Love Stories Are Not As Easy As You Think

Elvis, the first boy she ever loved, worked at a gas station and had grease-stained fingers that were already cracked and work-worn at age 15. Self-possessed, he stood leaning against her locker, making no mystery of his intentions. At first he would walk her home from school and later, when he borrowed his sister's Buick, she would sit close to him, liking the shape of his thigh against hers.

They would stop on country roads on cool summer nights and she liked the press of his soft lips, the way he pushed, his unashamed desire. She ran her palm up the tight front of his jeans and delighted in the hungry way he searched out her breasts, first through her clothes and later sliding his warm hands under her shirt, as if he belonged there. He owned her, but never coerced her. Warm thick liquid soaked through his pants on those nights, her wet fingers tucked in the elastic of his underwear.

But first loves are just that, and many boys later her nights gradually became more collective, focusing on parties, girlfriends, experimental trysts. On one of those lazy summer evenings, while walking with Ricki and Layla through the Catholic Cemetery, Layla glimpsed a case of beer hidden craftily amidst the plastic flowers and ornate tombstones.

OHMYGOD!!! Layla drags me toward the surprise gift from the gods that would surely make our evening more fun, and some other poor pilgrims' less fun. We had a "silent moment" for the ones who hid the alcohol for their later consumption, and we then proceeded to heft it into Layla's trunk and drive suspiciously away, trying to think up ways to get it cold while scanning the surroundings to make sure we weren't seen by someone.

"Let's put it in the creek." "No, it will just get stolen by somebody else!" Can you sneak it into your basement refrigerator?" "No way." "What are you wearing tonight?"

Later we speed down the dirt roads in Layla's father's Toronado, leaving a cloud of dust and drinking warm beer. Our arms out the windows, we feel the cool evening air whip at us, air us out. "WELL EAST COAST GIRLS ARE HIP I REALLY DIG THOSE STYLES THEY WEAR AND THE SOUTHERN GIRlS WITH THE WAY THEY TALK THEY KNOCK YOU OUT WHEN YOU'RE DOWN THERE. THE MIDWEST FARMER'S DAUGHTERS REALLY MAKE YOU FEEL ALRIGHT AND THE NORTHERN GIRLS WITH THE WAY THEY KISS THEY KEEP THEIR BOYFRIENDS WARM AT NIGHT"

"Are we midwest or northern?" "We are northern, damn it!" "I've gotta pee!" We stop in the road and Ricki crawls out the back window. The doors open and Veronica and Layla jump out, too. Squatting in the road, we watch the pee form rivers and tributaries toward our feet. We shift our weight, wipe with leaves and pull up our white jeans. Veronica is flying around the car, singing. She wants to drive. And I can see a car approaching. We rehearse our alibis.

A carload of guys pulls up, they pour out and we are an immediate mixed crowd. Ricki and J continue a deep conversation started the night before, and the rest of us show our wares. "You have vodka? All right!" Veronica is leaning against Archie, who is watching Ricki out of the corner of his eye. He takes a large swig out of the bottle and passes it on. Layla and I walk into the woods to pee again, and make plans to head into town. Back at the car, we gather the girls. "Let's go to the movies!"

"Where's Ricki?" Veronica wants us all to stick together tonight, she's paranoid. "She rode with the guys." Veronica is driving, and I can feel us weaving slightly to the right and then pulling back. "Jesus, watch where you're going, V!" We all scream in unison. "Where in the hell are we?" Ricki knows these roads, she has lived out this way all her life, but she has deserted us. "Let's finish the beer before we get into town." Tipping our heads back, we force the warm liquid into our mouths and down our throats. Uggggghhhhhhh. We vomit into our mouths, but swallow hard, somehow keep it down. Layla's drink doesn't make it to her stomach. She leans out the window and sprays puke at the passing weeds. "This tastes like shit!" "Hey! I know where we are! Turn left!"

Outside the local theatre, the marquee lights up our faces, and the girl working the ticket booth lets us in free. Sliding through the door, I glance back and see Elvis laughing drunkenly with some friends. I hurry past the popcorn and vending machines, and we sit in the back row, laughing loudly and heading often for the bathroom. The toilet's being used, Layla pees in the sink, and I am thinking we'd better get out of here. Back in the dark aisles, cinnamon candies bounce down the cement floor toward the movie screen and I hear someone retching on the other side of the theatre. There is commotion, shuffling, and somebody raises his voice. "Jesus Christ! Let's get out of here."

Hurrying out the front door we watch Elvis, propped up and staggering through the lobby, led by his friends. He heads straight for me, and grabs my arm. "You're coming with me!" "No. I'm not." And this time I mean it, although I still feel that draw, that desire to be owned by him. He's too drunk to take care of me. I am ashamed, and walk away. Even his friends are uncomfortable. As we walk coolly across the street toward the pool hall, I glance back and see Elvis, doubled over. His friends coax him, and I notice that he has wet his pants.