Rubyfruit Jungle (9 page)

“What?” we both asked.

“I can hear them in their bedroom doing it.” Carolyn’s eyes shone with this juicy information.

“You ever done it, Carolyn?” I asked, truly curious.

“No, I’m not going to bed with anyone until I’m married.”

“Oh, shit.” Connie spit out her vodka on the sand. “You can’t be that square.”

Carolyn was both hurt and intrigued. She hadn’t had sexual encouragement before. “Well, I’ve fooled around but it’s a sin to go all the way before you’re married.”

“Yes, and I’m a rat’s ass,” Connie offered.

“Carolyn, you’re being a little Victorian. I mean, it doesn’t have to be this big deal, you know.”

She looked at me after that little rap and fired, “Well, have either of you done it?”

Connie and I looked at each other, took a deep breath, then hesitated. Connie began, “There comes a time in the intercourse of human events when, yes, dear Carolyn, I have done it.” She finished her sentence with a grand hand flourish, clutching the dwindling vodka bottle.

“Connie, no,” Carolyn breathed, scandalized and delighted.

“Connie, yes,” Connie chimed.

“Just the facts, Ma’am,” I said, pulling a Jack Webb.

“This you’ll never believe. Sam Breem, are you quite geared for that one? Sam Breem. Oh and was he ever a winner, let me tell you. We drove around half the friggin’ night, trying to find a motel where you could fuck and not be married. And me with my diaphragm I’ve never used and had to go to three doctors to get because I’m sixteen years old. Super cool, gang, just super cool. So we get in there, this sharp motel room with coral walls. That’s enough to ruin your night right there. So we get in there and Sam tries to be suave about the whole thing. He pours me a drink and we chat a bit. Chat. I was a nervous wreck, you know, first fuck and all that jazz, and he wants to chat … and cross his legs like the Hathaway ad in
Esquire
magazine. So we finish the drink, rum and coke, ugh, and he decides it’s time to kiss me. So we kiss and after a half hour of dry humping and rolling all over the bed he tries to take my clothes off. Listen honeys, never let them try to take your clothes off because they’ll pop your buttons, jam your zippers, and make you look as though you’ve just come from a
rummage sale. After that wrestling match, we get down to doing it and in the middle of it, Sam the Man remembers to ask if I’m protected. Protected—what does he think I am, a five-and-dime with a built in burglar alarm? So I said
yes
and he continues on about his business. It was okay but I can’t believe they write songs about first times and people kill themselves over it. I mean really.”

Carolyn’s eyes were about to bug out of her head, her mouth was dragging in the sand. “Oh, it’s supposed to be a beautiful experience. It’s supposed to be the most intimate experience a human being can have. You’re supposed to share this glorious moment and be physically united and—”

“Carolyn, shut up,” I said.

Connie took another swig from the bottle. “Drink up sweeties, one last drop for each of you. Besides which it hurt like hell,” she finished.

“That’s funny, it didn’t hurt me at all,” I said. “But I probably busted my cherry on a bicycle seat in second grade or something like that.”

“You too,” Carolyn stammered.

“Carolyn, I’ve been diddling off and on since eighth grade with the same tired piece of cock.”

Connie gave me a shove and we rolled over in the sand laughing like hyenas, and all the while Carolyn is sitting there in saintly shock.

“So glad to find out there’s another honest non-virgin around. The one that cracks me up is Judy Trout. She’s been down with everything but the Titanic and she’s going around doing her white-lace routine. It’s enough to make you vomit.” Connie’s voice betrayed an edge of bitterness. She
hated hypocrisy and Ft. Lauderdale High in 1961 was Hypocrisy U.S.A.

“You mean our Anchor sister, Judy Trout?”

“Carolyn, why don’t you take another drink, maybe it will clear your head. You seem to be in a permanent fog,” I added. “Maybe being chaplain has disconnected your brain.” She seemed hurt by that jab and I got a certain savage pleasure out of it. In fact, I began to get enraged at Carolyn sitting there in her righteousness and with that gorgeous long body.

