I.
Approaching the piano, I felt sure that no one was listening, and so was uncharacteristically confident. Had I sung "Tomorrow" like the rest of the girls, I could have slipped away unnoticed as planned. I didn't.
It had only been a few hours since I kissed my parents, and watched with a mixture of relief and anxiety as they maneuvered our Ford Granada up the long, gravel driveway out to the main road. I was thirteen years old, and they had just deposited me at a performing arts camp in the mountains of New York state, where I was to spend the next three weeks learning to sing and dance and act.
I had barely finished unpacking my duffel bag when my counselor sat me down for my intake interview. Leaning in close, hand on my arm to appear interested, she asked, "Now Elisa, tell me about your talents."
I sat there, looking at this perky, pony-tailed stranger and wondered what I should say. "Well, I like to hope and dream. I watch people and imagine their lives and their thoughts and what makes them happy and what makes them sad. I create stories in my head about places other than this one, and… I'm really good at sleeping."
That's not what she wanted to hear, though, and I knew it. So, I didn't say anything, shrugged my shoulders, and was told to prepare for my audition.
The musical to be performed that summer of 1979 was You're a Good Man Charlie Brown. Auditions were held in the dining hall and we were told to bring our own music for the accompanist. My parents had sent me off to camp with my guitar, which I only marginally played when forced to practice, and my Liberace Big Note Songbook, a compendium of 101 popular songs made easy for uninspired novices like me.
Camper after camper went up for their audition, and one after the other sang either "Tomorrow" from the musical Annie, or "Consider Yourself" from Oliver. By the time about ten auditions had happened, the rest of us had stopped listening to the drone of "Tomorrow, Tomorrow, I'll love ya, tomorrow…" over and over again. The hall hummed with the whispers of bored campers waiting their turn.
I picked something from my Liberace book – not because I liked the song, but because it was one that I had sung before, and so I knew that I could hit the high notes. My parents used to require a musical performance each Sunday evening: me playing the guitar and my sister Amanda on flute – further incentive, I suppose, to get us to practice our instruments. I often dreaded these recitals, but for once I was happy that I at least had one song in my repertoire.
Feet planted firmly on the floor, hands on hips, I closed my eyes and imagined myself at home in my living room as I started singing:
Muskrat, muskrat, candlelight. Doin' the town and doin' it right, in the evening, its pretty pleasing…
All noises ceased, and from up and down the line of waiting campers I could see faces slowly turning toward me, mouths open, in silence. Up to that point I had been singing my heart out, and even staying in key. However, seeing all those faces so still, watching me in disbelief, my voice began to waver, and my hands started shaking as I worked my way through the chorus:
And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed,
singing and jinging the jango.
Floatin' like the heavens above,
it looks like muskrat love.
I was no longer in my living room, with my parents nodding their head to the music and clapping with approval. By this point a pit was growing in my stomach, I felt queasy, and the worst of the song was yet to come. Taking a deep breath, I focused on a bright motivational banner ("Aim High!") hanging beyond the open-mouthed stares, and continued:
Nibbling on bacon, chewin' on cheese
Sammy says to Susie "Honey, would you please be my missus?"
And she says yes
With her kisses
By now the stares had turned to muffled snickers and a few outright laughs, and the true horror of the song I had chosen began to press in on me as I tried hard not to cry. I had two choices: flee the audition, or continue on to the end. Vacillating there on the edge of fleeing, I realized that I had to finish—that if I left I would never have any chance of getting chosen for the role of Lucy or Linus or Snoopy, which, I finally admitted to myself, I wanted. I closed my eyes to pinch in the tears, before the final, awful verse:
And now he's ticklin' her fancy
Rubbin' her toes
Muzzle to muzzle, now anything goes
As they wriggle, and Sue starts to giggle…
One more round through the chorus, and I was done. I tried to become invisible by pulling my windbreaker around myself, tucking Liberace underneath, and slouching towards the swinging doors that led out of the dining hall and down to the waterfront. Eyes down, look at no one, straight to the door, I only wanted to go back to my cabin and hide.
