Andrew Horne’s father told often the tale of his son’s birth at family gatherings, boasting that Andrew was so much manlier than his cousins that he had not even whimpered when the doctor spanked his rear end. While this was true (the bones of it, at least), one could hardly argue his reasoning had been such. It was more likely—his mother joked privately—that Andrew had been so anxious about being born that he froze up and plain forgot to cry.
Andrew would swirl his glass of punch in his hand and watch the red rise and fall over the insides of the cup, saying nothing as his father clapped a proud hand on his shoulder. His mother was probably right, he would think. He was too anxious. This notion would only worsen his nerves.
The year the song Cherry Pickin’ by Patricia Frond came out Lucy Weaver got her first job. She was a perfume girl at the local department store. The scents gave her such a headache that at the end of her shift she elected to walk home and take in the night air. She lost 41 pounds that year, and the boys at school noticed.
She was still an oddity, the boy’s girlfriends would argue. She’s still weird.
Whether or not Lucy gave a rat’s ass about the new attention was a secret known only to her. Lucy kept the friends she’d had before and wore the same dresses she’d worn last year, just neatly mended and taken in by her mother. She spoke loudly and moved with confidence, the kind imbued into girls who came from healthy households—which she did. The only change beyond the physical was that she danced a little longer now, and that when she caught strangers watching she held their gaze.
“Who’re you takin’ to the winter formal this year, Drew?”
A fleeting look of irritation passed over Andrew’s face before he returned Michelle’s smile. “Ah—I don’t know.” He admitted.
“Kitty Harris wants you to ask her, you know.” Michelle was grinning, but Andrew suspected that, while seemingly innocent in her declaration, something was amiss. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was exactly, and he became plagued once again with a bout of nervousness.
“Yeah, I heard.” He said, thinking this a safe enough response. “She’d be a good date, I reckon.”
Michelle let out a little huff of air. “Yeah, if you want to dance with the Eiffel Tower.” She leaned against the hall wall deliberately, posing herself so that she was closer to him and looking him up into his eyes. “You’d have to tippy-toe just to kiss her. Not if you took someone shorter.” She batted her lashes.
It was these kinds of social interactions in particular that caused Andrew to fret the most. Michelle was pretty enough, though she wasn’t very nice. Andrew got the impression that she saw other girls as competition rather than potential friends and confidants, which left her with sparse few. Should I kiss her? He wondered. He didn’t even really like her. But he was eighteen, and he enjoyed physical intimacy as much as expected. Would it be cruel to kiss her right now? Then again, he was horribly afraid of being rude, and an embarrassed blush was beginning to creep over Michelle’s cheeks. Quickly he dipped down and pecked her on the cheek.
Michelle seemed satisfied by this, and Andrew felt a moment of relief that he had done the right thing here. However, it was so brief that it was hardly worth noting, as the potential consequences of his action began to weigh on his mind almost instantly.
He cleared his throat to disguise this and hurried to excuse himself from her now suffocating presence.
Did this mean he was going to have to marry Michelle? She wasn’t like the other girls he’d fooled around with—she would demand his letterman jacket or his class ring if he took her out. She’d be his girlfriend, then. Once that happened it would be game over for him—he’d never be able to work up the nerve to break up with her. After a while he’d have to propose. That would be that, then. He’d be married, soon with several small children, no doubt, to Michelle Creedy. Michelle Horne, rather.
