She had the most gorgeous soprano voice I had ever heard: pure smooth tone, effortless grace and poise, no forced reach in her upper register, with as much control over timbre and style and inflection at her highest note as in her middle range. And she was barely eighteen.
Okay, so maybe you could try to argue that my assessment of her skill was colored by my infatuation for her. Or that maybe it still is, ten years later. But you'd be missing the point. Was she really the greatest soprano I had, or indeed, have ever heard? Truly and objectively? I'm convinced the answer is yes, but the true answer, if there even is such a thing, is really tangential to the story. What's important is that, regardless, to me she sounded like an angel or a goddess, and I worshipped her for it.
From the vantage point of memory, it's clear how I willed myself to be used, how I longed so badly to hear her voice sing my name in a low moan, to feel her breath on my skin, to feel the vibrations in her throat with my lips, that I let her fool me, let them both fool each other. This is not a story of innocence; there are no victims. All three of us allowed need and desire to trump reason and pain. I tell you this so that you do not get the wrong impression. She was not cruel, only young, and as naïve as I was -- as we all are when sex is new and unexplored, and we step out from behind the curtain of modesty and show ourselves for who we truly are.
C__ and I had been in choir together throughout high school, taken many of the same classes, even went to Junior prom together. I was one of her closest friends, and she was my best friend. And I had loved her for as long as I had known her. The prom date was a bit of tricky business between us, as I had confessed my feelings to her in the days before the dance but after she had agreed to go with me, which was before she had started dating a mutual male friend. Talk about awkward. Four seventeen year olds, in fancy dresses and rented tuxedos, in my parents' car, trying to make small talk when we all knew that we weren't paired up the way we would have been under normal circumstances. My friend Mike wanted to spend time with his new girlfriend, naturally, but he also didn't want to steal my date away from me. He was a good guy, and a good friend. But what else could we do, really, but try to enjoy ourselves? A few weeks later, Mike went out of town for the weekend, and a third mutual friend, Bryan, also confessed a long-harbored love for C__, but with more success than my own confession.
So, Mike was out of the picture, Bryan was in. And where was I? I was a spectator, a miserable voyeur of the stuff of teenage melodrama. Pathetic, really, how much of my self-worth I invested in the attentions of an immature girl. But then, I was an immature boy, so I'm not sure how much more could have been expected of me. And of course, there was the matter of her voice. That voice was divine, I thought, could mesmerize me with the softest note, could work miracles, could carry the melody of God. I didn't know (how could I have?) that it had the ability to blind me, render me unaware of and unconcerned about the consequences of my actions. It was the end of our last year of high school before I learned that.
That spring, our final semester before college, before life began, C__ and I were cast opposite each other in the school musical, as the romantic leads. Over the course of the past months, the awkwardness of the previous year had mostly subsided, so we welcomed the chance to act together. We were back to being great friends, comfortable around each other. Though, truth be told, my feelings for her were no less than they had been, and I think she knew it. C__ and Bryan were still dating, still in that disgustingly sweet stage, full of clinging and holding hands, staring into each other's eyes, and generally making everyone else around them sick with their cutesy displays of affection. And fortunately for me, Bryan and I were also still friends, and he seemed as happy that C__ and I would be in the play together as she was. "I'm sure glad it's you, Dan," he said to me one day. "If she's gotta pretend to be in love with someone else, at least it's someone I like!" He slapped me on the back, that odd gesture of affection between males, and laughed, encouraging me to join in on the joke.
I don't mind telling you, the thought of kissing C__, even if it was just a stage kiss, consumed my thoughts for the six weeks of rehearsals. I'd like to say that I used the situation to my advantage, invited C__ to a private rehearsal so we could run our lines. I'd like to say that I kissed her every chance I got, and that the kissing eventually turned that corner from a performance to an impulse and that this time when I told her how I felt, she didn't get that deflating look in her eyes again, a mixture of feeling flattered and regretting that she would have to break my heart. I'd like to tell you that we then made love with all the awkward beauty of two virgins. But that's not what happened. We never ran lines outside of the full cast rehearsals; we only kissed on stage, with the director watching, adjusting the way we stood, where I put my hands, the rhythm of the lines leading into the kiss. And I didn't tell her I was still in love with her.
Outside of rehearsal, she acted as if nothing were any different, so I did too. And I'd like to think that I was a good actor, that it was my most convincing performance.
One day, while the director was working on a scene neither C__ nor I were in, we stepped out into the hall to take a break. We had been working on a particularly difficult dance number and were both tired, but exhilarated. As we slumped down against a wall, trying to regain our breath, C__ turned to look at me. She had a grin across her lips.
"You sounded really good in there today," she said. "Especially since we hadn't done the dance and song together before."
