The next morning, I nearly missed the bus deciding what to wear. I went to a Catholic High School and there was a dress code, though rather lax. Finally, I decided on black slacks, a white polo shirt, and a light, black jacket. My wardrobe tended towards the simple. In the bathroom, I found some cologne that my brother was given several Christmas' ago by our aunt. I snuck it into my backpack.
I saw Nick at lunch that day. I looked at him over my sad ham sandwich and asked, "Hey, I'm going home with you tonight to study. But I'm not studying, and I'm not going home with you."
He retorted, "I don't want to go home with you either," and then broke out into a wide grin. "Have something planned?"
"Yeah," I replied. "I'm going to hang out with Crissy. She's picking me up."
"Very nice" Nick replied. "Don't break your tiny dick!"
I threw the remaining ham of the sad sandwich at him in reply.
The last period of the day was German. As usual, the teacher was intermixing jokes and jabs in a mixture of English and German. If you got him to tell jokes, he forgot to teach the lesson. If he taught the lesson, it tended to be bad for your grades. Suddenly he called on me.
"Mike... how do you say... it's raining, but I will walk to school?" the teacher asked.
I startled, and nearly fell out of my chair. "Warum bin ich nach Schule?" I peeped.
"Pay attention!" he reprimanded, as the class laughed.
German class continued and I continued to get bad marks for participation. It's tough to concentrate on verb tenses when having performance anxiety.
Finally, the bell rang. I grabbed my bag and headed to my locker then to front of the school. The last tendrils of winter were still coursing through the April sun. I looked for Crissy, but she hadn't arrived yet. Fifteen minutes passed in which I tapped one foot and then the other.
Then, I saw her pull up in her beat up blue Honda Accord. I put my bag in the trunk, and hopped in the front seat.
I looked Crissy up and down as we pulled away from the school. She was wearing her Catholic school uniform - a white polo shirt and plaid skirt. It was the outfit of pornographic fantasies of old, perverted men as they fantasize about the young men that they were or that they wish they had been.
She hiked up the skirt to show as much of her leg as she dared. The top two buttons of her blouse were undone. Her shoulder length blond hair was down and her blue eyes followed mine.
"Put your tongue back in," she giggled. "Did you pay any attention in school today?"
"Not so much," I admitted returning her giggle.
"Good. My parents aren't home till late tonight. We should have plenty of time," she schemed half to herself.
We then fell into conversation discussing Model United Nations and the position papers that we had to write for the upcoming session in Springfield. Crissy and I had met last year in the Human Rights session. She was representing France. I was passionately advocating on behalf of Algeria. Sparks flew, I guess.
We pulled up to her house and parked in the driveway. We were clearly the only ones home at the white, two story cape cod. We walked through the empty garage and into her parent's kitchen. Crissy put her backpack in the closet. "Do you want a snack before we do it?" she inquired sweetly.
"Sure," I stammered.
Crissy got out a bag of chips. We went into the living room and plopped down onto a beat up blue sofa that was covered in magazines. She turned on the television to HGTV. As a home fixer beat savagely on kitchen cabinet, Crissy and I sat apprehensively.
Under the guise of getting a potato chip, I slid next to her. She smiled at me and I put my hand on her leg near her knee. She grabbed it and slid it up to her hemline. She reached over and started to kiss me. I closed my eyes and enjoyed my first 'real' kiss.
Before Crissy, I had kissed my mother and other assorted relatives. I had briefly kissed a girl on the lips who only liked "good" ones - like you kiss your mother. This was a whole different sort of kiss. I had never tasted another person like this.
"You smell real nice," she whispered.
