mike, leaning against a porch post with his hands in his pockets. He had already seen her; he looked like his wish had come true. Karen saw Danny hit him in the arm and say, âHere she is.â As if he didnât know.
She stepped up to the gathering, not sure if she was out of breath from the brisk walk or the sight of Mike in tight faded jeans and a clean white T-shirt that seemed to glow against his suntan. His arms and chest looked enormous, his hips tight and narrow. His eyes shone
âAnd now youâve realized you donât want every girl on the beach?â Karen asked, although she couldnât believe such a bold query had passed her lips.
He shook his head. âNope. Just one.â
She thought she was hearing things and was suddenly afraid to let go of the witty repartee. After all, they were alone on the beach, and Karen didnât want the discussion to lead where she wasnât ready to go. âDo I know her?â she asked.
âIf you come to the dance here at the wharf tomorrow night, sheâll be the one slow-dancing with the lifeguard.â
âHow can you go to a dance dressed like that?â Grandma protested when Karen trotted down the stairs in hip-hugger jeans and a black halter top. Unable to voice all of her complaints in English, Grandma resorted to her native Czech, which Karen understood well enough.
âItâs okay, Grandma.â Karen realized she was trying to placate a woman who had grown up back when women didnât even show their ankles. âThis isnât a dance where people get dressed up, I swear. It isnât like the Czech socials or the dinner dances we go to. Everyone there will be wearing jeans. Some people even come in shorts.â
âIs Anya going?â Grandma asked.
âYes, and Danny, too,â Karen answered patiently. She didnât particularly feel like listening to her grandmother question the morals of an entire generation or lecture her about teenage life in the 1920s. Karen was too excited about going to the dance on the wharf and seeing Mike there. She recalled what he had said about slow-dancing and imagined what the night might hold in store.
Karen never wore makeup, and she rarely let her hair down. But in trying to see herself through Mikeâs eyes, she found in herself a newborn vanity that forced her to look in the mirror with greater attention to detail. A little mascara accentuated her lively hazel eyes, and the clear, roll-on lip gloss she had bought at the town pharmacy tasted like strawberries. Her hair, which also smelled like strawberries from her favorite shampoo, fell in silken, sun-streaked strands around her perfectly oval face and past her shoulders. She even fastened a strand of puka shells around her neck and adorned her earlobes with small silver half-moons. At quarter after seven, she was ready to go.
âYou be home by eleven?â Grandma asked without leaving much room for debate.
âI think it ends at eleven, so can I have until eleven-thirty?â Karen asked.
âWho will bring you?â came the inevitable question.
âIf Aunt Vera doesnât drive us home, then one of Dannyâs friends will give me a ride,â Karen replied as vaguely as she could. Deep down she hoped to be chauffeured back in a green Mustang. Just the thought made her breath catch in her throat.
Karen exploded out of the porch door and trotted toward the road. When she turned around to wave, Grandma was standing in the doorway, making the sign of the cross.
Karen quickened her pace as the wharf came into view. She could see the swarms of teenagers and young adults who were congregated on the overlook and on the wharf porch. Some were even strolling on the beach. The place pulsated with the sound of a live band. And Karenâs whole body pulsated with anticipation.
She immediately spotted her cousins and her friends near the entrance. A few feet away from them stood Mike, leaning against a porch post with his hands in his pockets. He had already seen her; he looked like his wish had come true. Karen saw Danny hit him in the arm and say, âHere she is.â As if he didnât know.
She stepped up to the gathering, not sure if she was out of breath from the brisk walk or the sight of Mike in tight faded jeans and a clean white T-shirt that seemed to glow against his suntan. His arms and chest looked enormous, his hips tight and narrow. His eyes shone
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