Clouds In My Coffee (6 page)

Later, back home in my room, hanging up the stack of new fall clothing I’ve purchased, I call Marshall. He seems surprised to hear from me, but genuinely pleased.

We make a date for the following evening. He wants to take me out in his brand new, cherry red Camaro Z28. He traded in his ‘72 GTO, a present from his sixteenth birthday, for the Z28. His father made up the difference for the new sports car as an eighteenth birthday present. It turns out that Marshall and Erik share the exact same birthday.

As luck would have it, or not, both Angie and Erik are outside the following evening, sitting together at the picnic table, when Marshall roars up in his new toy. I’ve been waiting for him just inside the door. Mom is at work and I prefer him not having to come to the door.

“Hey baby,” he calls out, seeing me step out onto the porch. He is wearing dark shades and music is blaring from the car’s top-of-the-line stereo system. “Ready to boogie?”

I smile and wave, feeling invigorated that I’ve taken this step to rejoin the social population. I glance over across the road and wave to Erik and Angie who are giving us their full attention.

Erik simply nods in my direction, but Angie turns her back to us as if she’s unaffected.

Don’t think so.

I climb into his car, grateful for choosing culottes instead of a plain short skirt. I’d be giving everyone a show climbing in and out of his low vehicle.

“Lookin’ good,” he says, leaning over to plant a kiss on my lips, which I know is for Erik’s benefit. “Let’s book.”

And he peels back out, leaving some of the black rubber from his new sport wheels on the pavement. I watch as his eyes glance up in the rearview mirror, followed by a smirk.

“Freaks,” he says. “Both of them nothing but freaks.”

“Who cares,” I reply, wanting so much to mean it.

September 18, 1973

Dear Diary,

Today is my 17th birthday! Mom surprised me first thing this morning by making me look outside. I have my own car! It’s not new, but I love it. It’s a ‘63 VW bug convertible. It’s yellow. Marshall saw it when he picked me up for school. He’s gonna teach me how to drive a stick-shift! He bought me an 8-track tape player for it. He’s gonna put it in for me after school. I’m super happy!

And I am.

Things are getting better every day. I love going to the football games where my boyfriend is the star on the team. I love cheerleading and the after-game parties I’m now included in. Marshall walks me to classes and I feel proud that I have such a popular boyfriend.

That night as I’m outside, fastening the snaps of the convertible top into place on my bug, I’m startled when I hear a voice behind me.

“Happy Birthday, Cece.” It’s Erik.

I turn to face him and a million emotions come over me, ranging from surprise, to anger, to regret.

“Thanks,” I reply.

He hands me something in a bag from “Music City,” the main music store in our small community. “I...uh, I bought this before you and I...split,” he says. “No reason you shouldn’t have it. I mean, I couldn’t very well return it after I wrote on the outside of it like that.”

I open the bag, pulling out Carly Simon’s ‘No Secrets’ 8-track tape. I slide it out of the sleeve and see where Erik has written, “Happy 17th Birthday, Love, Erik.”

“Thanks,” I say, puzzled, “But, how’d you know I’d have an 8-track player for this?”

I watch as he shuffles a bit. “I...uh, I had one of those in lay-away for you. I returned it.”

He turns to walk away. I can’t let him go yet.

“Erik?” I call out. He stops and turns around.

I’m in his arms in seconds. “Thank you,” I murmur. “I know you really don’t like her music and all...”

I pull away, embarrassed for leaping into his arms like that, uninvited.

“Ah, it’s not that. I just liked giving you shit about it. You drove me nuts always playing that 45 over and over again. I could hear it clear across the road from your room.”

“You’re So Vain?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.” He smirks then. “Kinda fits your
new
boyfriend though, doesn’t it?”

“Or maybe your
new
girlfriend?” I shoot back.

His face darkens, but he doesn’t reply immediately. He just studies me and I’m intrigued, as always, with his serious brooding demeanor. “Let’s not do this, Cece.”

“Do what?”

“This. Pick at one another. Try to one-up each other. It is what it is.”

I sigh and nod my head. “I’m sorry.”

“Later,” he says and walks quietly back to his house; and away from me and the unspoken words that linger between us.

October 21, 1973 (Sunday)

Dear Diary,

It was Homecoming Weekend and not what I expected at all! The game on Friday was great, we won, and the cheerleaders each got to ride around the football field in a Dune Buggy with a driver and that was really cool. The dance last night was a whole different scene and a bad one.

Marshall and I have been seeing each other a lot since I last wrote to you. I thought maybe we were getting close. He has been so attentive to me. We’re together almost every day.

We make out and I’ve let him feel me up under my clothes, but I won’t let him up my skirt and I know he’s getting impatient. I actually thought maybe we’d go all the way this weekend, but not after I saw how he acted at the dance!

He picked me up, bought me a beautiful corsage and took me to dinner at Valentino’s. We had a great time at the dance, but towards the end, he went outside and smoked up with some of the other football players and then drank some straight whiskey. After that, he got kinda mean with me. I didn’t want him driving because he was totally wrecked, but he did anyway.

The whole way back to my house, he kept trying to put his hand up my dress. I kept slapping it away and telling him to mellow out. He just got pissier. He told me to put out or get out. I told him to fuck off.

