In hindsight, I had it made as a teenager. I think I knew it at the time, too, actually. I was a popular kid, captain of the swim team, and at 6'2", I cut an imposing figure that caught the eye of just about every girl in school (and some of the guys). I had a girlfriend at the time, a sexy little cheerleader named Amy who fawned over me and wanted nothing more in life than to marry me and bear my children. My parents were well off, and I wanted for almost nothing.
Almost nothing.
The truth is, there was something I wanted desperately—some
one
I wanted desperately—and I had convinced myself that she was out of my reach.
Her name was Leah Pricewater, and to me, she was the most beautiful girl at Chapel High School. She had deep, bright hazel eyes that took in everything around her and a pale complexion dotted with freckles that she wore without reservation. She had long, flowing dark hair that draped over her generous, generous breasts. In fact, her whole body was generous. Everyone called her fat—among other things. I guess she was. I only ever saw beauty, and it never crossed my mind that the two concepts should be mutually exclusive. Curves, curves everywhere—rounded chest to lightly cinched waist to rounded tummy to flared, voluminous hips. She tried to minimize her body with dark, unobtrusive clothing, but I couldn't help but notice her wherever she went. For one thing, she was quite tall; she stood head and shoulders above most of the girls in our class. I imagined that if I held her, her head would tuck right under my chin.
For another thing, as much as she tried to minimize her body, Leah never tried to minimize her personality. She was a dangerous combination of extremely well-read, extremely well-informed, and extremely opinionated. She readily spoke up in classes when no one else would, and she handily shut down the more sophomoric members of our class with her quick wit. I guess that's another reason that people received Leah less than warmly in high school: she didn't go with the flow. She had her own mind, and she followed her intuition. She was going places in life, I could tell, and I admired the hell out of her.
So why did I never make a move? Simple. I'm a fucking coward. As beautiful as I found her, inside and out, I knew the rest of the school didn't see her that way. I could only imagine what my friends would say if they found out I was interested in the Pricewater Piglet (one of the least creative but still cruelest names bestowed upon her by members of our class). It was easier to date Amy, let her give herself to me repeatedly while I pretended that she was less angular and more well-spoken. Shallow? Yes. Deceptive? Probably. I was a stupid kid, and I didn't see another option. At least until senior year, the year we turned eighteen. I got mind-bendingly close to having Leah in those last few months of school, and I still managed to fuck it up.
The problem was that I had no arts credits. I had put off taking any music or art classes, preferring, again, to go with the flow and pretend that those things were lame. I made fun of the band, theater, and orchestra kids with my swimming buddies, all the while being jealous of the former's artistic talent. It's not an exaggeration to say that I was a real weasel in high school.
Anyway, in the last semester of my high school career, I found myself lacking any of the arts credits that were necessary for my graduation. With an already-full schedule, I was starting to panic when my guidance counselor offered me a lifeline: participate in the spring musical and gain enough arts credits to graduate. I could do anything—paint scenery, sing in the chorus, assist the house manager. As long as I participated, I would get the credits. I figured I'd go to the director and be assigned a nice, menial job that I could do in my spare time.
I was wrong.
I knocked on the door of the director's office after swim practice later that week, my hair still damp.
"Come in!" ordered a voice from the other side. I walked in, shutting the door behind me.
"Mr. Breck? I'm Charlie Ford. I'm—"
"Ah, yes! Ah, yes!" interrupted the director, a man in his mid-forties who was wearing a pinstripe suit and polka dot tie, each an eye-popping shade of blue. "The young man joining our production in his most desperate hour! Welcome, welcome!"
I'll say this for the guy: he was certainly dramatic.
"Uh, yeah," I replied. "I was thinking I could—"
"Can you sing?" he interrupted again.
"I—what?"
"Can. You. Sing?" He was looking at me with an owlish smile on his face, as though expecting me to burst into song on the spot. Was he always like this?
"I—I don't know," I said honestly. "I've never really tried. I was hoping I could just—sir?" He had turned away from me and was rifling through a filing cabinet under his desk. I was beginning to seriously regret this decision. Finally, he turned back to me, sheet music in hand.
"Do you know this song?" he asked. I looked down at the papers in his hand. It was music to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I looked at him like he was crazy.
"I mean, yeah, of course I know that song, but I was really hoping to—sir?" He had pushed past me and was sitting down at a piano in the corner of the room.
"I play, you sing," he said. "You sing with as much feeling as you can!"
I looked around myself quickly. I wasn't likely to run into anyone I knew in this dingy little office at the back of the auditorium, but I still didn't relish the thought of singing in front of this stranger. Too late. He had already started playing. "What the hell?" I mumbled to myself, and with one last glance at the door, I threw myself into my Uncle Stu's favorite song to sing when he's drunk.