“We’ve finished the bottle. I don’t suppose anyone else can produce liquor in this desert?” Connie looked mournfully at the bottle.

“There’s enough booze on Jade Beach to float the navy, but we’d have to sneak some off a blissful couple when they aren’t looking.”

“Not worth it, Moll, let’s go back.”

Getting up, Carolyn stumbled. The vodka hit her like a sledgehammer. She draped her arm around my shoulders and giggled that she needed support. She was perfectly blasted, and at that point I wrote off the fact that her hand kept falling against my breast. Besides, I wasn’t stone sober myself.

“Which of us is going to drive?” Connie asked.

“Carolyn loses for sure. I can do it. I’m okay, a little tight, but okay.”

“Good,” Connie sighed, “because I’m going to look out the car window and dream about Paul Newman’s shoulders and eyes. Doesn’t he just get to you? Too bad it wasn’t him instead of Sam Breem.”

I wasn’t about to volunteer any information about who was getting to me. “You have to start somewhere. Anyway, nobody starts at the top, right?” I slid behind the wheel and tried to figure out how her damn car worked. I also tried to blank out Paul Newman, the woman in the black slip, and Carolyn’s hand on my breast.

We started down AIA and Carolyn zonked out in the back seat. “Hope she doesn’t puke,” Connie growled.

“Me too, I hate that worse than anything. Blood’s a lot better than puke.”

At the first traffic light I pulled up next to a ’60 blue Chevy Bel Air that looked familiar. “Hey Connie, that car looks like Mr. Beers’.”

“It is Mr. Beers. Hey look whose right next to him in the seat, and he’s got his arm around her! Mrs. Silver, that’s who.”

“What!” I pulled up for a better look and saw that it was our esteemed principal and our respected dean of women. Before Connie could slouch down in the front seat I honked and waved.

“Bolt, what the fucking hell are you doing? You wanna cause our expulsion?”

“Just wait. You’ll see what I’m doing and thank me for it.”

“You’re drunk, that’s what you are.”

“Not a chance.”

Mr. Beers and Mrs. Silver looked at us with utter, miserable recognition. The light changed, and he floored it.

“What a Monday this is going to be.”

Connie gazed in my direction. “They saw us,
that’s for sure. How are we ever going to face them. You and your big mouth.”

“Use your smarts. It’s not us that has to worry about facing them, it’s them that has to worry about facing us. They’re the married ones surrounded by the patter of little feet, not us. We’re just a couple of high school student leaders out on a drunk.”

She put her hand to her lips and thought it over. “You’re right. Wow. We hit the jackpot. Think we oughta tell Carolyn?”

“God, no, she nearly had a hemorrhage hearing about our adventures. If her prince, Mr. Beers, turns out to be a philandering toad, it will wreck her for sure.”

“Let’s not tell anyone else, either. It will be our little secret,” Connie laughed.

Once at Carolyn’s house we had to sneak her in because her parents were religious and would have shit blue if she’d come in drunk. But we woke up her brat of a sister, Babs. We had to pay the little cherub off to keep her quiet. It was hard to believe they belonged to the same family.

Connie took over the wheel and drove me to the flamingo-pink eyesore next to the railroad tracks. I tiptoed out of the car and whispered goodnight to Connie.

The two of us rendezvoused in the cafeteria before school to make certain our Saturday night experience was confirmed and to reaffirm our vows of secrecy. Right in the middle of homeroom, over the squawk box comes this announcement: “Will Molly Bolt and Connie Pen report to the principal’s office following homeroom.” We
looked at each other with a shiver of apprehension, then pulled ourselves together and went into Main Building, heads high.

I had to go see Mrs. Silver while Connie drew Mr. Beers. Mrs. Silver was maybe forty-five years old and she looked okay except she had a blue rinse on her hair. She greeted me nervously and asked me to sit down.