When we got to my house, he jerked me out of his car, telling me I was nothing but a dick tease and then pushed me to the ground when I told him to stick it up his ass. I still have marks on my arm left by his fingers because he squeezed so hard!

To make matters worse, Erik must have seen what happened because the next thing I know, he was there pushing Marshall up against his car, threatening to fuck him up good.

Marshall puked and then told me we were done and drove off. Erik asked me if I was okay. I said I was and he left. Just like that. Like he was the one that deserved to be pissed off.

I close my diary and safely zip it up in Pierre. I don’t want Mom to ever see this stuff.

I pull up the sleeves on my sweatshirt and check the bruising on my upper arms from Marshall. Kim’s called three times and, each time, I’ve asked Mom to tell her I’m still sleeping. Mom’s starting to get curious.

Just then there’s a tap on my bedroom door. “Cece? Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Mom comes in with a worried look creasing her forehead. “Honey,” she says, “far be it from me to pry into your personal business, but I can tell something’s wrong. Would you like to talk about it?”

She sits down on my bed next to me, wrapping her arm around me. “Did you and Marshall have a fight?”

“Sort of,” I reply. There’s no way she’s getting the details.

“Well, that’s normal for couples, especially teenagers. There’s all those hormones and stuff. It’s not easy. I can still remember how up and down life was back then for me.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Now please, don’t take this the wrong way, okay?”

I nod. What’s she going to say, as if I can’t guess?

“Do you think maybe you should go on the pill?”

I knew it.

“No,” I say quickly, turning red.

“Now, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s better safe than sorry, right? Marshall’s a good guy, but he’s a year older than you, Honey. I’m sure that it’s…well
crossed
his mind.”

I’m sure it has.

“I don’t think I’m going to be seeing Marshall anymore.”

“Why? Is he pressuring you?”

“Yeah, and I’m not ready for that yet.”

I think she’ll be relieved in hearing this, I mean wouldn’t most mothers breathe a sigh of relief in knowing that their daughter does not want to become sexually active at seventeen?

Not my mom apparently.

“Well, I’m certainly not trying to take sides on this, but you do realize that it’s a
normal
thing for boys to want to be sexual before girls do. I mean, I’m sure Marshall won’t have
any
problem in finding a girl that is...willing…”

“To put out?” I finish for her.

“If you want to be crude about it, well then, yes.”

I shake my head. And it pisses her off, but not as much as what I’m about to say to her does.

“Are you my mother—or my pimp?”

I don’t have time to flinch before the back of her hand makes hard contact with the right side of my face. The sound of the slap resounds against the four walls of my room.

“Don’t you be a smart aleck with me, Missy,” she warns, getting up from the bed. “You’ll watch your mouth or be picking up your teeth.”

She leaves me rubbing my face, and as I stand up and look into the mirror above my dresser, I see that she’s left a perfect outline of the back of her hand.

This is a first. My mother doesn’t slap as a rule. She yells, she grounds me or she gives me more chores to do as punishment. I realize how disrespectful I was and know that part of it was a reaction to what went down last night.

But she doesn’t know that part because I chose not to tell her. I can’t blame her for reacting the way she did when all she was doing was trying to parent responsibly.

Everyone
is
having sex these days. Kim and Keith, Erik and Angie; at least two of the senior girls, that I know of, have had abortions, so yes, it’s the reality. I’m just not sure I want sex with Marshall. His behavior last night is unacceptable.

I finally do the only thing that appeals to me. I shower, brush my teeth, get into my nightgown and crawl under my covers.

I pull Pierre from the bookshelf that’s part of my headboard, cuddling him in my arms as I fall asleep.

I totally ignore Marshall the following Monday. Kim tells me all about her after-Homecoming sexcapades with Keith, and she’s trying to get the scoop on what we did.

I tell her that Marshall and I are finished, and that I’m not up to answering a million questions about it.

Period.

She flits off, copping an attitude because I won’t furnish details but I don’t care. I’m ashamed that I was so taken by his popularity and status that I refused to listen to the little voice in my head that tried to warn me I was totally out of his league.

When I get home from school, Mom has left a note for me on the counter.

Looks like someone wants another chance, Cece. You know that old saying, ‘To err is human; to forgive, divine.’

There is a vase with a dozen red roses and a card attached with my name scribbled on the front. I open it.

Sorry we got carried away the other night. Let’s not argue. I care too much about you. I’ll call you later. - Marshall

Yeah. I don’t
think
so.

And what the hell is Mom thinking?

But she doesn’t know the extent of Marshall’s ugliness from the other night because I haven’t shared it with her. And then I wonder if it would make any difference if I had.

I lift the heavy vase and take it outside, opening the lid of our aluminum trash can, and letting the vase slip from my hand; it hits the bottom with a loud bang.

I hear someone laugh from across the street.

I turn quickly to see Erik outside, sitting on the picnic table watching me, a look of amusement crossing his handsome face. “So you’re not falling for rich boy’s apology, huh? I’m actually glad to see you haven’t totally lost your mind.”

“Unlike you?” I reply.

He gives me a slight frown, launches himself up off the table and swaggers over to my yard. “Seriously, Cece, I hope you’re finished with that asshole.”

“Why do you care all of a sudden?”

“Hey, I never stopped caring. You were the one that split, remember?”