Falling Page 3

  “Diane Trapani,” she answered.

  Relief. “Mom?”

  “Hi. Is something wrong?”

  “No, but Mrs. O’Reilly invited me to stay for dinner. Can I?”

  “I’m not sure…it is a school night. Do you have homework?”

  “Some, but I can do it at home or even here. Please?” Pretty please.

  “Alright, but we won’t be making this a habit.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  That settled, Pete and I returned to his room to listen to more of the Rush album.

  I met Mr. O’Reilly upon his arrival. He acted pleasantly but his six-foot-plus presence intimidated me. Or perhaps it had more to do with him being a man of few words. He commanded respect, and the family seemed to walk a little softer once he got home.

  Mr. O’Reilly sat in the den with a beer and the newspaper. Pete and I positioned ourselves on the adjacent sofa, watching a soccer game on a massive TV, the likes of which I didn’t realize existed. He didn’t try to hold my hand—probably too embarrassing in front of his father. Sitting close to him was good enough. I snuck a glance at him. When is he going to kiss me?

  Dinner at the O’Reilly’s turned out to be the polar opposite to my house. At a Trapani meal, the clacking of utensils filled up space, interrupted by occasional polite conversation, usually my father complaining about his day or my mother asking us about school. At the O’Reilly’s, it was a raucous affair, with stories recounted from the day’s events, good-natured teasing and laughter. Moreover, Mrs. O’Reilly prepared a tableful of food, and everyone helped themselves to plenty. The roast beef took center stage, accompanied by mashed potatoes and gravy, an assortment of vegetables, applesauce and a heaping basket of homemade rolls. She even served dessert—apple pie with vanilla ice cream—a rarity in the Trapani evening ritual.

  Later, his mother drove me home. Pete and I climbed into the back seat, but she didn’t seem bothered acting as chauffeur. She cranked up the stereo and sang along to Debbie Boone’s “You Light Up My Life.” Pete asked her to turn off “that garbage,” and she told him to mind his own business and sang louder. It was easy to like Mrs. O’Reilly.

  We arrived, and Pete walked me to the door. I waited, but he didn’t kiss me. With his mom right in the car, I understood. For all I knew, my parents were peering out from behind the curtains.

  “Thanks for the music lesson.”

  “There will be many more, Top 40 girl.”

  I smirked. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Yup. Sweet dreams.”

  “You, too. But I guess they’re pretty sweet if you’re dreaming about me.” I gave him an overt wink to show I was kidding around.

  “I’d like to give you a smart ass response to that, but it’s true.”

  §§

  “I’m aware of what they do at those rock concerts,” my mother said over breakfast.

  “What’s that?” I said, knowing full well she had no earthly idea. She’d never been to a rock concert in her life.

  “Smoke pot.” She spit the second word out of her mouth with distaste. My father’s newspaper rustled as he moved it away from his face to look pointedly at me.

  “I won’t be smoking any pot. I’ll be listening to the band!”

  “I don’t want you around drugs.”

  “Just because Mom thinks there will be grass doesn’t make it so. Either way, it doesn’t matter. You guys can trust me. Please.”

  “What about these new friends of yours?” my father asked. “Are they decent people?”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, Dad, they’re good people. I’ll be fine.” I conjured up my best innocent look. “Pretty please? I really want to go.”

  My mother wore a pained expression. “I don’t know, Al, what do you think?”

  He shrugged, turning to me. “Be safe, and be smart. Go enjoy your rock concert.”

  “I still don’t like it,” murmured my mother.

  “Thank you!” I sprinted around the table and hugged them, grateful they said yes. When would my parents realize I was responsible and trustworthy, someone who could take care of herself? Sometimes they treated me like a six-year-old instead of my worldly fourteen.

  4

  What Happens at Rock Concerts

  Mrs. O’Reilly picked me up for the Rush concert with a carload: Pete, Tez and Reese and his girlfriend, Jaime. Everyone yelled out a greeting, the high energy matching my own. I was totally stoked to be attending my first show and glad for Jaime’s presence. I hoped we’d become friends.