That's when I saw him, or rather, his feet, Black Converse All-Stars, no socks, blocking my path to freedom. To get by I had to look up, a fleeting-half-backward-still-
Michael Rossi was cool, or so I was told. Later that day I pointed him out to my cabin-mate Judy as we were standing in the dinner line trying to decide between the breaded cutlets and beef stew. She gave me the lowdown as we slowly made our way past the dessert station. He was fourteen, played the drums, and lived in Queens, in a neighborhood that, she said, had "houses as big as a block." Everyone at camp, it seemed, came from New York City, everyone, it seemed, was rich, and I was convinced that everyone knew each other already. I was an outsider. Judy also told me that Michael Rossi was taken – that he and Amy Shapiro had been going together for two camp sessions now, and that she had just the day before seen them making-out behind the infirmary.
I was from Maryland, didn't know anyone, and couldn't even imagine what a house as big as a block might look like, especially in New York where, I assumed, everyone lived in apartments. Unlike every other girl in my cabin, I had never "gone together," kissed, or even slow-danced with a boy. In the throes of puberty, the idea of "making-out" seemed both scary and thrilling, and unreachable. My breath caught in my throat and my skin burned hot to even think about the possibility. I was introspective, shy, and embarrassed about my developing body. My windbreaker was a protective shield against the outside world – I wore it constantly, even in the sticky summer heat. I was not cool, and didn't expect that I'd ever speak to Michael Rossi.
Our camp days were scheduled into two "major," or required activities, and two "minor," elective activities. My first major was the musical, where in spite of my perseverance during the audition, I was given the smallest possible role in the chorus with no speaking lines. My second major was waterfront. Second Major happened each evening after dinner, from 6:30 until 8:00. Waterfront was an easy major: you just had to show up.
I had no intention of swimming, waterskiing, or boating. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy swimming, or even that I didn't want to swim. The previous summer I had easily passed the test that was required in order to enter the cordoned-off deep-water area. I was twelve then, and everyday I would swim out and lie on the float that was moored about a hundred yards from shore. I'd lie there alone for as long as it took for the sun to warm my chilled body, perfectly still, the lake water lightening and evaporating from my skin. Eyes closed, I loved listening to the sounds of the swimming lessons, feeling the gentle rocking that the motorboat's wake sent on each pass around the lake. Now, at thirteen, I still craved the solitude that the float offered, and the smooth feeling of lake water on my body, but I hoped to get away with staying covered and staying dry.
Earlier that year, back at junior high school, I remember hearing my guidance counselor attempt to explain my seventh-grade psyche to my worried mother. "You see, " he said, "these adolescents believe that the eyes of the whole world are upon them, all the time, and they don't ever stop to think about what they are doing."
He was wrong. I wouldn't swim that summer, because, yes, I was self-conscious. I imagined a scenario not unlike my Muskrat Love audition: in walking from the beach to the water, clad only in my swimsuit, all eyes would turn toward me, mouths open, in disbelief, before the whispering and laughing would begin. However, I did stop to think, always. My each move was thought through several steps in advance as I engaged in a complex orchestration of avoidance. I simply did not want to draw attention to myself. When I was younger, I had reveled in my difference from the other kids… now everyone else seemed spontaneous, out-going, and carefree, and I was not. I wanted to hide from these differences, and worked hard to organize my life so that I wouldn't be noticed.
So, on that first evening of waterfront, I sat by myself on the pine-covered hill that sloped down to the beach and watched the predictable pattern of the waterskiing campers. There would be a quiet lull as the motorboat idled and moved into position and each new skier took the end of the rope. Then, the revving up as the boat surged out into the lake. If the skier stayed up, you could count on three laps around the lake (never more, never less) before returning and starting over. My eyes closed, I followed the boat only by sound, estimating its position based on the loudness of the engine, and then tried to open my eyes at the exact moment the boat passed by me on each lap. Absorbed in my game, I didn't sense that someone had sat down next to me.
"You know, Muskrat Love is probably one of the worst songs ever." I snapped out of my reverie, and turned to see Michael Rossi. I looked at him, turned and looked behind me, up and down the hill, but no, I was the only one there and he was talking to me. Then the unbelievable happened: he asked me to go for a boat ride with him! Several minutes later we were seated in a rowboat, and Michael Rossi was rowing us both out into the lake, away from the safety of my hill, and we were alone, together. I'm not even sure if I had said more than two sentences in reply to his initial comment, and our trip from the hill to the boat was a blur.
