out of his camper.
“I'll try,” I said, acting casual, as though I were asked to go to New York every day. “When are you leaving?”
I imagined being in New York with Sly twenty-four hours a day and thought of what that meant for our relationship. I would have to get birth control pills. There was no way Sly was only going to keep making out with me, and I
wanted
to sleep with him.
All night I practiced telling Mom and Dad that Sly had asked me to go to New York. I made up ways to ask them if it was all right. In the end, I was too afraid they would forbid me to go, so I didn't bring it up, much less ask their permission. I confided in Kitsaun. She listened to my reasons for wanting to go, a wistful look on her face.
“Oh, God. New York is wonderful. You have to go! Just don't tell them,” she said. “It's only for a few days. I'll think of something to say after you're gone.”
The next afternoon, I left work early and took the bus to Fillmore and Clay to Planned Parenthood. I went home with pamphlets on birth control and a plastic disc with pills.
Sly bought me a prepaid ticket. He told me he would be waiting at the gate. He wouldn't let me say I wasn't coming. Clearly he expected me to work everything out and be there.
I packed a small suitcase with clothes for four days. The morning of the flight I got ready for work as usual. Mom and I had the habit of riding the streetcar downtown together. This morning I dragged out the process of getting dressed and put-ting on my mascara. Mom called from the kitchen, “Deb, it's time to go. Are you ready?”
My hands were sweating. “Almost, Mom.”
I sat in the bathroom on the end of the tub, willing her to leave without me. Dad was still in bed. I knew he was awake but that he wouldn't get up for another hour. He read the morning paper or “rested his eyes” until we all left.
Finally, Mom said, “I'm going to be late. I'll see you tonight.”
“Okay, Mom. Sorry.”
When the door closed, I went into the kitchen, pulled out the phone book, and dialed Yellow Cab.
“Pick me up on the corner of Harold and Grafton,” I whispered to the dispatcher, afraid to wait inside and have Dad see that I wasn't going to work after all.
On the drive to the airport, I reasoned with myself:
I'm eighteen, almost leaving home for college. I'm old enough to do this without asking.
But deep down inside I knew my actions were outrageous. I had never gone completely against my parents' wishes. Karmen and I had walked around the city barefoot after Dad forbade me to do it, but that was light compared to sneaking off to New York. I knew Mom and Dad would never have given me their blessing to go away with Sly. Dad said he had heard about Sly in the street. He called him a pimp. I loved my parents and knew they would always be there for me, but I had never felt like this about a man before. My desire to be with Sly fueled a passion that recklessly propelled me where it wished. I risked shattering my parents' trust to follow this man.
At the airport I paid the cab driver, grabbed my bag, andgot in line at the American Airlines ticket counter. I walked to the gate, clutching my ticket and my purse, and I stopped at a pay phone to call work and tell them I wasn't feeling well. Nervous, I approached the gate. There he was. Sly was sitting in the middle of the band members: a carousel of tight pants, pink-and-blue geometric shirts, and a sea of sunglasses. Greg wore a leopard-skin vest; Rose, a blond wig, too bright against her brown face. Next to the business travelers in their dark suits, Sly and the Family Stone looked like a circus. Sly was talking to Freddy, who looked just like him, but with a baby face. When Sly saw me, he stood and walked to me. “I knew you'd make it, baby,” he said, pulling me into his arms.
ly introduced me to the band members I hadn't met: Jerry Martini, the saxophone player, his long, reddish hair hanging over his eyes; Larry Graham, the bass player,
“I'll try,” I said, acting casual, as though I were asked to go to New York every day. “When are you leaving?”
I imagined being in New York with Sly twenty-four hours a day and thought of what that meant for our relationship. I would have to get birth control pills. There was no way Sly was only going to keep making out with me, and I
wanted
to sleep with him.
All night I practiced telling Mom and Dad that Sly had asked me to go to New York. I made up ways to ask them if it was all right. In the end, I was too afraid they would forbid me to go, so I didn't bring it up, much less ask their permission. I confided in Kitsaun. She listened to my reasons for wanting to go, a wistful look on her face.
“Oh, God. New York is wonderful. You have to go! Just don't tell them,” she said. “It's only for a few days. I'll think of something to say after you're gone.”
The next afternoon, I left work early and took the bus to Fillmore and Clay to Planned Parenthood. I went home with pamphlets on birth control and a plastic disc with pills.
Sly bought me a prepaid ticket. He told me he would be waiting at the gate. He wouldn't let me say I wasn't coming. Clearly he expected me to work everything out and be there.
I packed a small suitcase with clothes for four days. The morning of the flight I got ready for work as usual. Mom and I had the habit of riding the streetcar downtown together. This morning I dragged out the process of getting dressed and put-ting on my mascara. Mom called from the kitchen, “Deb, it's time to go. Are you ready?”
My hands were sweating. “Almost, Mom.”
I sat in the bathroom on the end of the tub, willing her to leave without me. Dad was still in bed. I knew he was awake but that he wouldn't get up for another hour. He read the morning paper or “rested his eyes” until we all left.
Finally, Mom said, “I'm going to be late. I'll see you tonight.”
“Okay, Mom. Sorry.”
When the door closed, I went into the kitchen, pulled out the phone book, and dialed Yellow Cab.
“Pick me up on the corner of Harold and Grafton,” I whispered to the dispatcher, afraid to wait inside and have Dad see that I wasn't going to work after all.
On the drive to the airport, I reasoned with myself:
I'm eighteen, almost leaving home for college. I'm old enough to do this without asking.
But deep down inside I knew my actions were outrageous. I had never gone completely against my parents' wishes. Karmen and I had walked around the city barefoot after Dad forbade me to do it, but that was light compared to sneaking off to New York. I knew Mom and Dad would never have given me their blessing to go away with Sly. Dad said he had heard about Sly in the street. He called him a pimp. I loved my parents and knew they would always be there for me, but I had never felt like this about a man before. My desire to be with Sly fueled a passion that recklessly propelled me where it wished. I risked shattering my parents' trust to follow this man.
At the airport I paid the cab driver, grabbed my bag, andgot in line at the American Airlines ticket counter. I walked to the gate, clutching my ticket and my purse, and I stopped at a pay phone to call work and tell them I wasn't feeling well. Nervous, I approached the gate. There he was. Sly was sitting in the middle of the band members: a carousel of tight pants, pink-and-blue geometric shirts, and a sea of sunglasses. Greg wore a leopard-skin vest; Rose, a blond wig, too bright against her brown face. Next to the business travelers in their dark suits, Sly and the Family Stone looked like a circus. Sly was talking to Freddy, who looked just like him, but with a baby face. When Sly saw me, he stood and walked to me. “I knew you'd make it, baby,” he said, pulling me into his arms.
ly introduced me to the band members I hadn't met: Jerry Martini, the saxophone player, his long, reddish hair hanging over his eyes; Larry Graham, the bass player,
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