It Happened on Maple Street

“Okay.” I would. Maybe not exactly like my brother had ordered. I’d lose the warning tone. But I’d tell Tim that Chum wanted to meet him. If I ever heard from Tim again.

I waited all weekend for him to call. He did not. By Sunday night, I wished I’d never met him, never brought him home. My first foray into dating and I’d screwed it up horribly. I’d given Tim things I couldn’t take back, ever. I’d given him my first taste. My first touch.

And I’d done it right there in my own home. I’d betrayed my parents. I started to take the long way around to the kitchen so I could avoid the basement door.

I was angry. At him. And mostly at me. I knew better. My father had taught me better. My church had taught me better. And the first time a guy showed interest in me, I threw all of my morals, my convictions to the wind. I was nothing but a cheap loser.

He didn’t have to know that, though. I went to geology class on Tuesday with one thought in mind. Act like I didn’t care.

I managed to pull it off, too. Right up until I walked down the hall toward the lecture hall and saw him standing out there. He had on a green striped sweater with a button-up shirt under it. The shirt’s collar, also green, lay neatly on top of the sweater. His jeans looked new. And that belt buckle . . .

It was big. Metal. And I remembered the cold hard chill of it against the bare skin of my stomach.

Leaning one shoulder against the wall, he was watching kids come around the corner. Like he was waiting for someone.

If I’d known a way to back up and unshow my face from around that corner, I’d have done so. My heart was beating so fast it was interrupting my breathing. My stomach was churning.

He looked right at me. And pushed away from the wall. He smiled. Walked closer.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

He reached his hand out toward me, looking me in the eye. My hand moved, before I could form a single thought. And with our fingers entwined we walked into class.

He had been waiting for someone.

Me.

The following Thursday, Tim sat with Tara in class, playing with the palm of her hand. Her left hand. She was taking notes with her right hand.

“Think about what we’re going to be doing this afternoon,” he leaned over to whisper. He couldn’t think of anything else.

Him and Tara. Downstairs on that couch.

Every time he looked at the tightly ribbed blue-striped sweater she had on with her jeans, he thought about the soft skin and breasts that he knew were underneath it. Kept thinking about touching them.

“My lips on your lips.” He leaned over again.

“Sssshh.”

Not quite the response he’d been looking for.

And neither was the welcome they received that afternoon when they finally got to Drywood Place. Tara had asked him if he wanted to drive this time, and he pulled into the driveway next to a shiny new blue Cadillac.

“My dad’s home.”

There was reservation in her voice, which transferred to him, doubling in intensity on the way from the passenger seat.

The front door opened as they approached and a man who was more his mother’s age than Tara’s mother’s age stood there in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. His shoes were the kind you saw in fine stores with high-dollar price tags.

His hair was almost as long as Tim’s. And his glasses were tinted.

“Dad, this is Tim.”

They weren’t even in the house yet. Tim stuck out his hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Gumser,” he said.