Out to the middle of the lake, the camp shoreline becoming more and more distant, my mind was racing. Did he really ask me to go rowing with him? What does that mean? What should I say? What about Amy Shapiro? Why hadn't I worn my flowered shorts instead of my ratty old cut-offs? Even worse, I had the bulky orange life preserver strapped on over my windbreaker and was getting itchier and sweatier with each passing minute. We were quiet, and the sounds of camp grew more and more distant. The rhythmic clunking of the oars in their cradle and the slapping of water against the side of the boat helped to calm my nerves only slightly, and I knew I'd have to start talking soon.
"C'mon," he said, stopping in mid-row and kicking me in the shin, "loosen up!" And then, Michael Rossi started singing: "Muskrat, muskrat, candlelight…"
I looked at him, with his bulky life-preserver and piped-edged running shorts, singing Muskrat Love in the middle of this lake, and saw no alternative but to join in: "Doin' the town and doin' it right…" By the end of the next line we had both lost our composure and could barely sing between our laughter. Each line that we forced out only made it worse. We stayed there, on the lake, laughing and singing until the lifeguards blew the extra-long whistle that was our 10-minute warning. Michael rowed us back to camp, and we were quiet again. As soon as the boat bumped into the dock, he hopped out, turned to pull me after him, and then loped off up the hill with a cheery "See ya tomorrow!" called out over his shoulder.
III.
For three glorious weeks Michael Rossi and I went rowing every weeknight evening after dinner. I would arrive at the waterfront a little early and claim our boat, and then he'd come flying down the hill at the last moment. He always rowed out, and I usually rowed back in when the whistle blew. Sometimes we would sing, sometimes we would pass the time in silence, sometimes we would talk about our camp days, or even a bit about our lives outside of camp. I'd like to say that we had intense heart-to-heart conversations, or that he was a great listener to whom I could confide my deepest secrets and dreams. But, no. Michael Rossi was smart and funny, but he was also a fourteen-year-old boy and he generally tried to steer our conversations around to his own favorite topic: sex.
It was our third or fourth night out on the water the first time he brought it up. We had rowed to the far side of the lake where the weed-choked cabins of an abandoned boys camp stared out at us. This area of the shoreline always seemed spooky to me. To get there, you had to row around a bend in the lake that obscured our own camp from view. The windows and doors of the boys camp buildings had long ago been boarded over, and many were falling down or sinking into the ground. The entire area had a hushed, muted, worn-down aura. It didn't seem right to talk, and we rowed in silence. I was lost in my own thoughts, imagining what the camp must have been like in its bustling heyday: screen doors banging, boys running, yelling, whooping with excitement, doing cannon-balls off the end of the dock which was now mostly submerged in the mud at the edge of the lake. I sat, on the rowboat bench, knees drawn to my chest, my arms hugging them, almost oblivious to Michael, when he stopped rowing, looked at me and said, "You know, we could DO IT right now on the bottom of the boat, and no one would ever know."
Oh – my – God. My mouth dropped open, and my face turned crimson. I had no idea what to say, how to respond. A million questions flashed through my mind at once: Was this a joke? What if it wasn't a joke? What would a cool girl say? How could you even "do it" in a boat? What does it mean to "do it" anyway – first base, third base, or… even further? WHAT about Amy Shapiro? As I tried to compose myself we heard the faint sound of the long whistle blowing on the other side of the lake. Unable to meet his eye, I mumbled that I would row back and we switched positions. Thankful for the distraction, I concentrated my efforts on returning us to camp as quickly as possible. When we finally bumped up against the waterfront dock, Michael took his leave as usual, to go and "do it" with Amy Shapiro, or at least that is what I suspected.
At thirteen years old, I had not given much thought to the actual act of sex. Even making out seemed murky, and real sex (whatever I imagined real to be) was something that wasn't supposed to come until later: maybe in college or when you were married, but certainly not in a rowboat in the middle of a lake. Part of me was shocked by Michael's statement and another part knew that he was kidding and could not possibly want to do it with me. However, his forthrightness also stirred feelings that I didn't yet understand and could only barely begin to acknowledge: the part of me that could imagine sneaking into one of those cabins in the boys camp across the lake, ripping off my life-preserver and windbreaker and whatever else, and doing it with Michael Rossi right there on the rough, wooden floor. These images were exciting and graphic, but they also made me feel guilty (girls like me don't do that kind of thing!). I tried to push them out of my mind as quickly as they entered.
In spite of, or maybe because of, my embarrassment, Michael persisted with his sex-related statements and innuendo on our nightly outings. I still blushed every time he steered the subject in that direction, but, I soon learned to look him in the eye and laugh. Occasionally, I even managed to respond with a quick sarcastic or teasing reply. He never mentioned Amy Shapiro, and I didn't ask, as I liked to imagine that she didn't really exist.
