"Aw, come on, Peggy Jean. You know I love you. Don't you love me, too?"
She drew away from him, smoothing her sweater down over the stiff cups of her bra and tugging the hem of her poodle skirt back below her knees.
The radio was playing the new one by Jerry Lee Lewis, the windows of Jimmy's new car – a birthday present from his parents – were fogged up. The interior still smelled vaguely of burgers and fries, the wrappers from the roadside stand they'd stopped at crumpled by her feet.
Next to her on the long bench seat, behind the thin blue steering wheel, Jimmy regarded her with a sort of pouting petulance that ruined his varsity letterman good looks and turned him into a little boy who'd just been denied an ice cream cone.
He was handsome, oh, you bet, with wavy blond hair that he combed back from a clear brow, and baby-blue eyes that made girls giggle and sigh. His parents had money, too, and the mothers of Wentworth categorized him as a 'good catch.'
Peggy Jean, having caught him, caught herself wondering if she oughtn't throw him back. She knew they looked good together, the perfect All-American young couple, fresh-faced and eighteen and about to graduate at the top of the senior class.
She was the envy of all her girlfriends for possessing his class ring, which she wore on a hank of yarn around her neck. It dangled against the cotton-candy pink wool of her sweater, stretched taut over her breasts.
But …
"I do love you, Jimmy," she said. "You know that."
"There's no other girl for me," he said. "We're meant to be together. It's right, Peggy Jean. Right that we express our love."
"I didn't realize I had to prove it." Her laugh rang false in her ears. On the inside, she was churning with confused feelings.
It was obvious what he wanted. He wanted to go all the way, right here and right now, tonight, in this car parked out at Lover's Lane. She loved it when he kissed her, and held her close while they slow-danced. She just wasn't sure if she was ready for more.
The other night, at the drive-in, he had put his arm around her and gradually inched his fingers lower, from her shoulder toward the slope of her left breast. His eyes had been fixed on the screen the whole time, as if he was wholly absorbed in the movie. It was as if he thought that if he went slowly enough, she might not notice his stealthy effort.
Of course, she had been so burningly aware of them that she had hardly been able to concentrate on the movie. It made her tingle and hold her breath, whirls of dread and excitement spinning through her. It felt good, but the moment his hand reached the edge of her bra, her sense of propriety had kicked in. She'd firmly taken him by the wrist and moved him back to her shoulder.
Tonight, he hadn't bothered to be sneaky. They had been embracing, kissing, and all of a sudden his hand had been covering her breast. Squeezing. Pinching around like he was hoping to luck into finding her nipple through the sturdy fabric.
"I love you," he said. He almost whined it, and he still had that pouting look. "Don't be like that. I just want to show you how much."
"You gave me this," Peggy Jean said, picking up the ring.
"I want to give you more. I want to give you myself. We're not children, Peggy Jean. We're adults. We'll be graduating soon, and moving on into the real world. We should act like grown-ups, not silly high school kids."
"Jimmy, I don't think it's right."
"You don't love me." He slouched in the seat. His lower lip stuck out even farther, if that was possible.
"I do!" Though not, she silently added, when you act like this. "I'm not ready, that's all."
"Tonight was supposed to be special," he said. "Our special night. I've been planning for it."
A twinge of annoyance went through her. Did he mean that he'd boasted to the other guys that tonight was the night?
"I even bought something for us," he went on, digging in the pocket of his letterman's sweater. "Down at the drugstore. I thought you'd be happy."
Peggy Jean looked at the item he took out of his pocket. "Jimmy, is that a …?"
"A rubber, sure," he said in a sulky tone. "To show you that I'm not some thoughtless kid. I planned ahead."
"You bought that? At the drugstore in town?"
"Yeah." His tone perked up some, turned proud. "With this, we don't have to worry about any, well, you know, little accidents."
"You bought this from Mr. Harper?"
"Yeah."
"Jimmy, oh, gosh!" She leaned back in the seat and put her hands over her eyes. "Mr. Harper is on my dad's bowling league. What if he tells my dad? Everybody in town knows we go out together."
"Oh," he said slowly. "I didn't think about that."
"This is terrible." Peggy Jean could already hear her mother's shrill tirade.
Mom had been a Rosie the Riveter, and come home from the factory with some pretty revolutionary ideas about traditional male-female roles, so much so that she'd kept working even after Dad returned from the war. But, outspoken about women's rights though she was, Mom was still very firm on the idea of Good Girls and Bad Girls, which type saved it for the marriage bed and which type did it in the back seats of cars on Lover's Lane.
She thought about the film strips that her Home Ec. class had been shown, too. The ones with the Good Girl who walked out of a party when someone brought out the cigarettes, and the Bad Girl – always the one with the tightest sweater and the most make-up – who stayed. Smoked. Drank. Ended up in a dark room with all the guys at the party. Was the scandal of the town the next day. Left home in shame. Ended up a degraded, miserable excuse for a woman, hanging out in bars while her looks dwindled.
