Not Even in the Dark

The first girl I should've kissed but didn't was named Alice. This was a long time ago, probably the last day of seventh grade when we walked from our rural school to a more rural working farm Val's family owned, Val being the girl who accompanied me one summer (maybe that same summer) to the McHenry County fair that occurred each August. I remember being on one of the fair's rides, I think it was the Scrambler, and doing all I could to keep from sliding across the seat and pushing up against Val. It was symptomatic of the shyness and social awkwardness that I've never truly overcome. I should have let inertia drive me into her shoulders! I knew a lot of farmers then, or at least I knew their kids who lived in the bucolic regions outside my small Midwestern town and always had to get home after school to do their chores.

Alice and I had a little history in seventh grade, a brush with the evils of youthful criminality. Well, not just the two of us; there were several of us. For one reason or another, we thought it would be fun to light small smoke bombs while out at recess (or whatever recess is called in junior high). Being young and fairly stupid probably contributed to our not thinking things through: It's not easy, or even possible, to light smoke bombs without someone noticing. Soon enough, Alice and I and our fellow delinquents were sequestered near the scene of the crime, a teacher or two watching over us. What made me more nervous than anything was that I had worn no socks to school that day, a clear and deliberate violation of District 200's rules of behavior. I sat in the grass and covered my bare ankles with my hands and hoped no teachers would notice. Soon enough, we were in the principal's office being lectured and admonished by Mr. Pace, a stern and stern-faced man who, like most adults I'd encountered as a boy, had little patience with what I thought were harmful indiscretions. Years earlier, my friend Tony and I found amusement in covering a green Post Office drop-off box in mud freshly formed by heavy rain. One or another authority figure, someone who was associated with the Postal Service, I believe, was less amused, and that same evening whoever that person was joined my parents and me in our living room. My parents, I'm sure, were humiliated. I lost a shoe in the mud that same night, something I thought was a more serious problem.

One by one, those of us in Mr. Pace's small office were interrogated. Alice, to her credit, owned up to being the one who had supplied the smoke bombs. She was close to the principal's desk as she was questioned, the rest of us a few paces to the rear. While she spoke, I stepped forward to stand beside her, and I said that Alice was not the only one to be blamed, that we had asked her to bring the smoke bombs. Mr. Pace, even less amused than before, told me I had enough to worry about and that I should save my energy to defend myself. I think I stopped trying to be brave for awhile after that admonishment. I do not recall the punishment that befell me. Alice, though, was banned from the school bus for a week or so, which I'm sure caused her parents no small amount of trouble.

The last day of school was always fun, for we did nothing. That year, we played softball and ate pre-made sandwiches all afternoon. Alice and I were both pretty good baseball players then. The baseball field, in fact, was the only place I felt comfortable for much of a my youth; it was a place where I didn't have to worry about conversation or trying to figure out the ever-changing dynamics of various social circles. All I needed on the baseball field were a decent bat and a reliable glove. At the end of the day, our entire seventh grade class walked--yep, walked--the several miles from the school to Val's farm. Most of us had been together since kindergarten, and we shared a high level of comfort together. We must have eaten something at Val's house, and we must have played hide-and-seek. Not too oddly, every now and then one or two people would disappear to where they could hide and not be found. Eventually, around dusk, Alice and I found ourselves together near one of the large silos. I'm sure we talked about many things, and I am positive I knew that I was supposed to kiss her. Alice was a very smart girl and now teaches law at a very nice university--so she must have remained smart.

She also probably knew when enough was enough, and she said something like this: "I think I see your mom's car." She didn't. I knew she didn't. It was simply code for "Kiss me now or won't get another chance." We never did kiss, of course; that would've been too easy. Even in the dark I could not be resolute. We just sort of drifted away from the silo and into the lights coming from the farmhouse, and eventually my mother did appear. If I had known that night that about six months later my family would move to California, I might have been more courageous.

Many years later, Alice and her husband would visit my wife, son, and me in California, and the visit was pleasant. Alice was a reporter then, an occupation I greatly admire. I doubt that Alice remembers that night at Val's farm, and there is no reason she should. I would bet, though, that she remembers the smoke bombs, the bright clouds of blue and red and green that rose into the trees, spread across the grass, and eventually found a way Mr. Pace's stern eyes.