Under The Influence

As far back as I can remember, I had one very specific goal: True love’s first kiss. I lived in the little girl fantasyland of glass slippers, poison apples, impossibly high towers, and dramatic rescues by princes charming. I blame the influence of Disney movies.         

At least I learned the difference between prince and villain at three-years-old when Jeffrey Kniefer stole my Fisher Price lawn-mower, hiding it at the entrance to the crawl space under his house. I was stomping my Buster Brown clad feet in anger when his deceit was discovered. Our mothers told us to “kiss and make up.” But this was no fairy tale story for me. I punched him in the face.            

In kindergarten, I set my sights on and my sleeping pad next to KR Holtz. His father was the football coach at NC State University, but I didn’t care about sports. I cared about his gap-toothed smile and architectural skills with building blocks. His was the last face I saw as I’d drift off at nap time. He had no idea that he was my first boyfriend, but as Sleeping Beauty taught me, patience is key and love’s first kiss can come after a good long nap.              

I truly believed that the best way for someone to prove their love is a dramatic rescue. I was also buying into “the girl next door” archetype and was determined to get my neighbor Tommy to pay attention to me. When I was eleven and he was twelve, he was up to bat at the Kenney’s lopsided backyard baseball diamond, and he smashed the ball through a forked tree to my spot at third base, and nailed me in the forehead. Ever chivalrous, Tommy called “MOM!” “My hero is saving me in my time of need!” I thought briefly, until he declared it a foul ball and the boys continued the game while Mrs. Kenney guided me into the house to apply an ice-filled washcloth to the baseball-sized lump forming between my eyes.             

Snow White had taught me that vanity is not attractive, so in 7th grade social studies, I slumped in my chair uncomprehending how it was that cute guys like Danny Martschenko were so much more interested in the girls who spent half their time rolling Bubble Gum Kissing Potion over their lips while staring at themselves in Maybelline compact mirrors. Sure enough, they’d be kissing jocks by their lockers as soon as the bell rang. When I got my own Bonnie Belle Berry Smash, I stood alone by my locker, the only one tasting the berries.

By 8th grade, I’d become desperate for my first kiss. My new friend Michelle was also on the quest. Mom was no fan of our friendship. Initially things were fine. “I’m going to Michelle’s house after school,” I would tell my mother in the morning, and I’d get off the bus at the Greenbelt apartment complex, just a few stops before my own, and head into the bliss that was Michelle’s quiet, empty condo where she lived with her single father. At first Mom was happy that I’d stopped asking her to pick me up across town at Giselle’s or Julie’s. Michelle’s was a much more convenient friendship. But when mom needed to get me for a dentist appointment and I gave her Michelle’s address and she pulled up to the row of town-homes, mom started asking questions: “Will Michelle’s mother be there?”         

“She doesn’t have a mother,” I rolled my eyes at the ridiculousness of the question.          “

"Poor girl, you two should come to our house instead. I don’t want you home alone there and she shouldn’t be alone either.”

But that was the point. That was what made Michelle so exotic to me. The freedom of her motherless life. The relaxed way that her father trusted her to choose her own snacks and how she got to watch soap operas without questioning the characters’ choices. We started saying we were going to the mall after school, when really, we were curling up on her couch watching Luke and Laura in the campus disco on General Hospital as we gorged on Hostess pudding pies.        

So, it was surprising when my over-protective mother let me go on a beach trip with Michelle and her father the summer before 9th grade. Michelle’s dad had a lady friend who joined us on the second day so, much like when we were at her house, we were free to roam and hang out at the pier arcade. Michelle had her eye on a Leif-Garrett-looking dude with a pronounced Adam’s apple who was an ace at Space Invaders. When he laughed, the car keys hanging from a chain off a belt loop on his jeans jangled like fairy dust. The glow of a cigarette hanging from his lips had her mesmerized. We pretended to be looking in our purses for quarters for the Pac Man machine when Michelle whispered, “Ok, I’m going for it.” Michelle was fearless. Maybe because there was no one living her house to pelt her with promises of penance every time she pushed a boundary.

She grabbed my hand and dragged me with her.

“Hey, can I bum a cigarette?” Michelle asked, as if she was a smoker, which she was not. Adam’s Apple reached into his pocket and pulled out a crushed pack of Camels. “What’s your name,” Michelle asked as the guy we learned was Bobby lit it for her. She looked like a pro as she took a deep drag. I began to wonder what else I didn’t know about Michelle.            

