Penny for my thoughts - Fiction - Short Story

Literary Review, Spring, 2003 by Mark Greenside

I had several girlfriends in high school, and one in particular, though none of my friends ever knew it. She was from the other side of the tracks, taking home economics, art, secretarial, and business classes while I took pre-med, chemistry, and bio. She was plain, like her name, Penny. My friends thought we were long-time acquaintances from elementary school and that I was doing her a favor whenever I said hello to her. Sometimes, to my shame, I agreed. We went out for three years, never once to a dance or a prom or on a double date. Everything we did was secret. She wanted it that way and so did I--I because I was embarrassed that I liked her and looked forward to seeing her and wanted to be with her more than any of the other girls I knew, who were prettier, sexier, and smarter. Why she wanted to keep it secret, I still don't know. I think she did it for me.

We spent no time together at school. If we saw each other in the hallways or the cafeteria or anywhere else, we'd say, "Hi." That was all, like strangers. We'd speak on the phone, but mostly to make our plans. Talking with me, she said, made her nervous, and she didn't have anything to say. What we did was go to a lot of movies together, and once a month, on the Tuesday nights she was supposed to be in catechism class, either after class or instead of class, we met in the park next to Saint John the Divine and made out. Twosdays, I called those days. I looked forward to them every time, unlike the following Wednesdays. Those Wednesdays, before going to school, she'd go to confession to get herself absolved from me. Those Wednesdays, she'd have nothing to do with me, not even a "Hi" in the hallway. On those days I was the devil, the beast, the snake, the one who put her eternal soul in doubt.

We'd meet at the back of the park under the chestnut tree, where, if the sacristy was lit, we bathed in its honey-light. I always arrived first because I didn't want her to be there and alone without me. I'd sit in my car with the radio on, listening to WINS and Murray the K, he and the music salving and stroking me. "Chances Are," "In the Still of the Night," "Sincerely," "Earth Angel," "The Sea of Love." I wanted so much then and thought it was so little. It was that time of life when I thought everything was guaranteed and mine for the having.

I listened to the music and watched for her car. I spotted her the moment she turned onto Gloria, then lost her behind the hedge until she got to the corner and entered the park. I tracked her, waiting for her to see me and flash her high beams then dim her lights. She always drove straight at me--direct, unswerving, fast, with her lights dimmed; and there was always a moment when I thought she was going to hit me. At the last possible second, she'd slide in next to me, cut the engine, and turn off her lights. My car faced into the park, so I could see her. Hers faced out, as if it were trying to hide. The cars were like lovers engaged in some secret version of 69 for vehicles. We'd sit like that, she in her car, me in mine, under the stars and the moon and the chestnut tree, with the radio on, both of us listening to The Heartbeats, Moonglows, and Miracles, looking at each other, everything mysterious and perfectly clear.

Finally, she'd open her window and say, "Hi," or "Howdy," "Hello," or "Hi there," as if it was the first Twosday all over again. I never could figure out what brought her back time after time. I knew why I was there, at least I thought I did, boys being boys, wanting girls. But why she was there, I didn't know. I sat as still as I could, afraid I'd shatter things or break some spell. The only movement I made was with my hand, turning the knob on the radio left or right to lower or raise the volume, depending on the song. If it was a good song, one about loving, "Put Your Head on My Shoulder" or "Stay," I turned it up as a reminder and encouragement. If it was a bad song, a breakup song--or one of those disaster songs like "Teen Angel," I turned it down. I believed in the power of suggestion then and thought it was mine to make. All of it--the park, St. John's, the chestnut tree, the music, the cars, Murray the K, the honey-light, everything, I thought--was ceremony and part of the set, and the set, I thought, made the action happen.

But the truth is, none of it mattered. It was a Twosday, and everything that happened on Twosdays was preordained, and she wanted to be there as much as I did, and probably more. Soon then, because time wasn't ours, and her parents were waiting for her, and my parents were waiting for me, and neither one of us could wait any longer, she'd turn down her radio and say, "I'm lonely. Why don't you come over here?"

It was all I was waiting for.

I turned the radio off, slid across the seat, and got out of my car on the passenger's side. I didn't want to even chance opening the driver's door and marking her car. I walked behind my car and in front of hers so we could see each other, and I listened for the click that told me she pushed the button on her door and unlocked mine. When I opened the door, it felt like I was breaking a seal, and no matter how many times I did it, I always awaited the sight. She was behind the steering wheel, leaning against the driver's door, looking at me imploringly, wide-eyed, innocent, shy--a rabbit caught in a bolt of light--waiting for me to decide. She looked at me with such candor it shamed and excited me. Sometimes her hands were on her lap, and sometimes they played with her hair. I always held the door open and breathed deeply, smelling her shampoo, perfume, and Juicy Fruit gum--and the leather seats of her car. That was the moment when the space between us seemed vast and limitless. But as soon as I sat down and closed the door behind me, the world disappeared, and whatever doubts and reservations I had about being with her vanished. I was there, not with one of my other girlfriends or worrying about grades or homework or college, but there, where I wanted to be, with Penny.