First Kiss
Our grandson, Daniel, and I share back-to-back birthdays, mine June 24th, his June 25th, and so for his first fifteen years I drove to Dardanelle, Arkansas, for a two day birthday celebration. Daniel has a younger sister, who at thirteen, looked like the girl Mark Twain must have had in mind when he described “Becky Thatcher.” At one of my visits, Becky was not her usual bubbly self. She seemed quiet and preoccupied. I wasn’t sure she was even glad to see me. Then I realized what was going on when Daniel teased, ‘Becky got her first kiss last weekend, Grandma,”
“Shut up, Daniel,” Becky ordered, but her dimple gave away her feeling.
Laura, Becky’s little sister, chimed in. “His name is Jonathon – and he’s fifteen – and he plays on Daniel’s baseball team.”
“There’s a game in Atkins tonight, Grandma,’ Becky said, a new softness in her voice. “You’ll get to see him.”
At the game, Laura and I sat together waiting for the game to begin when we heard “Hey, Laura, you still eatin’ tadpoles?” A boy, tall, gawky, wearing a gray baseball uniform, shuffled toward us. Brown curls pushed out under his cap, nearly covering his brown eyes, and he had a pimple on his right cheek. Without breaking his stride toward the dugout, he yanked Laura’s hair.
“That’s Jonathon, Grandma.” She rolled her eyes, “He’s so dumb.”
Jonathon never looked at Becky during the entire game, nor did he speak to her at the end of the game. Whenever Becky would edge toward him, he would move away. That kid avoided her all evening!
The next day, Becky hardly spoke; she refused to eat, and she hid in her bedroom. Her mother finally went in and convinced her to confront Jonathon at the next ball game. Fortunately another game had been scheduled before I had to go home, so I was able to attend. I watched Becky follow her mom’s advice as I could see her talking with Jonathon near the first base bleachers before the game began. In a short time, she turned and walked slowly my way, her eyes brimming with tears.
“What did he say?”
“He says he likes another girl,” Becky answered. “I asked him why did he do what he did.” (She couldn’t bring herself to say the work “kiss”.) “He said, ‘There are just some things you can’t control.’” And tears slid down her cheeks.
I was ready to skin Johnathon alive. Familiar bromides rose in my throat, “Gracious, Becky, you are only thirteen,” or “You’ll have a ton of boyfriends before long,” or “Jonathon’s not the right kind of boy if he treats you like that.”
Then I remembered Dale and swallowed them all.
I, fourteen, Dale, sixteen, sat in the front seat of his ’37 Chevy in my parents’ driveway. When he drew me to him, his right arm telegraphed sparks along my shoulder blades and down my spine. He placed his left hand on my cheek and gently pulled my face to his,. I still remember the WOW! My lips tingled. I felt like a Roman candle had burst in my stomach, and sparklers flared behind my eyes. I sensed, no, I saw the reds, the golds, the greens.
Immediately, I was in love. I floated into the house that evening and relived that kiss a thousand times before falling asleep, but when I saw him at school the next morning, he would not look at me, let along speak to me. In the hall, he muttered, “Hi, Kay, how ya doin’” and sauntered away. I schemed to meet him between our fifth and sixth hour classes, but he saw me and ducked out the door. For days, my heart felt like a granite rick in my chest. I lost my appetite. My dad scolded me when I did not pay attention to him. I felt ashamed and bewildered. What had I done? After all, he had put his arms around me; he had kissed me! An unspoken promise shattered and I never found out why.
I have no idea what ever happened to Dale. That was so long ago-- I had forgotten –---
I took my granddaughter in my arms. “Oh, Becky,” I whispered. And my tears merged with hers as I held her tight.
History does have a way of repeating itself, doesn’t it?