"Thanks, it felt good," I responded. "And you looked great! You had that footwork down, seriously. I danced like a fish, but you? You nailed it!"
We both laughed, and she leaned her shoulder into mine, enjoying the moment. "No, you were fine," she finally said, sitting up. "You just worry about it too much. What do you think about when you're dancing?"
"Well, I try to visualize the next step, but usually it devolves into visions of me falling on my ass."
With a laugh, "That's your problem, then! You think too much! See, I don't think about anything, I just do it."
"Oh, well, that'll make it so much easier, won't it? No need for me to practice anymore, thank you." Sarcasm between us was common, but never mean. She pushed my arm as we both continued to laugh, and I felt really good at that moment. But when she saw Bryan enter the building down the hall, she jumped up without a word and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him in greeting. I leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, a quick descent from my momentary high. After a few seconds, I got up and moved to the auditorium door to watch the rehearsal. I don't know how long it was before I turned to look behind me and saw Bryan leaving and C__ making her way toward me, visibly shaken. I started toward her, but she reached me before I could move too far. Throwing her arms around my neck, she buried her face in my chest and began to sob. Not knowing what was going on, I slowly returned her embrace, tried my best to comfort her.
"Shhh, don't cry. What is it? What's wrong?" I made a conscious effort to keep my voice as gentle as possible. In between sobs, tears staining her cheeks, she raised her head and spoke. "He's going to miss the prom! Some college is recruiting him to play baseball," she said that word with more disdain than I'd ever heard her express, "and he'll be gone that whole weekend!"
I pulled her closer, wrapping her in my arms. Though the sobs had subsided, she buried her face in my chest again. "I feel so stupid, getting so upset about this. I didn't want to cry, didn't think I would until I got closer to you. And when you reached out your arms to me, I don't know, I just lost it." I hadn't even realized I had reached out to her, so this took me by surprise. "I know it's stupid, it's just the prom, but it meant a lot to me. I can't help it."
The tears having now stopped, she pulled away slightly to wipe her eyes, though my arms were still encircling her. "I got your shirt all wet. I'm sorry," she said, and I just smiled at her. Then, to my surprise, we both laughed. Brief, subdued laughter, but it certainly lightened the mood. She hugged me again, tighter than she ever had before, and I could feel the shape of her body pressing against mine. I didn't want to let her go. But when she released my neck and put her hands on my upper arms, I relented.
That was it. We went back to rehearsal and said nothing else about it.
When opening night came, everyone was on edge. The giddiness and the nervousness were palpable; everyone spoke too loudly, laughed too much at things that weren't funny, and freaked out when the slightest thing was out of place, a missing hairbrush, perhaps, covered up by a discarded t-shirt and discovered in a matter of seconds.
C__ sat on the floor of the dressing room in front of a small mirror, applying the finishing touches to her makeup. In full costume, makeup and all, I sat on a chair nearby, talking to C__, but mostly listening quietly as she talked. People flitted in and out, keyed up on adrenaline, on the excitement and anticipation of curtain time. I don't remember what we talked about or even who else was nearby. Most of that night is now a blur. But when C__ had finished putting on her lipstick, she stood up, walked over to me, and kissed me. I was startled. We weren't on stage; we weren't "in character;" we weren't even talking about anything remotely related to kissing. She simply leaned down, lipstick tube in one hand, cap in the other, pressed her palms firmly into my cheeks, and kissed me. This was no thin-lipped kiss, no quick peck, no stage kiss. This was a full mouth kiss, warm and moist; I could feel her jaw pushing against my own, the light flick of her tongue as it slipped briefly into my slack and startled mouth. I didn't breath, didn't blink, didn't move. She released me, and our lips separated with an audible smack. She looked down at me, smiling mischievously, her eyes narrowed as if she were examining the traces of lipstick left on my mouth. "There," she said, "that looks about right." And with a small laugh that made me quiver, she turned away and walked out of the room.
I was speechless. What was that? The look in her eyes, was she trying to tease me? I'm still not sure, after all this time, what that kiss meant or what prompted it. We had been spending a lot of time together, and she must have known I still had feelings for her. Perhaps she just wanted to see how I would react, testing the waters, so to speak. Perhaps she wanted to see how she would react, how that kiss would make her feel.
As I sat there reliving the moment that had just happened, my body began to respond. Apparently too shocked to react any sooner, my pants began to bulge, my pulse to race, and my breath to quicken. I leaned forward in the chair, hoping no one had noticed the size or the suddenness of my now erect penis. Though the play went well, no major slip ups, and though the stiffness between my legs eventually subsided, I couldn't shake the memory of that pre-show kiss, or the unsettling feeling that there was something going on I didn't know about.
