The Ten Best Days of My Life (15 page)

At first it was just a little peck on my lips, the lips with pizza grease still on them. It was the tiniest kiss, but the fire that went through my body from that little touch made me want to jump on top of him (though first I had to put down the slice of pizza I was holding).

One little peck, and he stopped in front of my face and smiled at me.

Then another little peck.

The fire, the fire!

The next kiss was all mine, I couldn't help myself. The feeling of throwing my lips on the future minister was too much for me to handle. Maybe it was a part of his future job, giving a first kiss to a fat girl was like those priests who wear shirts made of hair and whip themselves on the back, but who cared? The feeling, the fire, I wanted more!

So I threw my lips into his and he threw his right back. We were hugging and kissing and our tongues were circling around each other with this frenzy like they were magnets that couldn't keep apart. I wished the pizza delivery guy could see us now. Bobby's saliva was all over my face. He licked my cheek, ugh, but again I didn't care. I just wiped it off and kept going.

It went on and on and on. Standing there in my kitchen, I could hear Molly Ringwald say to Jake Ryan, “Thanks for getting my undies back,” and Jake saying, “Happy birthday, Samantha.”

Happy birthday, Alexandra!

We were throwing our arms all over each other, and he kept licking me and I kept wiping it off my face like the only way we could ever live was if we kept kissing and kissing and getting saliva all over each other.

“You wanna go to your room?” he asked.

So I grabbed the future pastor's arm and we ran down toward my room, throwing ourselves onto the pink bedspread under the pink canopy. He had toothpaste all over his face and on his shirt, which I remarked at and he laughed at.

The kissing went on all night. Our faces were raw, but neither of us cared. There was just this intense need to keep on kissing and kissing. I heard my phone ring a few times, but I didn't bother to answer it. It was like that whole hormonal need to be kissed and touched just exploded in me and I couldn't help but keep puckering my lips all over his face. The phone calls turned out to be Pen, who was feeling a little better, but she had a feeling as to why I didn't answer the phone so she stopped calling.

My parents never called. They trusted me. Besides, I don't think my father would have minded that a future minister was bothering me, though I guess he would have preferred it be a future rabbi.

Sometime around two in the morning, Bobby finally touched my boobs: oh, the feeling. Having my breasts touched became my one huge weakness. I think it's because my breasts are so small. If they're touched by a man they're like buttons that send off the most intense sexual desire. That's when I started to moan like a wild boar, but, again, I didn't care. Years later, I do admit that we were grinding our bodies into each other, but I'm really embarrassed about that. Dry fucking is what they call it, and down on earth it's kind of an embarrassing thing to admit you've done. That night, though, neither of us cared.

I tried to touch his penis, I really did. Through the kissing, I had this running monologue going on in my head, “Just put your hand down there.” So I tried to slowly work my way, but I just couldn't. I know, really immature, but I just couldn't, so the whole night was spent grinding with him touching my boobs, which seemed to be fine with both of us.

I think we both fell asleep at around 4:00 a.m. I woke up at about 6:00 a.m. unable to sleep with this guy in the bed with me. He looked so peaceful sleeping there in my white eyelet sheets. I couldn't believe he was there! I wasn't sure which looked more out of place at that point, the guy in my bed or all the dolls from around the world lining my walls. It was the last time I'd ever have my Snoopy doll on my bed again. I threw it under the bed when I saw it. It might still be there to this day.

Besides the sound from the television in the living room still blaring static from the night before, there were no sounds in my house. I wanted to get out of bed and turn off the television, but I didn't want Bobby to wake up. I wanted him to stay there, but I kind of didn't at the same time. I didn't feel like I was in love with him or anything, but the fact that a boy was in my bed, a college boy—I wished I had a camera. The sound of the television was bothering me too much, though, so I got up to turn it off. When I came back, Bobby was up.

“Oh hi,” he said, sitting up in my bed, giving me sort of a half smile. His pants and shirt were still on, wrinkled but still in shape. He got out of bed to smooth them and tuck in his shirt. He pulled his khakis up high again. What a nerd, but he was a guy in my bedroom so I had to excuse it.

“Hi,” I said with a half smile, really embarrassed.

“So I didn't get a lot of studying done last night,” he laughed.

“No, I guess you didn't,” I agreed from my doorway.

“Well, I gotta go,” he continued quickly. “I have a lot of studying to do today,” as if he was going to really start studying at six thirty in the morning. I didn't care though. As much as I wanted to be with a boy forever, it just wasn't him. I really didn't feel bad that he wanted to leave. Frankly, I was tired.

“Okay,” I said.

I walked him to the door.

“Nice meeting you,” he said, embarrassed.

“You too,” I said, opening the door.

And then he left.

Would he call me? Did I care? Nah. It seems cold, but I got what I wanted from him and I think he got what he wanted, too.

When I went to look at myself in the mirror, though, I nearly died (though, as we all know, I didn't). My hair, which was a disaster when I went to bed, had now been made even worse by bed head. One side was plastered flat to my skull and the other was poofed out like a science experiment gone wrong.

Here was the thing that made me forget about him all together. I saw what was in the mirror and that thing was scary. What person in their right mind would be so hard up as to want to kiss something that looked like me? I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I'm telling the truth. I needed a makeover.

He never called me again. I never saw him again until all those years later when I ran into Andrew. As it turned out, he hadn't become a pastor. He sold dental equipment. I wasn't attracted to him that night all those years ago, and I wasn't attracted to him when I saw him all those years later, but to me he was always my first kiss and that was wonderful and special. Now that I've had the opportunity to kiss a lot of other guys, as unattractive as Bobby was then, he is still one of the best kissers I ever kissed.

