Page 20 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

The hard part was getting through to Van. He hardly noticed me. I don’t think he was shy. I think it was probably because he was too intimidated to start flirting with Finn McCormick’s daughter while he was on the job. But little by little, I worked my untested girlish charm, and by mid-July we were talking regularly. Actually, I did most of the talking. Van was the strong, silent type, but that gave him a special quality that most boys—most men, in fact—don’t have. He was a great listener.

Van was about to go into his senior year, and his plan was to join the Marines right after graduation. My plan was for him to be the one to take my virginity before the summer was over.

Our first date wasn’t really a date. He’d told me during the week that he and his friends were going to spend Saturday at Waterfront Park Beach. I said, “Small world. I’m going there too. Maybe I’ll run into you.”

It was a total lie, but I had no trouble recruiting a few of my girlfriends to help me turn it into a reality. And—surprise, surprise—we ran into Van at the beach. It didn’t hurt that we cruised the parking lots till I spotted his motorcycle.

I was a young girl, but I filled out my bikini like a grown woman, and I caught more than a few dads—who were there with their families—checking me out.

For the next four hours, Van and I did that dance teenagers do when they know they have the hots for one another, but they don’t have enough experience to leave the party and hop into bed.

We walked on the beach and talked. We rubbed suntan lotion on each other’s back. I straddled his shoulders, and we played chicken fight in the water with our friends. We won the first two rounds, but on the third one, we got bowled over, and we both went in the drink.

I came up coughing and sputtering and grabbed on to him to steady myself. “Are you okay?” he asked, putting his arms around me.

I pulled myself against him, felt the bulge in his board shorts, and I pulled closer still.

“Almost,” I said, my lips drifting closer to his. He leaned in, and we kissed. “Mmmmm... feeling better already. Except I think I’m getting too much sun. Irish girls don’t tan; we burn.”

“Dutch boys have the same problem. We should both get off the beach.” He smiled. “You want to go hang out someplace shady?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

He pretended to think about it, but it was obvious he’d already worked it out in his head. “You any good at ping-pong?”

“I can beat your sorry ass with one hand tied behind my back.”

“You’re on,” he said. “I have a ping-pong table in my basement.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m kind of grungy from lying on the beach all day. I’d hate to make a lousy first impression on your parents.”

“My parents aren’t home. We have a cabin in the Adirondacks. They’re up there for the weekend. We can blast the music as loud as we want.”

“I don’t have wheels,” I said. “I drove here with Tiffany.”

“I’ve got my bike and an extra helmet.”

“I don’t know,” I said, making him work for it. “What do you think my father would say if he saw me riding around on a Honda?”

“It’s not a Hondalawn mower. It’s a V65 Magna—one of the fastest production motorcycles on the planet. I let your father borrow it last week. He came back with a shit-eating grin on his face, which from a Harley guy is a rave.”

I shrugged. “In that case...”

If I had any second thoughts, I got over them as soon as I got on the back of his bike and wrapped my arms around his chest. We’d spent the whole afternoon ogling one another half naked. I was ready for the other half.

I knew what I was going to do, and I made a mental note of the date: August 8, 1996—the day I was going to lose my virginity.

THIRTEEN

“This is me,” Van said, slowing the bike and turning onto a quiet tree-lined block.

As soon as I looked up and saw the street sign, my sixteen-year-old brain took it as a clear-cut omen that I had made the right decision.I can’t think of a more perfect name for the place where I had my first sexual experience than Harmony Road, I thought, composing my diary entry in advance.

The two-story clapboard house was painted a warm gray with white trim. A bluestone walkway lined with marigolds wound from the sidewalk through green grass to an arched oak front door.

The inside was just as charming, and under other circumstances I’d have told him how pretty I thought it was. But I wasn’t there for a house tour.

“I lied,” I said as soon as he closed the door. I moved closer, reached up, and put my arms around his neck. “I’m lousy at ping-pong.”

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