That morning it would hold my wallet with my driver’s permit and four dollars. I wasn’t old enough to have an official license yet; I’d just turned fifteen three months before. The bag also held my reading glasses, a hairbrush, apple-flavored lip gloss, two tampons, a birth control packet and two schoolbooks: advanced geometry and chemistry. I’d finished my homework the night before, folded the notebook papers in half and stuck them between the pages of my books. Everything else I needed for my classes I kept in my locker at school.
I wore hip-hugger, bell-bottom blue jeans with a macramé belt, a flowery peasant top and sandals. I had on the same jewelry I wore every day: silver hoop earrings and a brown felt choker that had a dangling peace sign. Even though this was South Florida in May, the mornings could still get a little cool, so I wore a red and white poncho Delia had knitted.
That morning my stepfather, Vince, had driven me to the bus stop. I could’ve walked, but it was far, so I grabbed rides from Vince whenever I could. He would’ve taken me all the way to school, but he had to drive in the other direction to do that, and I had no problem riding the bus.
I might have asked Matthew for a ride, but something was off with him. Matthew was a senior I was tutoring, and we’d become close. We weren’t a couple, but I knew he was interested. I was also becoming close to his family. I actually spent more time with them than my own. Less than a week ago, he’d kissed me goodnight on my front porch. But now he was telling me he wouldn’t need my help with tutoring and he didn’t have time to be my friend. Before, he was always offering to give me a lift to and from school. Not anymore, I guess. But like I said, I didn’t have a problem with the bus.
“See ya later, kiddo,” Vince said as I jumped out of his rickety van.
“Later, Vince.”
That day was a regular day at school. I was spared the awkwardness of running into Matthew. We didn’t take any of the same classes and didn’t hang with the same crowd. But still, it would’ve been nice to ask him the reason behind the abrupt halt to our friendship. I was more curious than hurt. I mean, it was just a simple goodnight kiss.
I’d finished all my homework by the time Study Hall ended, which meant I could allow myself to go to the public library after school. If I’d had homework, I would’ve gone straight home or to Smitty’s. But on days I didn’t have homework, I loved to go to the county library and immerse myself in books. I’d been going there since grade school, and I’d made friends with everyone who worked there. I’d just need to take a different bus from school. We weren’t supposed to swap buses without a signed permission slip each time, but the bus drivers all knew me, and Delia had given her approval earlier in the year. I did it so often they’d stopped asking for a slip.
“Hey Gin, no homework today, I see,” Mrs. Rogers, the librarian, said as I walked through the doors. I just smiled and nodded at her as I headed for the card catalog. For a long time I’d been meaning to look up some books on John Wilkes Booth. We were studying President Lincoln’s assassination in school, and I’d already devoured the books from the school library. I wanted to see if the local library had anything else to offer on the subject. I was in luck.
By five o’clock it was time to start packing things up, so I hauled my three books to the desk to check out.
“Need to make a call?” Mrs. Rogers asked.
“Yes, please,” I replied. They were used to letting me use the phone to call Delia or Vince for a ride home.
Vince must have been running behind on his delivery schedule and wasn’t back at the warehouse yet. I left a message saying I needed a ride home from the library, but that I’d try calling Delia too. Which I did, but there was no answer where she worked. That could’ve meant a few things: She’d left, or she was talking to a customer and didn’t want to pick up the phone, or maybe she was in the back room and didn’t hear it. Oh well, this had happened before. No big deal.
“You going to be okay, Ginny?” Mrs. Rogers asked. “I don’t want to lock up and leave if you don’t have a ride. I’d be glad to take you home.”
She was sweet. She offered this every time I didn’t have an immediate lift home.
“Oh, no problem, Mrs. Rogers. I’ll walk over to the convenience store and get a drink. Vince knows to come by there if the library is closed.”
And that’s what I did. Like I had done a hundred times in the past. I bought a soda and sat out front with my back against the entrance. I drank my soda and was so engrossed in one of my books I barely noticed when a noisy motorcycle pulled up.
It wasn’t until the person driving turned it off and started walking toward me that I realized someone was talking to me. I heard a little chuckle and then, “That must be some good book you got your face buried in. I’ve been asking you what you’re reading since I got off my bike and you didn’t even hear me.”
I glanced up. He looked like a typical motorcycle guy. Average height. Brown, shaggy hair that just touched his collar. He wore jeans, boots and a white T-shirt under a leather jacket. He smiled then, and I answered with a smile of my own.
“History. Lincoln.” That was all I said. I wasn’t a flirt and didn’t think he required any more than that. I immediately looked back down at the book I had propped up against my knees.
That answer seemed to suit him because he didn’t say anything else as he swung the door open and proceeded inside.
He came out a few minutes later with a Coke. He squatted next to me and looked at the book I was reading as he drank his soda. Without any prompting he started to engage me in conversation about Abraham Lincoln and more specifically about Booth. I found what he said interesting so I closed my book and turned to give him my full attention. He was nice and seemed like an okay guy—nothing like what I’d expected a man on a motorcycle to be like.
After a few minutes of discussing John Wilkes Booth the conversation turned personal, but not in a disturbing way. He asked how old I was and seemed genuinely shocked when I told him fifteen. He asked me what grade I was in, where I went to school, my hobbies, stuff like that. He seemed really interested and even teased, “Well, I guess I’ll have to come back in three years if I want to take you on a real date or something.”
Oh, my goodness. He was flirting with me. I had boys at school flirt with me all the time. They’d say things like, “Gin, how come you’re not out there cheering? You’re just as pretty as the cheerleaders.” They were always offering to give me a ride home or asking if I wanted to hang out after school.
The boy I’d been tutoring, Matthew, had seemed interested, too. At least up until a couple days ago. He was a popular senior and our school’s star running back. He went by the nickname Rocket Man. He was cute and sweet and flunking two classes. I was tutoring him in English and math. Truth was, I liked boys, and Matthew was growing on me. I liked the kiss we shared. But I wasn’t interested in a serious boyfriend, especially one who would be leaving for college in the fall. I had too much to accomplish before I could get involved in a relationship.
But this was a man flirting with me, not a boy. And I realized I was more than a little flattered that he was taking an interest in me.