sort of priggishness they accused me of having, but I couldn’t help it. I would never tell anyone about these feelings. I hadn’t even told Mom. Brayden was so right when he said I was afraid of revealing things about myself, some things I wouldn’t even admit to myself.
At the top of that list was my deep and utter craving to be loved. I don’t mean loved the way parents love their children, but loved the way my mother loved my father and he loved her. I had always thought that my need for that would come much later in my life. It wasn’t just wanting to have sex, to make all the discoveries I read about or heard other girls talk about. I wanted something more. I wanted to love someone so intently that his every word, every gesture, smile, and kiss lingered long into the night and embraced all of my dreams, not theway teenagers could have crushes on each other. No, I wanted something more substantial, something clearly mature, reserved for when you were older and settled. The truth was, I wanted it all now, and that did frighten me, because I realized that I should be more of a teenager than a woman. I didn’t know any other girl who was like me, and that wasn’t necessarily good.
These should be my carefree days, I thought. My heart and my mind should be full of insignificant little affections. I should be going to parties, dancing beneath crepe-paper ceilings and multicolored balloons, weaving smiles and laughter around lollipop kisses, and writing some boy’s name with invisible ink so it could be replaced quickly and easily with another boy’s name.
Mom was always telling me just to go and have fun. “Don’t take life so seriously. Every boy you date doesn’t have to be your soul mate, Amber. It’s not a waste of time just to have some innocent fun. Believe me.”
I knew what she meant. These would be those delightful little experiences that would fill up my personal yearbook, the one containing all of the ridiculous things that I had said or that were said to me, the pictures of the boys I had crushes on for ten minutes, and the wild predictions my friends and I had made for ourselves on a prophecy page.
But no matter how much or how hard I tried, I couldn’t begin to fill that yearbook. I was simply—like Brayden—beyond my years. What had happened to make him that way? I supposed I could blame it on his home life, especially his mother’s condition, but what had happened in me that made me the same? Was it justthe way we were constructed, something in our genes? Were we living tragic lives because we were losing or had lost our youth too soon? What would I be able to tell my daughter when she was my age if I had never had any of the experiences she was having, experiences that at times she would find a little confusing? Where would my motherly wisdom come from?
I hadn’t thought about all of this as intently as I was thinking about it tonight, and I knew it was because of Brayden, because of the thoughtful and serious things he had said. If he could cause this to happen, stir up all these deep thoughts and feelings after the short time we had spent together, what would happen if I did see him again and again?
Was it dangerous to be around someone like him, especially for someone like me who was already too serious?
Was I afraid?
Should I avoid him? Tell myself he was too depressing or weird? That would be easy. My parents would accept it, too, now that they knew something about his family, but would I?
Could I be that dishonest with myself?
I closed my book. I’m not going to read tonight, I thought, and rose slowly after I put out the light. In the protection of the darkness, I went to the curtain and peered out at the windows of his bedroom again. It was still quite dark. When did he go to sleep? I looked up to see the attic windows lit, just as he had said they would be. Did he stay there with his mother while she worked? How long did it go on? All night? Nothing else, noother room,
At the top of that list was my deep and utter craving to be loved. I don’t mean loved the way parents love their children, but loved the way my mother loved my father and he loved her. I had always thought that my need for that would come much later in my life. It wasn’t just wanting to have sex, to make all the discoveries I read about or heard other girls talk about. I wanted something more. I wanted to love someone so intently that his every word, every gesture, smile, and kiss lingered long into the night and embraced all of my dreams, not theway teenagers could have crushes on each other. No, I wanted something more substantial, something clearly mature, reserved for when you were older and settled. The truth was, I wanted it all now, and that did frighten me, because I realized that I should be more of a teenager than a woman. I didn’t know any other girl who was like me, and that wasn’t necessarily good.
These should be my carefree days, I thought. My heart and my mind should be full of insignificant little affections. I should be going to parties, dancing beneath crepe-paper ceilings and multicolored balloons, weaving smiles and laughter around lollipop kisses, and writing some boy’s name with invisible ink so it could be replaced quickly and easily with another boy’s name.
Mom was always telling me just to go and have fun. “Don’t take life so seriously. Every boy you date doesn’t have to be your soul mate, Amber. It’s not a waste of time just to have some innocent fun. Believe me.”
I knew what she meant. These would be those delightful little experiences that would fill up my personal yearbook, the one containing all of the ridiculous things that I had said or that were said to me, the pictures of the boys I had crushes on for ten minutes, and the wild predictions my friends and I had made for ourselves on a prophecy page.
But no matter how much or how hard I tried, I couldn’t begin to fill that yearbook. I was simply—like Brayden—beyond my years. What had happened to make him that way? I supposed I could blame it on his home life, especially his mother’s condition, but what had happened in me that made me the same? Was it justthe way we were constructed, something in our genes? Were we living tragic lives because we were losing or had lost our youth too soon? What would I be able to tell my daughter when she was my age if I had never had any of the experiences she was having, experiences that at times she would find a little confusing? Where would my motherly wisdom come from?
I hadn’t thought about all of this as intently as I was thinking about it tonight, and I knew it was because of Brayden, because of the thoughtful and serious things he had said. If he could cause this to happen, stir up all these deep thoughts and feelings after the short time we had spent together, what would happen if I did see him again and again?
Was it dangerous to be around someone like him, especially for someone like me who was already too serious?
Was I afraid?
Should I avoid him? Tell myself he was too depressing or weird? That would be easy. My parents would accept it, too, now that they knew something about his family, but would I?
Could I be that dishonest with myself?
I closed my book. I’m not going to read tonight, I thought, and rose slowly after I put out the light. In the protection of the darkness, I went to the curtain and peered out at the windows of his bedroom again. It was still quite dark. When did he go to sleep? I looked up to see the attic windows lit, just as he had said they would be. Did he stay there with his mother while she worked? How long did it go on? All night? Nothing else, noother room,
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