  “Squeeze in, Anna. It’s a full house,” Mrs. O’Reilly said.

  “It certainly is.” I crawled over Tez to wedge myself between him and Pete.

  “You can do that anytime,” Tez said.

  Pete shot him a warning glance.

  Twenty minutes later, Mrs. O’Reilly dropped us off near the entrance to the Oakland Coliseum. After she disappeared out of sight, Jaime, Reese and Tez pulled out cigarettes and lit them. A weird odor hit my nostrils. Tez was smoking marijuana rolled up like a cigarette, and he did it right there in the parking lot with other people nearby! My furtive glances were in vain. No one paid us any attention, or cared if they did. My mother’s fears rang in my head…maybe this is what people did at rock concerts!

  “You smoke reefer, Anna?” Tez held out the white lumpy joint, lodged between his thumb and forefinger.

  Inwardly, I cringed. “Not really.” Did I sound like a total square?

  He passed it to Pete, who took a long drag before handing it to Reese. Everyone took a toke, including Jaime. With her bouncy auburn hair, polished nails and stylish clothes, I never would have pegged her for a pothead.

  “Go ahead, give it a try,” she said, her expression encouraging as she offered me the burning joint.

  Perhaps it would be okay. I mean, they just smoked it as if it was no big deal and they seemed normal. I took it, and my parents’ faces flashed. Everyone stared as I hesitated. For the past year, Michelle, Katy and I became practiced cigarette smokers on the sly. Not a ton—more like a few every time we slept over at each other’s houses—but enough to get the hang of inhaling. Would this be the same?

  “When you inhale, hold it in for a minute,” Pete said, his lips tingling my ear.

  I put the joint to my mouth and sucked in. I tried holding in the exhale, but coughed. And not a single demure cough, but an all-out fit. To my total embarrassment, everyone laughed.

  “Don’t worry—that means you’ll get a good high.” Pete took another drag, holding it in like a pro.

  Reese handed me a pint of vodka, a miniature version of what my father stocked in his liquor cabinet. “Take a swig of that to soothe your throat.”

  I gulped the harsh liquid, forcing myself to swallow, and passed the bottle. Our group drained it within a few minutes of arriving at the entrance where burly men in STAFF shirts conducted searches. I might have worried, except we’d already smoked the drugs and drank the booze.

  We ran to the arena floor to claim a spot as close to the stage as possible, preferring that to the thousands of seats available around the perimeter. It meant standing during the concert, but I didn’t mind. I leaned into Pete, who put his arms around me as the effects of the marijuana hit. Like a bird soaring on a wind current, I relaxed without a care in the world. I smiled, marveling at my newfound freedom. Maybe my apprehension was all for nothing. I could handle this. It didn’t seem like such a big deal after all.

  The lights dimmed and the Pat Travers Band took the stage. According to Pete, their job as the starter band was to warm up the crowd. Bright colored lights flashed in rapid staccato, mesmerizing me into a near-trance and offsetting the deafening music. I dug the band’s sound—brash, catchy and high energy, and I loved how Pete stood behind me with both arms wrapped protectively over mine.

  My mouth turned sticky and dry, like Mojave Desert dry. I would kill for a soda, but we were miles from the concession area and packed like sardines f
rom the crowd surrounding us on the floor. Trying to ignore my discomfort, I shifted my thoughts to Pete. How I wished he would kiss me. Now was the perfect time, I noted—aside from the parched mouth thing—as I glanced over at Reese and Jaime, making out with abandon. I couldn’t stop staring at their passionate kissing. I envied being wanted like that.

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Pete said in my ear, nodding toward our friends.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All over each other like that. It’s embarrassing.”

  I disagreed. “They look like they’re in love.”

  He shrugged and turned his attention back to the stage. “This band is alright but I’m ready for the main event.”

  “They’re no Rush, that’s for sure.” I sounded like an authority now, didn’t I?

  He smirked. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  I leaned into Pete. I appreciated the solidness of him, which right now, also contributed to propping me up.

