Heartache and Other Natural Shocks (12 page)

“I’ll Take You There”

“Well?” Debbie asks Sunday morning. She and Marlene lean across the kitchen table, holding their breath, and I wish I had a camera because they look like two balloons ready to pop. I pour milk into my coffee and slowly stir.

Marlene says, “Carla, spill!”

“Okay,” I say, settling back in my chair. “The thing I learned last night is that sexual attraction brings you closer together, and I don’t mean just physically, I mean emotionally. It’s like, when I’m near Ian, he’s a magnet and I’m an iron filing, and we snap together because we’re so much in sync.”

“But did you do it?” Deb asks.

“You’re so crude,” I say.

“But did you?”

“Deb, let her tell it her way,” Marlene scolds. She looks at me. “Now, start from the beginning. And don’t leave
anything
out.”

“Okay,” I say. I light a ciggie. “Last night, Ian showed up just as Ma and Pa were leaving the house, and Pa grilled Ian like steak. The poor guy was ready to bolt.”

“Yikes,” Marlene says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Thank God for pot.” The three of us laugh.

“Did that get him in the mood?” Deb asks.

“That and
Sticky Fingers
,” I say. “It’s his favorite album. Did you know Andy Warhol took the cover shot with the zipper?”

“Of Mick Jagger’s crotch?” Deb asks.

“It’s not Mick Jagger’s,” I say.

“Yes, it is,” Deb says.

“No, it’s not,” I tell her. “Ian told me that Andy Warhol took a bunch of crotch shots of different guys, and no one knows whose crotch it really is.”

“I thought it was Mick’s,” Deb says.

“Yeah, well, I think Ian knows better than you,” I say.

“Why? ’Cause he’s your boyfriend?” Deb snorts.

“No, because he’s a big Stones fan,” I say.

“I think the crotch looks like Ian’s,” Mar says. We laugh ’cause it’s true. Same narrow hips and tight jeans.

“So did you play with his zipper?” Debbie asks.

“Well, first we watched
TV
,” I say. “Ian wanted to watch hockey.”

“Ew,” Mar groans.

“Yeah,” I say, making a face. “So I kept changing the channel, and after a while, I got his undivided attention.” I smirk.

“So?” Deb asks, raising an eyebrow. She’s practically drooling with anticipation.

“Well, we rolled around on the floor making out for a while …” I pause. “And then we both took our shirts off.” Mar screeches. Debbie gasps. It’s a good thing Ma, Pa and Bobby are at church. “It was like making out with a rock star,” I gush. “Both of us naked, except for our jeans.”

“Wow!” Mar says.

“Go on,” Deb says.

I take a long drag on my cigarette. “Well,” I say, “he tried to get into my pants, and I wanted to, but I knew I shouldn’t, ’cause once you start taking off your jeans, one thing might lead to another. Besides, we only just started dating. So I stopped it.”

“How?” Debbie asks.

“I just did,” I say. I shrug like I don’t remember the details, but of course I remember every single sexy second of it. I think about it all the time—the way he popped the snap on my jeans and then slid his hand down my pants. I said, “Ian …”

He said, “Come on, baby.” Not a lot of guys can call you “baby” and make it sound good, but he can. Then he tried to pull down my zipper.

I said, “Ian!”

He said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got a condom.”

I said, “Ian, we’re not doing it!”

He thought I was just playing around, but when I caught his finger in my zipper, that got his attention. “Ow,” he said. Then he stared at me, surprised and confused. “Are you a virgin?” he asked, like he couldn’t believe it was possible.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said. Well, Ian laughed so hard, he practically doubled over. “I don’t see what’s so funny,” I said. Then I asked, “Are you?”

He snickered. “Are you kidding? Not since I was thirteen.”

“Oh. Well, excuse me,” I said. I suddenly pictured him with all the girls in North Bay, having sex in positions even
Cosmo
doesn’t know about. “I guess that explains things.”

