We sat around a wobbly, cast-iron table outside Starbucks around 9:30 one night the summer that I was fourteen. Emma, Karen, Cathy, and I had just been to a movie we had since decided was a waste of $4.50 and two hours of our lives. Cathy was sipping her blackberry green tea frappuccino and flipping her Razr open and closed, hoping she had missed an incoming text from Jared, her current object of affection. Cathy then pressed the buttons, making a clicking noise. She then sighed and put the phone back in her huge bag. “Bathroom,” she said, sliding her chair out and proceeding inside. Emma stirred her light vanilla bean something-or- other she’d ordered because it didn’t taste like coffee. She twirled her straw around the small hole in the supposedly spill-proof top, wondering how long it would be until her parents picked us up. A faint humming started in her purse. After a few “Mmhmms” and a couple “Yeah, okays,” she hung up and announced, “They’ll be here in like 15 minutes.” Karen people-watched, and rued that she didn’t order anything.
“Are the guys meeting us tonight?” Karen asked Emma. We were fourteen, boys were rarely far from our minds. My ears perked up.
“I don’t think so,” Emma answered.
Then, there was me, a bit disappointed since I had straightened my hair for an hour and was not even going to see anyone, I was drained from watching a boring movie in an uncomfortable seat. And I had bought a bottle of water instead of coffee. I don’t remember who started the conversation, but somehow we stumbled upon the topic of “experience,” which morphed into how we all wanted to meet guys this summer and, to be blunt, make out with them.
“I bet I will be the first one to make out with a boy,” declared Kathy.
“Ummmm, Kathy?” Emma replied, “ I think I, without a doubt will be the first and ONLY one to this trip.”
I was spending practically the entire month of July with Cathy at her summer house on Cape Cod. There, I was hoping I would find a cute, mature,...