The next day, Pen asked me what happened. She wanted details, but how many details can you give? We kissed for five straight hours and he touched my boobs. I never went near his pants (except for the mortifying grind).

Still, though, it changed my life. I had been kissed and held and, most of all, a guy wanted me . . . at least for one night.

It took eight more months for the perm to grow out. Pen and Andrew eventually broke up. Pen broke up with him. I forget why. I think she was just sick of him. Pen could never be with any man for long. She always wanted to be free. It would be nine more months until I was kissed again, and that time I lost my virginity. It doesn't matter who it was with, some Haverford boy if you really must know. It didn't matter, though, who it was. I just wanted to get it out of the way, just like the first kiss.

After that, I never minded that my parents went out a lot and left me alone.

Frankly, I was very rarely alone.

I've never been a person who thought that sex was a big deal. I still don't.

A kiss though. A kiss to me is the most intimate thing two people can share, and I think I spent the rest of my life searching for another kiss that was just as good as the first one.

Thank Heaven for Small Favors

What the heck is that noise?

What the heck is that?

I keep hearing this rackety tap then a huge tap—what the heck is that?

Oh, it's Adam.

He looks so adorable. Look at him in his little baseball shirt and cap. The cutie even has cleats on. He's got some baseball cage set up in his backyard. I'm watching him from my bedroom window as the baseball comes toward him. Great swing. Grandpop would be very impressed. He's hitting these baseballs clear over his ten-acre yard. He's really good. You think that's a heaven thing or could he really hit baseballs out of a ballpark when he was alive?

This is crazy, I should be down there with him. Had it been he who dumped me, I would have set that batting thing so I hit the balls right into all his windows.

He's such a good person.

I am such an idiot.

“Um batter batter batter, swing batter!” I scream from my window, trying to get his attention in a cute way.

This scares the bejesus out of him, not what I was trying to do, and rather than hitting the ball, the ball (which must have been going ninety miles an hour) clunks him in the head.

“Oh no!” I scream as I run down the stairs and out the door. “I'm on my way!”

By the time I get outside, he's just hit another ball.

“Are you okay?” I scream, running toward him.

“I'm fine,” he says, hitting yet another ball. “It didn't hurt.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “Forgot where we are for a sec.”

Now I'm standing here, outside of his batting cage, not knowing what else to do. He's ignoring me as he keeps hitting those balls.

“Listen, I want to apologize,” I start.

“I don't want to hear it, Alex,” he tells me.

“No, I've been thinking and I really am sorry. I just got scared. I was being stupid.”

“You know, don't you think it's hard for me up here, too?” he says.

“Of course I know it's hard,” I tell him. “This dying thing was really shocking, and it's tough getting used to it.”

“So what's wrong with going through it together?” he asks, not looking at me as he hits another ball.

“I want to,” I tell him. “I really want to, but I've got some things that are going on right now and I don't want to get into it.”

“What could possibly be going on?”

It's on the tip of my tongue. I want to tell him so badly, but something is stopping me. He's so good. I'm so rotten.

"I just . . .”

Tell him, you idiot!

“Look, I can't tell you what's going on, but hopefully it will all be behind me soon enough.”

“There's really something going on?” he asks as another ball jolts him in the shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Was it not your time or something?”

“No, this is my time. The MINI Cooper was supposed to hit me. I'm dead, it's not that . . .”

“So what is it?” he says as another ball hits him in the back.

“Can you just turn that off? I know we're in heaven, but I just don't like the balls ramming into you like that,” I tell him, and he goes over and turns off the ball machine.

“Adam, look, it's . . . it's just some stupid thing that I'm going through right now. I'll let you know later, but can you just let it lie for now? Can you just trust me?”

He takes a deep breath like he's thinking about it.

“Okay,” he says. “I guess you have your reasons. I respect that. Whatever is going on, though, I hope you're okay.”

“Yeah, I'm fine. It will all be over soon and then we'll laugh at it.”

“Oh, it's one of those things.”

“Yeah, something that now seems like the end of the world but will seem funny a couple of months from now.”

I hope.

“So, are we friends?” I ask him.

He pauses.

“Yeah, okay.”

We stand here for a good long minute, not knowing what to do. I really want to kiss him, but I know I shouldn't.

“So you wanna try hitting some balls?” he asks.

“I'm not very good at it, but I'll try.”

“I always sucked at it,” he says, walking over to turn on the ball thrower. “Now I'm Hank Aaron.”

He hands me the bat, and I hit the ball over his house.

“You're good,” he says.

“Yeah, considering I've never done this before.”

We continue taking turns hitting the ball until we finally get tired of it and decide to let the balls hit us in the face.

“Let it hit you in the eye,” he laughs. “It makes the coolest swishy sound.”

So we continue to let the balls hit us in the face for the next couple of hours. It's a dumb thing, but, then again, so is a Jewish princess and an investment banker being able to hit a ball like Hank Aaron.

5

I have to make a comment before I start my next best day. So, you know how you do things in your life and you think you were having a really great time, but then years later you look back on it and it turns out to be one of the dumbest things you've ever done?

Well, that's exactly what happened to me.

See, when I look back on this particular best day (day number five if you're still counting), at the time it was more fun than I ever had. If I had to pinpoint, though, when all the trouble really began in my life, I suppose I'd have to start there. I kept going back and forth about whether I should even use this as a best day, but in the end I figured that the essay question is, What were the ten best days of your life? And it definitely was.