“Like what?”

“Like why you’re so experienced. Practice makes perfect.” Ian grinned. “There’s nothing wrong with sex,” he said.

“I know that,” I said. “For your information, I’ve had plenty of boyfriends before you came along.”

“So …”

“So, maybe I don’t want to be just one in a string of girls you screw. And in five years, you won’t even remember my name.”

“I remember all my girlfriends’ names,” Ian said, smirking.

I put on my bra and snatched my shirt off the floor. Ian sat with his knees pulled up to his bare chest, watching me with an amused look on his face. “So, was Kimmy a virgin before you started going out with her?” I asked.

“No.”

“Oh. So how old was she when—”

“Fourteen? Fifteen?”

What a slut
, I thought.

“You think that’s too young?” Ian asked.

“Kind of,” I said.

“Bullshit,” he said. “Who says it’s too young? Your parents? The church? You think they have the right to tell you how to run your life? Sex is natural.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m just talking about timing, that’s all.”

“You’re not one of those girls who wants to hold off till you get married, are you?” Ian sneered.

“Of course not,” I said. “I’m a feminist.”

“Great,” Ian said, ready to pounce.

“Look, I want to, but not yet,” I said, pushing him away. “I mean, virginity isn’t something you can get back. First you have it, and then you don’t have it. And there’s no turning back the clock.”

Ian threw his head back and howled with laughter. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“What?”

“Why would you want your virginity back? Virginity isn’t like … an apple. If you lose an apple, you can’t eat it. If you lose your virginity, it just means that you’re having great sex all the time. And sex is way better than no sex. Trust me. Do you think I want my virginity back?”

“You’re a guy,” I said.

“So what,” Ian said. “Do you think guys like sex more than girls?”

“It’s different for guys,” I said. “Besides, we just started going out.”

“Oh, is there a timetable for this?” Ian taunted. “Is that one of your rules?”

I grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at Ian’s head. Ian tossed the pillow onto the floor and pulled me into a deep kiss. Then he whispered, “When we have sex, I’m gonna get you off, and you’re gonna love it.”

When he said that, I practically had an orgasm right on the spot. I read in
Seventeen
magazine that talking dirty can make you horny, and is that ever true! No guy has ever said anything like that to me before, and I was shocked and thrilled all at the same time. But it’s not like I’m going to tell
that
to Mar and Deb! I mean, a girl can’t tell everything. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to Ian, would it?

“So he wanted to do it, but you said no?” Debbie asks, jolting me back to the present.

I look over at her. “Of course I said no,” I scoff. “If he likes me—which he does—he’ll just have to wait. Besides, like my nonna Cobrelli says, forbidden fruit is the sweetest.”

“Your nonna lives in the Dark Ages,” Deb says.

“All guys want to do it,” Mar says.

“So how long are you going to say no for?” Deb asks.

“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I’ll just have to play that by ear.”

“What’s Going On”

I spend the weekend dreading the thousand ways Carla is going to humiliate me for spying on her, but on Monday morning, nothing happens. Carla and Ian are all over each other, and while I’ve been thinking about them every waking minute, clearly they haven’t given me a second thought. I’m safe. I let out a long, slow breath. I should learn a lesson from this. No more daydreaming about guys like Ian, who are beautiful but unattainable.

Life goes on. Mom is preoccupied with her new job. I hang out with Clarissa and Geoff. The birch tree sheds its yellow leaves. September turns into October without missing a beat. I have lived here for over a month, but in many ways, it feels much longer than that.

Dad comes to Toronto at the beginning of October, and he’s supposed to come again the following week for Bobby’s tenth birthday, but he cancels because he’s busy at the store. Bobby is really mad. He yells into the phone, “It’s my birthday, Dad. You promised!” Then he slams down the receiver. Mom is angry too because now she has to handle Bobby’s birthday party alone.

