Thursday: May 22nd |1947|
Lucy Green's thirteenth birthday is this weekend, and she's having a great big slumber-party tomorrow night. Every girl from the entire seventh grade was invited. Lucy handed out invitations before class this morning; they had pretty pink floral print, and fancy gold lettering. Her father had them custom made. According to Lucy, her father can have just about anything custom made. I'm pretty sure he owns one of those ultra crummy but ultra popular frozen food companies—they're rich in slimy spinach and rock-hard casseroles. Yuck.

When I say rich, I mean rich-rich. The Greens have just about the nicest house in Ramsdale. I haven't gone out of my way to measure it or anything, but I think the place might even be bigger than the mall. On top of that, Mr. and Mrs. Green spend cash like there's no tomorrow: they have an indoor pool, outdoor pool, jacuzzi, fancy-shmancy tennis court, private golf course, and just about every other rich person thing you could possibly think of.

Now, there's just one problem: Mother. She's the worst when it comes to stuff like that. She'll go completely berserk if you ask the wrong question at the wrong time—aka, when she hasn't had a cigarette in the past ten minutes. So, when she came in from the garden with a harsh, ashy scent lingering nearby, I ran right up to her, nearly slipping on the recently waxed floors.

"Can I please, please, please go to Lucy Green's slumber party this weekend!?" I wondered, peering up at her with a nervous sort of excitement.

"It depends..." she began, her eyes began darting all around the room. Not once stopping to land on me. "Will there be any boys there, hmm?" as she spoke, her purposely pointed fingernails began tactically tap-tap-tapping against the tiled counter. The way she emphasized the word "boys" was just plain confusing. Almost as if they were something too dirty to even be talked about.

I began to stare off at the napco cookie jar that sat on the edge of the counter, wishing it would tip over and break into a million pieces if it meant stalling this conversation for just five seconds. But it never did. So...hesitantly, I replied, "Only Lucy's older brother. Her father will be there, too—oh, but he doesn't really count as a boy, does he?"

Suddenly, Mother's face went dead serious. She pulled a cigarette from her pocketbook without a single word, holding it between her painted lips as she slowly began to light the awful smelling little stick. After just a couple seconds, her expression had softened—to the point where she looked a little sad. Miserable, even. Soon she glanced up, and once again her expression was stone cold.

After seconds, maybe even minutes of deafening silence, she matter-of-factly stated: "Well then, you simply will not be attending. Do I make myself clear?"

"But Mother—"

"I don't want to hear it, Dolores. Now, get upstairs and wash off that lipstick. I've told you a million times not to....."

She kept on talking, but by then I'd completely tuned out that awful old squawk of a voice. To escape the lecture, I pressed my hands over my ears, and dashed right upstairs—but I didn't take off my lipstick. Instead, I stole a swipe (or two) of Mother's ultra-expensive mascara, before shutting myself away in my room to listen to the Peggy Lee vinyl MaryRose had lent to me earlier in the afternoon.

At first, I was surprised. None of the songs were jazzy—something I'd grown used to while listening to Peggy. The melodies were light, and airy. Satin and roses, strawberries and champagne: the kind of music that makes you feel like you're in a rose dusted dream. Listening to it transports you right in the middle an endless meadow bathed in sunlight and surrounded by thousands of candy colored tulips.

But there was one that was completely different from all the others: while the faint, angelic melody was still smoothly flowing in the background, the words didn't quite form a song. Instead, it was something like a poem.

I've always heard adults blab on about how terrific poetry is, but I had no idea it was anything like this. I had no idea something so simple could make you feel emotions you never even knew you had; that it lets you melt away into an entirely different world. Even now, that otherworldly harp melody and honeyed words echo throughout my mind.

"Like the moon in the blue heavens, I am alone in my room.
I have put out the light, and I am weeping.
I weep because you are so far away.
And because you will never know how much I love you."

There was more to it. Lots more. I just can't remember. At least, not now...

Before I had a chance to even listen to one more song, there was a knock at the door: three quiet taps, and two loud ones. By that alone, I knew it wasn't Mother standing on the other side. When she knocks, it sounds like the whole door's gonna bust down any second. Meanwhile, this knocking was light, feathery, and had a distinct little ring to it. Instantly, I recognized the soft tune.

"Come in," I remarked in a soft whisper, wiping away the last tears of my pity-party.

