7-خواستگار

Suitor

Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” was trilling from the record player, and Carolyn Kiesel was just a few feet away, looking beyond pretty. Perfect.

She’d warmed up to me over the last year. Perhaps she’d even forgotten my Flipnoodle debacle. I’d stopped putting paste in her hair and learned to talk to her like a real person. And she’d responded. She was sweet and generous at an age when nerves and hormones often overruled those qualities. I thought maybe she even liked me. So I’d made a plan.

I fingered the Saint Christopher medal in my pocket. Saint Christopher was the patron saint of travelers and mariners, and many surfers strung the medals around their necks for protection against the rough seas. For us in Southern California, the medal was a symbol of a man and his desires. Back then you gave it to a girl when she agreed to go steady with you, and she wore it as a pendant. Mine was going to Carolyn.

It was a leap. I felt something between us, but what if I was wrong?

My dad was gone. The White Front night shone like a specter behind me. I was quiet and unremarkable and shy. Why would she want me?

I hesitated. I debated. I tried to summon my courage and confidence.

As I hovered over a bowl of chips in agonizing conversation with myself I only semi-understood what was happening as the new kid in school, a skateboard dude with blond wavy hair, ambled up to Carolyn. Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you. Woo woo woo. Suddenly, Skateboard Dude asked Carolyn if she wanted to go steady. She smiled. She said yes. Their faces moved together and they kissed. They . . . kissed. They kissed right before my eyes. Just a few feet from me. Hey hey hey.

They kissed as if I weren’t there.

Hey hey hey.