I could not believe my luck! Just as I was walking from the biology labs here at school, keys in hand for my junker of a car, I was approached by none other than Oliver White, the First-string center for the football team, asking me if I had plans for tonight, “seeing as it's Friday and all,” he’d said with that panty-drenching sideways grin of his.
Of course, I didn’t have any real plans, outside of lying around in my room watching Passion Runway re-runs until Sunday, when I would cram all of my homework into one anxiety-riddled evening. But now I had actual plans for once in my life! I could barely keep my cool when I accepted, giggling behind my hand to control my urge to just throw my arms in the air and scream.
Going out to the Carnival with Oliver White, I just can’t believe my luck! He was a nice guy, with a nice car, and amazing grades. Plus, I think to myself with a smile I know would send my Father into a tantrum, Oliver had the cutest eyes and the most amazing ass I’d seen on a person not in a movie.
Whenever he wore jeans, all the girls at the University felt a little warm under the collar. Even a few of the teachers had been caught giving him the eye.
Not all of them were women either, I giggle almost drunkenly as I drive home, briefly signaling at the stop light just to get old man Higgins, the rusty old truck riding my bumper, angry. This was a routine thing I did, what all the local college kids did, so I just smiled and waved as he cursed at me from his window, watching as he drives past me and into the Spidergrove Woods where he owns and operates the local junkyard.
I turn right, past the local bar right before the woods, heading home with a shudder. I know the woods were only called that because some species of spider was endangered and lived only in those woods, but I can’t stand the idea of the creepy little things. The only animal that scares me worse are roaches.
Ewwww!
Ok, I think to myself, suppressing a shudder, back to my future husband Oliver. Oh! What am I going to wear?
He’d invited me to the Carnival that came to town every year around September, just when the leaves began to fall and the weather began to cool. They’d always be in the same spot, just south of Applewood Hills proper, just across the city limits and to the right by the Lazy John River. People said it was because then they wouldn’t have to pay any local taxes, but everyone knew it was just because our town had a ban against fireworks because of the dry summers, and they could get away with it if they weren’t within the city limits.
The drive home was a reasonably short one, passing by a few larger homes that had once been farms, their land now quartered off from the rest of their properties, the grass tall running wild behind rusted fences. Every summer college boys would come offering their services, and all the girls would get a show as they would slowly but surely beat back the wild grass and weeds dominating some old woman’s fields.
Slowing down just enough for my turn not to be a disaster, I zip into my neighborhood, Lincoln Greene. Oldest neighborhood in the town, the first set of homes to be built in a central area sometime back before World War Two, supposedly due to the rising urbanization sweeping across the nation.
Well that broom missed us on a few strokes, leaving us with jobs that were either local and didn’t pay worth any, or you had to drive to San Marcos to earn your keep. San Marcos was only a half hours drive, but as College town they always had jobs a plenty, whether you’re in construction or teaching, or business or babysitting (my job). Dad worked construction, while Mom is a nurse at the local clinic. They’re great parents, if you don’t count my Dad’s paranoia about me going out with boys (and the government) and my mother’s insistent nagging about Church and religion and God.
How they got together, my tiny little black-haired mouse of a mother with my titanic bulldog of a father, nobody could say. My father’s arms are bigger than my mom is at the waist, and his heavy slung gut probably weighs as much as she does. But every day he leaves at the crack of dawn and comes home at dusk, smelling of tar and sweat, while Mom would already be home making dinner, or reading a book while I make dinner.
Turning onto our street (only seven houses per street) I wave to old Stew in his garage, set-up to watch some football game only he got via his expensive satellite dish. Every night his garage/bar would fill up with his friends, all ready to watch some game or something equally as boring. Stewie’s wife Charlene is a dear, and always lets him stay up as late as the old red-nosed drunk would want, just so long as he got up every morning at six, to go and take on his job of being the local mailman.
How he does it, after every night of essentially binge-drinking, I’ll never know.
My Oldsmobile spits and hisses as I pull into the driveway, the old white pavement oil stained and cracked. I’m the first to get home, thank God, and I hurry into the house with book bag in tow.
I kick open the door, taking only a second to lock it behind me (as Dad always seems to think I don’t!) before running upstairs hugging my bag to my chest. My room is the room on the left, with my parents’ bedroom at the end of the hall and my bathroom just across from my room. Once I turned sixteen and began doing my own shopping online (with babysitter money on a rechargeable card!) Dad swore he’d never entre my bathroom again after he walked into my very intimate intimates hanging from the shower rod. He and mom had fought over allowing me to keep them, when I pointed out I had them because they made me feel good, not because I was showing off for some nonexistent boyfriend. That had calmed him down, a little.
Mom had just tortured me with “The Talk” after that, telling me that “God wanted me to save myself for marriage.”
Hard thing to sell to an Atheist, but then again, she doesn’t know I’m one.
Yet.
I sometimes think coming out of the closet as a lesbian would be easier for my mother than me coming out a freethinker. Thus why I’m waiting for my sophomore year of college to tell her, give her something to blame other than herself. “Those damn liberal colleges,” I always hear her say, “Corrupting the minds of our young’uns, making them all Atheists and Communists!”
I drop my book bag to the floor and close the blinds as I begin stripping out of my school clothes, a pair of jeans and a sleeveless top (a jacket in my bag for those freezing classes in the History building), leaving me in my school underwear: a strapless bra and *gasp* a thong! Another little change in wardrobe Daddy didn’t like thinking about on his little girl, but panties were for those horrible few days a month when men’s opinions don’t matter and for Church (i.e. Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday).
Walking over to my closet, a sheer piece of vanity I’d all but demanded for my fourteenth birthday that my Father had just rolled his eyes over, my sliding door to my closet is a full length mirror when closed. I stand there, striking a few poses as I look myself over. Other than a few pounds here and there (namely my thighs and my arms) I think I look good. I know whenever I wear my swimsuit (one-piece and red) I always seem to get the attention of all the boys around.
My freshman year was the year I finally grew into myself, losing the last of my baby fat and going up three cup sizes to my all but daring C-cup status I now proudly bear. My father’s sides of the family, all of the women were built like him, only in a more… feminine way. I thanked the God I didn’t believe in that I never had to suffer like my Aunts did over their DD-cup breasts and their back pain that went along with them. While Jennifer says boys like ‘em bigger, I just think boys like them in general.
Jennifer is my best friend in the whole world, and normally the girl telling me how her dates always go. I couldn’t see her outside of school for another two weeks because her mother had found out about her giving Billy Ray a blowjob at school, courtesy of a very embarrassed Mr. Shoemaker, the Dean of Medicine.
I thought it was only natural, seeing as they’d been seeing each other for like three months and were still declaring their undying love for each other. For college, anything that lasts beyond a semester practically means marriage in the eyes of the socialites.
Like Jennifer and I.
I tug at my hair, still loving the short page-boy cut I went with earlier this week. My brown hair is sleek and shiny (and very easy to manage) thanks to the products I’d gotten, splurging on myself with the last of my savings. Dad noticed after two days that I’d had it cut, so it must look good!
I pull out a half dozen outfits, throwing them about my room as I look for the perfect one to wow Oliver tonight, doing my best to keep my girlish squeals of delight to a minimum, all the while coming up with reasons that I should be allowed to go out with him (“My grades are good, I’m caught up on my required reading, AND Dad knows his Dad!”)
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