The ride home was endless. Billy and Paul fought once more over the radio.
“You’re not doing it right.”
“Of course I’m doing it right.”
And even though I wedged my purse between me and Robbie, some guys just can’t take a hint.
“You see this purse? This purse is a football field, Robbie. This purse is the Grand Canyon. Go past this purse, and you’re dead, Robbie. You understand? Dead.”
By the time we got home, The Defenders had ended. My father was still in the La-Z-Boy. My mother, brother and sister still sat on the couch. I inched opened the front door, hoping I could sneak into my bedroom unnoticed. Instead I heard my mother’s voice. “Is that you? Are you home already? My! My! How times does fly!”
When I walked into the den, my father aimed the remote control at the TV and turned it off. It was a bad sign. I stood with my hands by my side, waiting for them to make the first move.
Dad leaned forward. “And did your evening proceed according to plan? ” He took his hand and ran it over his receding hairline. It was an E.G. Marshall kind of gesture.
Suddenly I heard a voice. You can make up your own reality.
“It was super!” I spurted. “Robbie borrowed his Dad’s Lincoln Continental. You know. The kind with the doors that open in the middle.”
I knew my father loved those cars. If we ever had the cash, he’d buy one of those cars in a heartbeat.
Then my brother chimed in. He studied the TV guide in his lap like he was consulting his notes, then pointed a finger in my direction. “And what exactly did you see?”
You can make up your own world.
“We saw Camelot,” I told them. “Robbie says that the movie isn’t nearly as good as the Broadway show. He saw the Broadway version with Richard Burton and Julie Andrews. Three times.”
My brother owned every Rodgers-Hammerstein album. He knew the songs by heart. At first he was speechless. Then he cocked his head and squinted one eye, not quite sure whether he believed me or not.
The interrogation continued.
“And what about Robbie’s father?” asked my mother. “Didn’t his father have a problem with a bookkeeper? A bookkeeper who left town suddenly. That was it. There was some problem with customers being owed money, and creditors, and the bank stepping in. It was in the papers. A big deal. In all the papers.”
Hearsay! Objection! I had no idea what Robbie’s father did for a living, but the apple never fell far from the tree. I had to think fast.
“He has Dolphin tickets. The fifty-yard line. A whole row of tickets. And if he likes you, you get to go to his tailgate parties. Catered tailgate parties. Tailgate parties with really big hot dogs.”
I had their attention now, their mouths watering, their fingers opening and closing like they could feel those sweaty cans of beer in their hands, too.
“And his mother?” asked my sister.
“His mother?” It was remarkably easy to make the stuff up once I got going. “She’s just been elected the vice-president of the synagogue. Gets to sit in the high profile seats right up front. She can be an hour late. Two hours late. They have to hold the seats just for her.”
My parents swallowed the lies whole. My brother was thinking it over. My sister looked wilted, like someone had punctured a vein and sucked the lifeblood right out.
An hour later, I was showered and in my pajamas. Ellen and I lay in our beds. The lights were out. Staring at the ceiling, I listened to the A/C unit in my window rattle and waited. To my family, I was the hanging cuticle. The loose thread. The penny left on the floor. They couldn’t leave me alone if they wanted to.
“So did Robbie try anything?” she asked.
I was prepared. Locked and loaded. “We Frenched in the movie theater. His tongue felt weird at first. Kinda like lox. All slimy and gooey. Then he tried to get under my bra.”
“Under your bra?” asked my sister. In the shadows, I saw her leaning on an elbow and gazing in my direction.
“Naturally I said no. It was just our first date, for crying out loud.”
I knew my sister never went to second base or even first. Forever a bridesmaid, she was still stuck on home plate.