“One day Chloe asked if I could drive her home…” [MF]

One day Chloe asked if I could drive her home. She went to the office and phoned her mom. I heard her say, “He’s not a boyfriend, Mom!” and then a few seconds later, “Yes, him.”

Her house was like a picture. It was surrounded on three sides by rolling hills covered in yellow crops bending in the passing breeze. It was as quiet as a church. She said her parents won’t be home til after 5.

“Want to come upstairs?” she asked, as though that’s what we do now, even though her house had no bullying siblings, no overbearing parents. “I can show you around,” she said. Chloe was 18, had short fluffy blonde hair and big round brown eyes. She was short, not too slim, and smiled as cute as a toy.

We went to her bedroom. She asked me to wait a minute. She came back wearing a pressed sharp red dress. “I wanted to show you this,” she said. I was waiting for her to tell me what the occasion was. She said, “You don’t like it.”

I said, “It looks incredible.”

Her French phrase killed me [MFM]

Keith suggested camping. There was one big tent. He seemed keen to make sure Joanne was going, and Joanne seemed to be making sure I was going. It looked like all four of us guys and her were in, but by the time Saturday came, it was down to just Keith, Joanne and myself. I tried to back out but Joanne wouldn’t let me. I was curious about why. I was trying to gauge Keith on this, but I couldn’t read anything.

I was staying in a cabin outside a small town with four student friends. We were looking for summer work. Joanne, the one girl, was from Quebec. The way she talked so openly about private things made the rest of us embarrassed and she would laugh at us for it. She was so free, and years ahead of us in ways.

She wore long brown hair that hung around her shoulders like a shining curtain or a cape. She couldn’t talk without it sounding like breathy porn and she couldn’t smile without it looking like everything had a hidden sexual meaning.

“You’re not a jock, are you . . ” [MF]

My roommate sometimes came home with company. It made me feel like an antisocial weirdo if the girl saw me in the dark working by a lamp in the living room. I had courses like Latin, Chinese history, and American politics. Reed was on the football team and spent most of his year either at practice or at parties. They would startle and ask him “What’s wrong with him?” Reed would try to assure them I wasn’t anything to worry about and rush her to his bedroom.

The worst thing was when they’d want to know what I was working on. I’d say something evasive. There were some girls who’d turn items around on my table or start picking up books from my piles and fall into a chair. I didn’t want to distract Reed’s girls from his bed. He’d flop on the couch though and turn on the TV. Then he’d say “Why are the lights out, its too hard to see in here,” and he’d flip them all on. The TV would pull them away.