  “I’m high.” I finally understood the expression. My body floated through space while gravity made it difficult to move a muscle. Pushing my hair behind my ear took effort, as if everything occurred in slow motion.

  He laughed. “Do you like it?”

  I nodded. “Why are you laughing at me?”

  “I’m not laughing at you—I’m laughing with you.”

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Do you smoke weed a lot?”

  He shrugged. “I guess it depends on what you mean by a lot.”

  That struck me as an odd question. His answer might be worrisome if only I could remember what to worry about. Ah, now I got it. “Monthly? Weekly?”

  “Then yeah, a lot.”

  The house lights turned on, blinding us. I winced. “Can we grab a drink?”

  “Cottonmouth?”

  I nodded with immediate understanding as he put a name to my current condition. “Yeah, and I’m starving.”

  Pete laughed. “Come on, let’s go.”

  We zigzagged through the crowd to the circumference. Unsure how we would ever make it back to our friends through the maze of people, I stopped caring, my focus singular. As soon as we made it through the long concessions line, I chugged my Coke and wolfed down a hot dog and some chips in short order. My senses alive, I experienced everything as if for the first time: the sugary burning sensation of each swallow of soda, the grains of salt on the crunchy corn kernels, the yeasty texture of the bun and the smooth, sharp mustard. The intensity of flavors bursting in my mouth made me swear nothing prior ever tasted so delicious.

  We wound our way back to the stage as the lights dimmed. To my amazement, Pete located our friends with no difficulty. The three members of Rush jogged onstage, their long hair flowing hippie-style over shirts and jeans. The crowd went nuts, cheering, yelling and hooting while the band assumed its positions. Alex Lifeson slung his guitar over his torso while drummer Neil Peart climbed into the most elaborate percussion setup imaginable. Aside from the full set of drums before him, surrounding him from the rear were dangling triangles, cowbells, chimes and a large gong. Geddy Lee swung his bass across his chest, and the band played a song from its recently released Hemispheres album.

  Lee’s haunting vocals, combined with the complex synthesizers, unique percussion instruments and rocking guitar riffs, blasted through the sound system, filling every inch of the stadium. In my altered state, the music pumped through my body, the constant light show only enhancing the performance. By the end of the concert, I was thrusting my fist into the air with the beat along with thousands of other fans.

  With our cheers and lighters brightening up the dark stadium, we brought the band back for three encores until the house lights blazed to life, signaling the conclusion. Elated, we chattered about the show while we shuffled our way out of the arena to the waiting station wagon.

  Too soon, Mrs. O’Reilly pulled up in front of my house. Pete walked me to the door, as was becoming our tradition.

  “Kiss her, you loser!” Reese shouted out the window.

  Pete ignored him, smiling at me instead. “Call you tomorrow.”

  I touched his arm. “Thanks again for the concert. I enjoyed it.”

  “I could tell. Like I said, there’s hope for you yet.”

  “Kiss her!” Reese again.

  I rolled my eyes, but wished for his lips on mine, too.

  “Bye,” he said, walking toward the car.

  “Pussy!” Reese muttered, then rapidly apologized to Mrs. O’Reilly.

  After the inquisition from my parents subsided, and I was comfortably ensconced in my bedroom, I pulled out my trusty journal.

  Captain’s Log (ha ha)

  Topic: Kissing (or maybe Not Kissing)

  Why won’t Pete kiss me? Am I defective? Weird? Do I have bad breath? I want him to kiss me soooooooooo bad, I’m almost ready to attack him myself! I loved the concert tonight. Rush rocks!!! Those drums: amazing. Their sound: amazing. The light show: you got it, amazing. And Pete holding me? I loved every second. Except him not kissing me. But I have to admit, it freaked me out when they brought out the M. Not sure what to do about that...even though I tried it, and the hand of God didn’t strike me down or anything. It felt trippy. Not that I want to make a habit of it.

