Being 13, Part II

The walk to school each morning began with a stop at the corner to greet my newer friend whose father was a professor at the college. She and her dad lived around the corner and her mother, who was from England, lived a neighborhood away, but close enough for walking, about a mile. Kathy and I would sometimes stay the night with her mom, drinking cranberry juice and ginger ale, while listening to  our Beatles records.

During the week, though, Kathy and I were walking pals. Kathy was adept at making new friends, and older friends. So often we left early to stop by the home of her 9th grade friend, Christine, who was dating an even older boy in the 10th grade, at Centennial. The art of becoming a teenager is largely observant. By understanding how one does one's  hair, applies makeup, puts together an outfit, one assimilates into the culture.  So we both sat on either side of her in reverence as she coated her lashes with several layers of mascara (to which neither of us had regular access at home) and ratted her hair into what became a perfectly shaped football accented by completely straight bangs cut just above her penciled eyebrows.

Christine's toilette was fascinating, but not inspiring. Neither of us wanted to have hair that looked like a football once  lacquered with hairspray. But her teen angst was worthy of note, and when she met us at the door, eyes swollen with tears to tell us of her breakup with the boyfriend it was clear that the songs about losing the one you love were all true. How perilous love must be, we thought. Unfortunately Christine felt a little older after the breakup and didn't see much of us since she needed to confide in others more experienced in such matters.

Different routes would mean different company as we walked. Sometimes we didn't join company but just observed from a distance.  One popular redhead could be observed with her circular skirt swinging from side to side, her sweater draped over her shoulders with the arms tied around the Peter-Pan collar of her blouse.I had been too puzzled by how she happened to attain that sense of motion to think why she would want to until my  friend cracked, "I wish I had a swing like that in my back yard!"

Some mornings Kathy had to be earlier or later than me and I walked alone. I preferred Elizabeth Street for the beautiful yards and homes along the walk. I had grown out of an old set of clothes between spring and fall, and my mother had rewarded me with the very latest in Mod fashion. It was nice to look so well dressed without having to worry someone else was going to walk in wearing an identical outfit.

My hair always bleached blonder in the summer sun, which seemed to draw the attention of both friend and foe.  And on  one particular day, a convertible Mustang belonging to my neighbor pulled up full of Red and white letter-jacketed boys.  "Hi, Sherry!" one of them shouted.

I glanced nervously around the street. There were no other people walking within 2 blocks on Elizabeth Street that day.I pulled my hair down over one eye and ducked my head. Surely my neighbor, Sam Ratcliff, knew who I was. He had to see me nearly every day. Sometimes he came over with his friend on a Vespa to play basketball in our front yard. I would climb up in the tree from which the net hung to visit with them as they played. That is how I got asked to Prom in the 8th grade when one of his cute friends was taken with me. (My sister was not amused, my mother was adamant that I was entirely too young, and I was disappointed because the asker was pretty cute. My father promptly took down the basketball net and remarked that the boys were killing the grass.)

If Sam knew who I was he was playing along with his buddies that day, and the teasing went on for nearly a block. Still calling me Sherry the boys asked whether I thought someone named Robbie was home. I was mortified. They thought I was walking by some boy's house. Obviously one of those houses was some boy named Robbie's house and they thought I was Sherry-who-liked-Robbie!

Still no one on the street. Two blocks up to the turn where they had to go one way and me the other. I walked faster, not responding, both flattered to think I looked old enough to be one of their class mates and embarrassed because I didn't know how to gracefully get out of their line of attention.  

Then to make matters worse, they started singing "442 Glenwood Avenue" a song about a party at that address. Rats. All this great attention, no girlfriends to share the glory with, and no possibility of it becoming an episode on Father Knows Best or Donna Reed.

Finally I reached the turnoff.  What a crummy situation, I thought as I  pivoted on one heal and headed up to Freed Jr. High. I hoped when I got to High School someday that High School Boys still wanted to take  me to the Prom and had something to say to me when I knew who they were and could have an intelligent conversation with them.  Their mouths fell open as they realized the case of mistaken identify.  I snickered to myself.

Not a story I could share, I had learned. It was becoming clear that being liked by boys made one a target of hatred by girls less able to easily develop friendships with them.The girls in your own crowd could and would share the names of their secret crushes. They always had a first and last name, like Rusty Samford, or Jimmy Bascom. If the crush was shared your, it could net a letter jacket for a few weeks with the understanding it had to be returned for certain occasions. But only the High School kids had cars to take you to the Tastee Freeze or the roller rink, and precious few of them were allowed to drive on weekends.

Besides, our parents were never going to let us date before we turned 16.  So we all had a lot of time to observe, practice, and dream about being date-able girls. On Saturday mornings we cleaned and did our chores fervently so we would be done in time to watch American Bandstand.There we were schooled in the current dance favorites: The Hand Jive, The Twist, The Stroll. Overnight stays were for sharing records and looking through Beatle cards, and dream about Prom.

My tall, chestnut-haired sister with the perfect dimple and the demeanor of a gracious Princess was going to the Prom with the best looking older boy at church. He was really nice, from a really nice family. He went to a different high school so it made for great gossip for my sister and her friends.  Mother was making her  a tailored Prom dress that could have come from the pages of Seventeen Magazine. Mary  was beautiful as always, but more so.

How could I compete with that? I thought. It would be a few more years before I could go to Prom, I supposed. It was hard being just 13.