Sex, according to Peggy Jean's mother, was a fine, natural, and enjoyable thing when it happened between two married people. She was enlightened enough that she'd told Peggy Jean how a girl could take care of those troublesome sexy feelings without a boy, and Peggy Jean was no stranger to the wonderful sensations her body could give her. Late at night. Alone in her bedroom. With no one the wiser.
She'd experienced those feelings a few times when making out with Jimmy. And, honestly, whenever she let herself think about what it would be like to let him put his hand under her sweater, or even up her skirt, she got all weak in the knees and fluttery in the stomach.
"But, hey!" Jimmy said in sudden brightness. "If everybody's going to know anyway –"
"Jimmy Reed! How can you say that?" Peggy Jean cried.
"What? If it's your reputation you're worried about –"
"I certainly am!"
"Then we might as well earn the talk." He wore an earnest expression now, and when he put his hand on her knee, he acted like he was trying to make the best of a bad situation.
Peggy Jean plucked his hand away. "Jimmy," she said warningly.
"It's okay, lover," he said, sliding across the seat and taking her in his arms. "It's okay."
She pushed at him. "No, it isn't."
"Give me a kiss."
Before she could say yes or no, his lips clamped down on hers and he tried to wedge his tongue into her mouth. He also grabbed at her breasts again. His weight bore her over in a rustle of crinoline and he was halfway on top of her, moaning passionately. The front of his pants was pressed against her and she knew what she was feeling there, what that solid bulge was that rubbed her leg.
She got a hand free and, almost as shocked by her actions as by his, slapped him smartly. When Jimmy recoiled, she struggled out from under him and threw open the car door.
Cool air rushed in as Peggy Jean scrambled out. She stood on the crushed-down grass of Lover's Lane, gasping for breath, her hand stinging from the slap she'd delivered.
They were still alone, no other cars nearby. The lights of Wentworth twinkled serenely in the blackness below the overlook.
Jimmy, dumped on the seat when she wiggled out from under him, thrashed his way upright. His elbow hit the horn, which bleated like a startled animal. His hair had fallen down over his forehead, and his face was sweaty, red, and indignant.
"I'm not that kind of girl, Jimmy Reed," she said.
He slid across the seat and got out. She backed away from him, hand curled around his class ring. She was on the verge of giving it back. No, flinging it back, and if he missed the catch and it sailed over the embankment and was lost in the weedy brambles of the slope, that would be okey-dokey with her.
"Peggy Jean," he said plaintively. "Don't be mad."
"You shouldn't have done that," she said.
"I only wanted us to express our love. To make each other feel good. So, come on. What do you say? You and me, tonight. Haven't we waited long enough?"
Jimmy came closer, opening his arms to her. She retreated toward the edge of the woods that bordered Lover's Lane, finding herself suddenly and inexplicably on the verge of tears.
"Darn it, Peggy Jean," he said. Then he stopped, and took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. His head drooped and he sighed. "Look, forget it. I'm sorry. Sorry I even mentioned it."
She couldn't speak for fear of crying.
"Let's just go home, what do you say? I promise, I won't do a thing. I really care about you. I want us to be together, but if you think we should wait, we'll wait."
Warily, she studied him. He looked abject, downcast, and sincere. His baby-blue eyes, huge and sad, met hers in a puppy dog plea.
"Okay," she said. "But you'd better behave, Jimmy. I mean it."
"I will. Scout's honor."
He held out his hand. She gave him one last dubious look, then accepted it. They walked back to the car together. The radio was playing, one of those heart-wrenching ballads about young love ending in vehicular tragedy.
The music prevented Jimmy and Peggy Jean from hearing the quick footsteps until they were right behind them. Rough hands, protruding from the sleeves of a leather jacket, seized them and spun them around. They staggered, Peggy Jean falling against the side of the car, Jimmy plopping onto the seat with a surprised grunt.
"Well, well," the guy in front of them said. "Ain't this cozy? A couple of sweethearts out on Lover's Lane. How ro-maaan-teek."
He was a few years older than the two of them, with dark hair greased back in a duck-tail, and an unshaven shadow of stubble. Attractive, in a hard, rugged, dangerous sort of way. He was taller than Jimmy and broad-shouldered. His jeans were faded and snug, and he wore a white tee shirt beneath the jacket.
Peggy Jean shrank against the car. Jimmy shot to his feet, blustering.
"Hey, you, what do you think you're –"
The guy pushed him. The backs of Jimmy's knees hit the seat and he dropped onto it again, barely missing whacking his head on the edge of the roof. Jimmy bounded up again, fists curled, but this time the stranger whipped a black handle from his rear pocket with the speed of a stage magician. He depressed a button. The handle made a snicking noise, and a shining steel blade sprang out of it.
A scream snagged in Peggy Jean's throat. The night had gone cold as deep winter. She couldn't take her wide, terrified eyes from the knife.