Two minutes later it was over, and Mr. Breck was wringing my hand and thanking me for auditioning.
"We've had so few of the boys audition for the show, so few!" I grimaced. Was this over yet? "You have a marvelous voice, and you'll make a wonderful Captain von Trapp! Here! Here!" He shoved a binder into my hands. Looking down, I saw that it was the script and music to
The Sound of Music
, a show I had actually heard of though never seen. I knew enough, however, to know that the captain was a major role. This was too much for me. I needed to back out. I was about to raise an objection when there was a knock on the door.
"Ah!" said Mr. Breck. "And here's your leading lady now!" He opened the door, and I froze. There she stood, Leah Pricewater, a binder identical to mine pressed against her soft, full breasts.
"Mr. Breck?" she asked tentatively. "We're ready to start rehearsal whenever you are. Hi, Charlie." She gave me a small smile. I waved but said nothing. Was this seriously happening?
"Excellent! Excellent!" trilled Mr. Breck. "I have good news. I have found you your captain!" He motioned to me as though he were presenting the grand prize at a raffle.
"Oh!" said Leah, clearly surprised. "Charlie, I didn't know you were interested in theater at all." She looked at me expectantly, and I, jerk that I am, still said nothing. She was wearing a turtleneck and cigarette pants, both of which hugged her curves enticingly, and all my energy was focused on keeping my gaze north of her neck.
The next few hours were kind of a blur. Mr. Breck ushered us out of his office and onto the stage, where he introduced me to the rest of the cast. I was surprised by how well I was received—I had made fun of a lot of these people behind their backs. But whether they didn't know it or didn't care, they accepted me into the fold as one of their own without question. I suppose it helped that the cast was mostly girls, and I caught more than a few giving me the eye.
We ran through the show, and I made an ass of myself. That's all I really remember about the actual rehearsal. The kids from the middle and elementary school that they'd brought in to play the younger von Trapp children were laughing at me shamelessly. I stumbled over my lines, didn't understand any of the stage directions, and tripped over my own feet when Leah and I tried to dance the laendler (not that I minded—being that close to her was a treat in itself).
Things got better from there, and I found myself looking forward to rehearsal each day. My friends didn't rib me too hard about it—they knew I had to do it to graduate—but I didn't feel the need to tell them how much I was enjoying it. Leah and I grew closer every day. I learned that we were both going to Vanderbilt in the fall, she for theater and I for business. I learned that she loved popcorn; she popped a bowl of it every morning and brought it to rehearsal for a snack. More than once she shared with me backstage while others were rehearsing their scenes. I also learned that Leah was fun and easy to talk to. She could be a bit intimidating because of her intelligence and her sharp tongue, but she also knew how to put people at ease and bring out the best in everyone around her. I realized that I was opening up to her more than I had with my own buddies, and certainly more than I ever had with Amy. Before long, she knew about my dream of opening my own restaurant, my somewhat strained relationship with my dad, and how much I loved reading American Girl books to my little sister. She knew enough to destroy me if she wanted to; it was the first time I had let myself be vulnerable around someone, but I knew I could trust her. There was only one problem.
A few weeks into rehearsals, Mr. Breck admonished us for having bad chemistry on stage. We were both in costume, rehearsing "Something Good," our romantic song, when Mr. Breck threw his hands up in the air and began shouting.
"Cut the music!" he yelled at the band. Then, returning his attention to us, he let loose: "You are supposed to be in love, children! I don't believe it! Charlie, you act like you're afraid to touch her, and Leah, dear Leah, you act like you've never kissed a boy before!" Leah and I both reddened, though truth be told I agreed with Mr. Breck. We were both adults, but we were acting like freshmen. I was indeed afraid to get close to Leah. More specifically, I was afraid of what my cock would do if I got too close to her. Leah, for her part, seemed overly skittish at the idea of being intimate with me, despite our growing friendship. This, in turn, kept me from wanting to push her, resulting in what I could only guess, based on Mr. Breck's tirade, was lousy chemistry during our intimate scenes. We had avoided kissing so far, but it looked like our timidity had pushed Mr. Breck to the breaking point.
"I don't care how you figure it out, just figure it out!" Mr. Breck shouted. "There's a couch in the men's dressing room. I want you two to sit on it together until you figure out how to develop some kind of chemistry! I don't want to see you again until you do!" Then he stormed back to his office.
I looked at Leah. No matter how weird or awkward this situation was, it was still resulting in me being locked in a darkened room on a soft couch with the object of my affections. I was not about to let this opportunity go to waste. I smiled nervously at her.
