The Snake

My dad got a job building an apple warehouse in Leavenworth Washington, where I spent my eighth grade year. Dad was on his third wife, and now I had a step-brother whose name I shall omit, because I am quite sure the name is so unique that it could be looked up without his last.

Socially, I had my best chance since I left Ohio to fit it, but I have never been one for politics, and playing the game to rise to the top is not my idea of a life well spent. I was told by several of my classmates that Patricia had taken a shine to me, and she was a cheerleader for the football team. I was attracted to her, but it was such a circus, and the school had us marked as a couple without any response from me. I confided my problem to a friend.

"There's all this pressure to just start going with her." I complained.

"Hey," he replied, "just go out with her for a while. I mean, have you seen her legs?"

"Yeah, she's hot, I guess. But I don't like being told what to do."

"Listen, just date her, she's a cheerleader. Date her for a while then dump her later. It will make you very popular and then you'll have it made."

But I couldn't do it. What I should have done though, is something other than give her the cold shoulder, because what has the power to raise you up can cast you down. And frankly, as hard as it was on me, it must have been really embarrassing to her.

I think though, that more than for any other reason, I was scared. She was hot, and would have been good for me to try "going steady" like all my friends were already doing. It would have initiated me into the fun and frolic of young love. But I wouldn't look for a healthy relationship until I was in my thirties. Instead, what followed was the first of many mistakes I would be doomed to repeat.

She was called the Snake by everybody in town. I met her at a volleyball game at the local high school, sitting in the bleachers. She was a flirt, and I couldn't resist. She kissed me in the parking lot outside, in front of a few of my classmates.

The word got around, and everywhere I went I heard the same sound, "Ssssssss," like air leaking from a tire.

We talked on the phone every day, and I became obsessed with speaking to her. Before long we were saying I love you, but I really meant it, or thought I did anyway.

I went to her house when her parents were out of town, and she took me to her room. I was totally clueless. Only now can I understand what she wanted, but I didn't know then. I didn't even know how to french kiss, and I asked her to teach me. That was probably the breaker for her, finally realizing what an innocent boy I was, not the hyper-spermatic man she needed.

A friend of mine told me that she had sex with somebody on "the hill" beyond the bleachers at the football field. I was heartbroken, I called her up, and when I hung up the phone, it was over.

I sat next to her sister in science class, who asked me, "have you ever french kissed a woman?"

I looked at her suspiciously, "not that it's any of your business, but no."

"Would you like me to teach you?" She laughed her cruel mocking laugh, and I knew that I was totally ruined.