desire.
“Hello, Alan James.”
My mouth was parched. “Hello, Rita. You look great.”
I heard the stir of the elm tree near the wrought iron gate, heard the gentle rocking of the porch swing and the howl of a train. I felt Mrs. Fitzgerald’s eyes on me. When I glanced at her, her dark eyes glazed over with a new bitterness and she fell back to homeliness.Rita viewed us both, curiously. “Why didn’t you wait for me inside?” she asked.I shrugged.
“Alan didn’t want to come in, Rita,” she said sweetly. “He said he wanted to be out in the night air. He said the autumn air is so relaxing.” Rita gave her mother a doubtful, dismissive glance. “Don’t wait up for us, mother.”
Her mother’s voice took on an edge. “Don’t come back here late, Rita Fitzgerald! Don’t you do it!”
Rita ignored her, took my hand and led me out to the curb and the awaiting 1994 blue Dodge Intrepid. We drove away in victory and splendor; at least, that’s how I remember it.
Over the previous four weeks, Rita and I had met five times at Jack’s, reading and discussing our stories; arguing, laughing and sharing french fries. We became comfortable and trusting. We became friends. We became loose and flirtatious. We met with Ms. Lyendecker after school and discussed passages from short stores by Sherwood Anderson, O’Henry and Eudora Welty. Ms. Lyendecker read us poems and critiqued our stories. She was more critical and uncompromising with Rita’s work than with mine. Rita’s trust in her teacher bordered on devout worship, and she never wilted or blanched under Ms. Lyendecker’s judgment.
I grew in confidence, became more cordial to my classmates and was told, by my mother, that I had developed a kind of “punkish” swagger. I was elated!
During our fifth meeting at Jack’s, while french fries, sodas and story plots merged, I screwed up the courage to ask Rita out on a “real date.”
“Your stories aren’t so angry now, Alan James,” Rita said. “Especially the last story. I like the part about the wheelchair-bound boy whose arm was so strong he could throw a baseball all the way across the state of Pennsylvania. I liked it that he wanted to become a doctor someday so he could heal people.”
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” I said, pleased. “I loved your story about the girl who fell in the lake and couldn’t swim. I loved the way you described how she sank to the bottom ‘like something heavy with fatuous love.’”
“Did you get the symbolism?”
“You mean that she could breathe under water because she breathed with her whole heart and not just with her lungs?”
“Yes! I don’t believe it, Alan James! You really got it!”
“Because you said so in the story, Rita.”
Rita frowned. “I did?”
“Yeah…at the end, on page seven.”
“Dammit! I thought I took that out. Ms. Lyendecker suggested it. She said I was telling too much, not showing.”
“But I liked it, Rita. I mean, it’s so unlike anything I could ever write. I just don’t think like that.”
Rita glowed. “So the rehabilitation is working, Alan James.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not so moody and brooding,” Rita said. “Your stories are happier. More positive.”
I stared at her boldly. “Really? So…do you think you’re good for me?”
We dropped into a silent, exciting intimacy. She touched my hand. The sun poured in from the window and drenched her in gold. I seized the moment. “Go out with me this Saturday night, Rita.”
She tilted her head toward the window, watching Dusty Palmer emerge from his 1992 red Mustang. “I’m dating other people,” she said.
I shrugged. “I know. So…date me too.”
She waited, considering my offer, and I was sure she was going to say no. “Where will you take me?”
“I don’t know. A movie? Pizza?”
She frowned. “How about I take you somewhere special,” she said. “You’re going to hate it.”
I laughed, nervously. “Why will I hate
“Hello, Alan James.”
My mouth was parched. “Hello, Rita. You look great.”
I heard the stir of the elm tree near the wrought iron gate, heard the gentle rocking of the porch swing and the howl of a train. I felt Mrs. Fitzgerald’s eyes on me. When I glanced at her, her dark eyes glazed over with a new bitterness and she fell back to homeliness.Rita viewed us both, curiously. “Why didn’t you wait for me inside?” she asked.I shrugged.
“Alan didn’t want to come in, Rita,” she said sweetly. “He said he wanted to be out in the night air. He said the autumn air is so relaxing.” Rita gave her mother a doubtful, dismissive glance. “Don’t wait up for us, mother.”
Her mother’s voice took on an edge. “Don’t come back here late, Rita Fitzgerald! Don’t you do it!”
Rita ignored her, took my hand and led me out to the curb and the awaiting 1994 blue Dodge Intrepid. We drove away in victory and splendor; at least, that’s how I remember it.
Over the previous four weeks, Rita and I had met five times at Jack’s, reading and discussing our stories; arguing, laughing and sharing french fries. We became comfortable and trusting. We became friends. We became loose and flirtatious. We met with Ms. Lyendecker after school and discussed passages from short stores by Sherwood Anderson, O’Henry and Eudora Welty. Ms. Lyendecker read us poems and critiqued our stories. She was more critical and uncompromising with Rita’s work than with mine. Rita’s trust in her teacher bordered on devout worship, and she never wilted or blanched under Ms. Lyendecker’s judgment.
I grew in confidence, became more cordial to my classmates and was told, by my mother, that I had developed a kind of “punkish” swagger. I was elated!
During our fifth meeting at Jack’s, while french fries, sodas and story plots merged, I screwed up the courage to ask Rita out on a “real date.”
“Your stories aren’t so angry now, Alan James,” Rita said. “Especially the last story. I like the part about the wheelchair-bound boy whose arm was so strong he could throw a baseball all the way across the state of Pennsylvania. I liked it that he wanted to become a doctor someday so he could heal people.”
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” I said, pleased. “I loved your story about the girl who fell in the lake and couldn’t swim. I loved the way you described how she sank to the bottom ‘like something heavy with fatuous love.’”
“Did you get the symbolism?”
“You mean that she could breathe under water because she breathed with her whole heart and not just with her lungs?”
“Yes! I don’t believe it, Alan James! You really got it!”
“Because you said so in the story, Rita.”
Rita frowned. “I did?”
“Yeah…at the end, on page seven.”
“Dammit! I thought I took that out. Ms. Lyendecker suggested it. She said I was telling too much, not showing.”
“But I liked it, Rita. I mean, it’s so unlike anything I could ever write. I just don’t think like that.”
Rita glowed. “So the rehabilitation is working, Alan James.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not so moody and brooding,” Rita said. “Your stories are happier. More positive.”
I stared at her boldly. “Really? So…do you think you’re good for me?”
We dropped into a silent, exciting intimacy. She touched my hand. The sun poured in from the window and drenched her in gold. I seized the moment. “Go out with me this Saturday night, Rita.”
She tilted her head toward the window, watching Dusty Palmer emerge from his 1992 red Mustang. “I’m dating other people,” she said.
I shrugged. “I know. So…date me too.”
She waited, considering my offer, and I was sure she was going to say no. “Where will you take me?”
“I don’t know. A movie? Pizza?”
She frowned. “How about I take you somewhere special,” she said. “You’re going to hate it.”
I laughed, nervously. “Why will I hate
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