They talked for all of ten minutes as I absently rolled kissing potion over my lips.            

“Want to go for a drive?” Bobby asked, revealing his chipped front tooth.           

“Only if Suzanne can come too,” responded Michelle.            

“Sure,” he said, “As long as Marcus can join us.”            

I hadn’t really noticed Bobby’s friend Marcus, playing pinball with a mop of brown hair falling across his face. He looked a bit like Potsie from Happy Days.          

Mom’s “Never get into a car with someone you don’t know” haunted my thoughts but Michelle’s “You only live once!” won out. Moments later, I found myself in the backseat of Bobby’s brown Trans Am, my skin brushing against Marcus’ sweaty forearm, a little spark of electricity igniting between us.

              Bobby had his arm draped over Michelle’s shoulder in the front seat and at the stop light, Bobby started French kissing her and the back seat felt way too close to bear witness. But it dawned on me that Marcus could be the Luke to my Laura, the prince to my Cinderella, and tonight might be the night of that first kiss I’d been dreaming of since forever. Bobby drove to the jetty at the south end of Wrightsville Beach, and we walked out to the tip of the barrier island where the water curves around to meet the channel. Bobby spread a sheet out in the sand for us all to sit on and Michelle and Bobby got right down to business, groping each other under the spotlight of the moon. “Wanna take a walk?” Marcus finally spoke. In response, I hopped off the sheet like one of those Mexican Jumping Beans my brother gave me for my birthday.        

As we walked along the deserted shoreline, I learned that Marcus was from Kernville and was in 10th grade. Apparently that revelation was deep enough to make him comfortable with reaching for my hand. I was sure the quickening of my heart could be heard over the waves. He went on to share that he likes hotdogs and has the highest score in Asteroids amongst his friends, heartfelt confessions that were worthy of a pause in our stroll. He leaned in for a kiss. Jeepers creepers, this is IT! My face flushed in the cool breeze as I puckered my lips, but Marcus from Kernville, proceeded to part them with his tongue, which totally grossed me out. I tried to stay engaged in this pivotal, life-changing moment, but all I could think about was that he’d clearly had onions on his hotdog earlier in the evening and I could really go for a strawberry Slushie right about then. Something cool would feel so much better in my mouth than a sticky, warm, mustard and onion-flavored tongue. Thankfully, Marcus moved away from my mouth and I could breathe again, but he was now focused on my ear and then on my neck, which was nice and tickley, but I nervously giggled then pulled away as his hand began shimmying up under my shirt.

“We should probably get back to our friends,” I said. One sloppy kiss was enough of an adventure for one night. And I was worried about Michelle.

When we got back to the blanket, Bobby and Michelle were soaked and laughing, a wave having washed up over them, interrupting their tryst. I was glad to see their wet clothes were still on. Back at the pier parking lot, we said goodbye and Michelle promised Bobby that she’d visit him soon so they could pick up where they left off. I gave Marcus my address and a quick peck on the cheek.            

We walked back to the condo laughing about how the sand in Michelle’s pockets was a souvenir of her first kiss. Then she spotted my neck. A deep purple bruise was forming. “Looks like you’ve got a souvenir too!” she said.             When I saw the hickey in the bathroom mirror, I freaked out. We were heading home the next day and no amount of makeup would hide it from my mother. Michelle had the brilliant idea of burning my neck with her curling iron, further branding memories of my first kiss into my skin.            

As Michelle’s dad drove us home, we conspiratorially giggled in the backseat, Michelle declaring that she was most definitely in love with Bobby. Every song on the radio took her deeper into her obsession. America’s Top 40 was filled with love songs: Bad Case of Lovin' You, I Want You To Want Me and Chuck E’s In Love.  I thought maybe Marcus should mean more to me than he did. But when his letters came, three in that first week, he had no more to say in writing than he did on the beach and shared little beyond his latest Asteroids score, what he had for dinner and how much he wanted to kiss me again. I thought of that tongue. And I didn’t write him back.

Meanwhile Michelle wrote Bobby a stack of unanswered letters. At thirteen, we didn’t find our prince’s charming, but we remained committed to our quests for the fairy tale ending. I eventually got mine and I hope Michelle did too.

As shared at Story Salon on September 25, 2024 when the theme was Under the Influence.