The party is on Saturday afternoon at a bowling alley. Twelve wild, obnoxious nine- and ten-year-olds bowl two games (I keep score) and then stuff their faces with hot dogs, pop and cake in the party room. After that, Bobby opens his presents. He really cleans up: Hot Wheels, Ker-Plunk and, from Mom and Dad, Creepy Crawlers. As soon as we get home, Bobby and Buzz turn into mad scientists, squeezing green and pink goop into the metal bug-shaped molds and cooking them till they turn rubbery and squiggly. Boy, are they wired!

Later, Gina and Tony Cabrielli join us for birthday cake, and just as Bobby blows out the candles, the doorbell rings. I answer it. On the front steps is a tall man wearing a navy parka and holding a long wrapped present. At first, I think he’s someone’s dad from the party; maybe one of the kids forgot to give Bobby his gift. Then the man says, “Hello, you must be Julia. I’m Les Katzenberg.” Mom’s boss. He sticks out his big hand, and I shake it. I’m kind of stunned because he isn’t what I pictured. Somehow I imagined an older, wiser Marcus Welby–type doctor, but Dr. Katzenberg looks like the kind of guy who could have been a football player in his youth. He says, “Would it be all right if I spoke to your mother?”

“Sure,” I say.

Mom pokes her head into the hall and her eyes widen. “Les?” she says. She calls him Les?

“I hope you don’t mind …,” he says, holding up the present.

Mom hurries to the door, pushing her hair off her face. “Please, come in.”

“I just wanted to drop this off.”

“No, no. Please join us. You’re just in time for cake.”

Dr. Katzenberg hesitates. “Well, thank you,” he says. He passes me the present, and Mom takes his parka. They’re both polite and awkward, like people who aren’t used to seeing each other outside of the office.

Mom introduces Dr. Katzenberg to the Cabriellis, and Bobby looks at the oddly shaped present with googly eyes. Dr. Katzenberg says, “I guess this is for you, young man.”

“Gee, thanks,” Bobby says and rips it open. It’s a fishing rod—not the toy kind, a real one. Bobby practically quivers with excitement. “Wow! Cool!”

“Les, you shouldn’t have,” my mother says, obviously thrilled that he did.

Dr. Katzenberg helps Bobby and Buzz put the fishing rod together, showing them how to tie a hook on the line and explaining about bobbers and sinkers. He tells them that he fishes for smallmouth bass at his cottage on Lake of Bays. Mrs. Cabrielli asks all sorts of questions about the cottage. Dr. Katzenberg explains that it’s winterized and that he has a water-ski boat and an old “tin can” for fishing, but he doesn’t spend as much time on the lake as he used to
because his two boys are in university now and his wife passed away a few years ago.

When he mentions his dead wife, he says it straight out, but still, it’s a real conversation stopper. Mom never told us that Dr. Katzenberg was a widower. I always assumed there was a Mrs. Katzenberg at home—an elderly, stout, cookie-baking Mrs. Katzenberg. The boys look embarrassed. Mrs. Cabrielli puts a hand to her heart. Mr. Cabrielli says he’s sorry for Dr. Katzenberg’s loss. But Mom looks at Dr. Katzenberg with a soft expression on her face, and there’s something about it I don’t like. I feel a tightening in my stomach, the way you tense up just before somebody’s going to hit you.

Dr. Katzenberg says he should be going, but my mom and Mrs. Cabrielli insist that he stay. They chat about politics and how Pierre Trudeau and Margaret are expecting a baby, but I’m watching the way my mother offers her boss a second piece of cake, the way he compliments her on how delicious it is and the way he tells the Cabriellis how lucky he is to have someone as talented as my mother working in his office. I know it sounds innocent, but the whole time he’s talking, I hear voices in my head screaming warnings, and I have the feeling that if I looked at my mother and Dr. Katzenberg through the lens of magical X-ray glasses, I’d see flirt-rays zipping between them like tracer bullets.