“Molly, you are one of Ft. Lauderdale High’s most outstanding students. You’ve made straight A’s all the way through and you’ve proven yourself to be a very effective leader. In addition, you’re the best female athlete we have. Next year you can expect many awards and hopefully scholarships as I know your family is financially—well, I know you need those scholarships.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“If you would allow me, I’d be happy to write one of your college recommendations and try to help you get a full tuition scholarship.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Silver. I’d be honored to have you recommend me.”

“Do you know what you want to study?”

“I waver between law or film but the only film schools are in New York and California and that’s a long way off.”

“Well, you think it over and we’ll try to work something out. You ought to think about schools like Vassar and Bryn Mawr; they have geographical quotas. With your all-round record, I’m certain you’ll make the grade provided that your Board Scores are high and I’m sure they will be.”

“I promise to think about it. The Seven Sisters never appealed to me but then I never thought seriously about them.”

There was an awkward pause, while Mrs. Silver pushed her useless ink blotter around on her desk pad. “Molly, have you thought about running for student council president next year?”

“I’ve thought about it, but it looks as though Gary Vogel has it in the bag. Anyway, girls have a hard time getting elected.”

“Yes, girls have a hard time in the world, generally.”

She looked suddenly beaten, old and worn-out. Mrs. Silver, I’m not going to blow the whistle on you. Damn, damn, you look so unhappy. “If I use my imagination maybe I can come up with something that will beat out Gary Vogel, but you know the student council hasn’t set a limit on campaign funds and he’s rich.”

She blinked and a smile crossed her lips. “Either the spending will be limited or you’ll have campaign funds. I promise you that.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Silver; it would equalize things.” Another pause and then out of nowhere I said, “Mrs. Silver, you don’t have to buy me off. I won’t tell anyone about last Saturday night no matter what happens. I’m sorry you’re upset.”

Relief and surprise registered on her face. “Thank you.”

I left her office and waited by the trophy case for Connie to barrel out. She emerged five minutes later with a grin all over her round face. “You are looking at the newspaper editor for 1962,” she beamed.

“And you are looking at the next student council president.”

“Oh wow.” Connie shook her head and continued
in a low voice, “That poor bastard was shaking when I was in his office. How was she?”

“Same way. I told her I’d keep quiet and she shouldn’t worry. Wha’d you tell him?”

“Same thing in a roundabout way. Looks like we have this school sewed up, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sewed up.”

The summer between junior and senior year I worked at the tennis courts. Connie was in Mexico and Carolyn went to Maine to counsel at a multi-denominational Protestant camp. Leroy had passed ninth grade and finally was in tenth. He came down a couple of times on his bike but we didn’t do it. I was pretty much done with him that way, especially after the fight we’d had over the bike. Sometimes I felt sorry for Leroy. He followed the herd, like any dumb beast, vaguely realizing he was unhappy. He was impressed when he found out I’d been elected student council president by a landslide vote. But our conversations ran out of gas more frequently and we’d fall back on bikes, cars, and movies. Once he confessed to me in a pathetic voice, “You know, I can talk to you like any regular person. I can’t talk to other girls. I pick them up, drive to the movies, go out
fucking, and then drive them home. What happens when you get married? I mean, what do people talk about when they’re married?”

“Their kids, I guess.”

“Maybe that’s all they have in common.”

And it became increasingly clear that all Leroy and I had in common was a childhood full of ice cream, raisin boxes, and a mattress full of holes. But then I had never thought I had much in common with anybody. I had no mother, no father, no roots, no biological similarities called sisters and brothers. And for a future I didn’t want a split-level home with a station wagon, pastel refrigerator, and a houseful of blonde children evenly spaced through the years. I didn’t want to walk into the pages of
McCall’s
magazine and become the model housewife. I didn’t even want a husband or any man for that matter. I wanted to go my own way. That’s all I think I ever wanted, to go my own way and maybe find some love here and there. Love, but not the now and forever kind with chains around your vagina and a short circuit in your brain. I’d rather be alone.