Before long the door swung open, and standing in the doorway was exactly who I'd been hoping for: Louise. She was holding a glass of milk in one hand, and a porcelain plate stacked high with strawberry butterscotch cookies in the other. She smiled at me the very second the door swung open, before walking over to the bed, where I was still sitting. All the while, Peggy Lee sang softly from over the record player—about the autumn evening, and little old cars, and sycamore trees, and the steps of an old castle courtyard at night.

"You look pretty..." I said with a stifled sniffle, just as Louise took a seat next to me on the bed.

It was true—she really did. I've always thought Louise was pretty, but now she looked especially nice. It was one of those rare times that she'd let her hair down, and she was wearing a newly ironed dress. It was soft, and green, and I had never laid eyes on it up until that very moment. 

Louise only smiled in response, placing the ice cold glass of milk in my balmy hands as she set the plate of cookies down on the little white nightstand beside my bed.

"Feeling better?" she wondered, tenderly brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear.

I slowly shook my head just a little bit, taking a quick nibble of the still-melty cookie as I replied: "No, I'm very much not feeling better! Because of that mean old witch, I'm gonna be the only girl in all of seventh grade who doesn't show up to Lucy Greenwood's slumber party—do you have any idea what that means??"

"I'm sure you aren't the only one. Why don't you try and find out who else won't be going, and you all can do something together. Maybe roller skating, or bowling—"

"You mean like some sort of losers party? Jeez, no thanks..."

"Oh, cheer up. After all, your mother is only trying to protect you."

"Protect me from what? Y'know, she wouldn't even let me go to Connie Williams' debutante party last month! She said I'd probably just kiss all the boys around—I've never even gotten to hold hands with one 'cause of her!"

"Well, maybe she's just..."

"Why do you even bother defending her? She isn't nice. Not to you. Not to me. Not to anyone at all. Well...except maybe cute guys."

Admittedly, Louise began to nod.

The room was completely silent, until I wondered from completely out of the blue: "Louise...have you ever been kissed?"

The second those words tumbled from my lips, I couldn't help but feel just a little dumb...after all, Louise is a real adult—of course she's been kissed.

But she didn't seem to think it was so dumb. In fact, she'd even begun to smile. It was a great big beaming smile; the kind that told me everything I needed to know.

She cleared her throat after a minute or two, leaning closer as she lowly spoke. "Oh, alright...well, you know Leslie Tomson, don't you?"

"You mean, the garbage man?"

"He's a sanitation engineer, thank you very much!"

"Well, was he any good at kissing?"

"Good? God, no. He was amazing..."

I couldn't help but let out a little burst of laughter, which quickly relapsed into a stiff silence that I had no choice but to break.

"Louise...can I ask you something else?"

"Sure, I don't see why not."

"What was it like?"

"What was what like?"

"Oh, you know...I mean, what was it like when Leslie kissed you? Did you melt into a puddle right then and there—like the witch from The Wizard Of Oz??"

"Before I say another word, you'd better promise me you won't go telling your mother any of this."

"Of course I won't tell her! Jeez, Louise, what do you take me for—some sorta dumb little tattletale?"

"Oh, alright...I suppose I can let you in on a secret or two." she paused, all the while glancing up at the ceiling. "Well, you were half right about the melting, but it's not at all like the witch on the Wizard of Oz. If it was, I don't think anyone would ever kiss again!"

"So, then...it's nice?"

"Of course it is! Just think about how they do it in the movies—imagine you're Scarlett, and he's Rhett. Then you won't be so nervous."

"But Louise, that's just the problem!"

"What is?"

"There is no he. I mean, all the boys in this stinkhole of a town are just plain awful—I'd never wanna kiss any of them! Not in a millions years."

"Well, I'd tell you to wait a few years, but that's just the sort of thing your mother would say, isn't it?"

She was right. "Wait a few years" really is the type of thing Mother would say. In fact, she has. Plenty of times.

The more we talk, the more I'm starting to realize Louise is one of the nicest adults I've ever met. That's probably because she doesn't act like any other I know. At this point, she'll never just be some lady my batty old mother pays a quarter an hour to do chores and bake the best apple pies around, but rather a friend. My friend.

As happy as I am for Louise and her garbage man romance (not to mention Mary-Rose and her ongoing fry cook fling) I can't help but feel a little left out...after all, I'm just about the only girl in this whole entire stinking world who doesn't have some sort of romance going on. The only guys I ever seem to fall for are the ones immortalized way up on the big screen, or in the pages of Movie Love and ScreenLand. I mean, come on—how am I ever supposed to become the next Lauren Bacall if I can't find my Bogie?