  Monday at school, I sought out Reese during nut break. I scanned the crowded smoking area, a large rectangle outlined in white paint designating where students could smoke tobacco. His shoulder-length, strawberry blonde hair atop his almost six-foot frame stood out in a sea of foggy heads.

  “Reese?” I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, Anna.”

  “Could I talk to you for a minute…in private?”

  “Sure.” He followed me a few feet away from his friends. “What’s up?”

  “Well,” I started, unsure how to begin. “You seem to know Pete pretty good, and we’ve been seeing each other about a month now, but he…”

  Reese stared, expectant. “Yeah?”

  “He still hasn’t kissed me.” Thank God I managed to spit it out. “I am wondering why. Is it me?”

  Reese gazed heavenward. “It’s him, the shy loser bastard. He’s a jackass, that’s all.”

  I laughed, relieved. “He’s just shy?”

  He nodded. “You’re his first girlfriend. He’s never kissed anyone but his mother.”

  That explained it. I had a handful of heavy make-out sessions under my belt and a few trips to second base, but not much else so far. “I’m sorry for asking. I wasn’t sure what else to do. Don’t say anything to him though, okay?”

  Reese dug out a cigarette and set it ablaze with the flick of his lighter. “I could give him a little pep talk.”

  “No! Really. I’m sure will work it out.”

  “You might have to make the first move.”

  I nodded, thinking of Reese kissing his girlfriend at the concert. “How long have you and Jaime been an item?”

  He blew four perfect smoke rings. “About two months.”

  “You guys seem happy.”

  “She’s a great girl. A keeper, that one. But if I talk to you much longer, she’s going to eat us both for lunch.”

  “What? Why?”

  “She’s a little on the jealous side.” Reese nodded her direction. I glanced her way and sure enough, she was frowning and shooting hateful looks our way.

  I waved at her and smiled to illustrate my friend-only intentions. “Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

  “Nah.”

  “Please don’t say anything to Pete.”

  He smirked. “Yeah, okay.”

  §§

  My parents asked about my relationship with Pete during our Saturday breakfast. Was it getting serious? Was he my boyfriend? Were his friends nice, good kids? Was I staying out of trouble? And right there at the table in front of my jerk brother, the parental units tried to give me the grown-up version of the Sex Talk.

  First, they outlined the consequences (pregnancy, God forbid), abstinence (what good Cat
holic girls do) and even a concession to being careful (using birth control), rather than reckless—although still not a choice they condoned. My virginity remained fully intact. I planned to take precautions when the time came. I was not going to wind up pregnant! And I definitely didn’t want to talk to my parents about it. Jeez, Louise.

  I spent the day doing house chores and homework, necessary evils to attend a planned sleepover at Michelle’s. My mom dropped me off, the relief palpable. Free at last.

  After dinner, we told Mr. and Mrs. Homely we were going for a walk. We headed to Hansom Drive, strolling down the hill into the ritzy neighborhood. Once out of sight, we lit our smuggled cigarettes and started gabbing in earnest. I told them about the impromptu sex lecture. They empathized with my pain and launched into their own embarrassing parental unit stories.

  “I’ll bet Pete’s going to ask you to go steady,” Katy said.

  “I would say yes in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m still pining after Steve,” Michelle said.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you, but it’s not like we’ve spent much time together yet. What about you, Katy…who is it this week?”

  She huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m in love with Jake Miller.”

  “God, who isn’t? He is a total fox!” I said.

  Michelle nodded in agreement. “Fo sho.”

  Jake was one of the most popular guys at Skyline. He seemed to have it all: a handsome face with a smile sure to have broken hearts, vivid blue eyes, and feathered, honey-blonde hair. Always friendly (even to unpopular girls), he doled out a never-ending supply of feel-good winks. The message he sent with every head nod, listening ear and wonderful phrase uttered was, You are the most important person in the world to me, and I am hanging on your every word. What girl wouldn’t find that attractive? Except when she spotted him talking to another girl five minutes later in the same way.

  “He’s a total flirt.” Katy dropped her cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the toe of her tennis shoe. “But then again, so am I.”