Though we would often stop rowing and linger in front of the boys' camp, Michael and I never left the boat to sneak into the cabins. The thought, however, became more and more intriguing. And, as the days progressed, I found that I was no longer so certain about what "a girl like me" would or would not do with Michael Rossi given the opportunity, and I began to allow myself to imagine the possibilities with increasing frequency and less guilt. Our give and take on those long, slow summer evenings became a game that I actually enjoyed, and I even – almost – felt like a cool girl.
IV.
On our last night rowing I was in no mood for sarcastic retorts. On that final trip, I couldn't ignore that my time with Michael Rossi was coming to an end, and as we neared the far side of the lake, I knew that I was ready to beach the boat and lead him off into the bushes. I ached for him to drop one of his usual sex-related suggestions, because the good girl in me still couldn't seem to initiate the possibility myself. For once, though, Michael was quiet, and we sat in an uncharacteristically awkward silence as we watched the motorboat make the waterskiing laps -- three times around, again and again. It was almost a relief to hear the whistle blow and head back to shore. Climbing out of the boat, Michael took off up the hill calling out, "See you later at the dance!"
My heart flew into my throat. He wanted to see me at the dance! Surely that must mean that he liked me, we'd dance together, and that maybe, just maybe, I would get to visit that dark corner behind the infirmary with him. I was overjoyed, and ran all the way back to my cabin to get ready.
Before that moment, I had not planned on attending the traditional last-night-of-camp dance. I usually tried to steer clear of the evening activities, and knew that I wouldn't dance with anyone even if I did go. However, after Michael's comment, I couldn't wait to go, and took extra care in preparing for what I was sure would be a special night. I washed, blow-dried and used Judy's curling iron on my hair to make it feather back just right. I even took the time to apply and re-apply lipstick in order to properly accentuate my thin upper-lip. My Jordache jeans, favorite blue button-down shirt (with two buttons open instead of the usual one) and windbreaker seemed like the perfect outfit. As a final touch I dabbed some Love's Baby Soft perfume onto my pulse points. I felt ready for anything.
The dance was held in the dining hall. Tables were pushed to the edges of the room, and Howard, one of the counselors, had set up stereo equipment near the kitchen entrance. I walked in to the stiff beat of My Sharona blasting from the speakers. The overhead florescent lights were off, and someone had set up theatre lights in the corners so that bright beams of color slashed across the dark dance floor. A mirror ball was rotating, turning the entire room into a swirling pointillist canvas. A few kids were dancing, but most were sitting in chairs around the perimeter of the hall. I didn't see Michael anywhere.
Le Freak came on next, and suddenly everyone was out of their seats. I sat down and scanned the crowd, figuring that he'd be there soon. More and more people were dancing with each song: Bad Girls, Do Ya' Think I'm Sexy, Y.M.C.A. I wanted to get up and join the mass of bodies, but was worried that I'd look silly and that I might miss Michael. So I sat and waited.
A slow song came on, and the dance floor cleared. The song, You Light Up my Life, echoed through the room, and the floor started filling up again with couples. I hoped that Michael might arrive soon so that maybe he and I could join them. Then, across the room, I saw him. He was already dancing—with Amy Shapiro. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, her arms wrapped up around his neck, his face nuzzled down into her hair, eyes closed, both swaying slowly to the music.
The dead weight of realization hit me. I wasn't going to dance with, or make-out with, or even kiss Michael Rossi. I felt like a fool, and wanted to run out of the hall into the darkness of that Friday night. I couldn't move though, couldn't take my eyes off of them. I sat there and watched them dance through that song, and the next, another love song. I watched them, at first desperately wishing that I could be in her shoes with my body pressed against his. However, as the minutes went by my longing turned from envy towards fascination. In their dance I saw a world of love, and belonging, and connection, and sex—a world that had seemed so foreign and impossible to me just a few weeks before. I still stood outside, watching, but now I no longer felt like a complete stranger.
Before the second song ended, I got up and left, walking slowly back to my empty cabin. I climbed into my bunk, and lay in the dark listening to the crickets and the distant music from the dining hall for a long time until I finally fell asleep.
V.
The next morning I woke up with one thought on my mind: I had to say goodbye to Michael Rossi. Jumping out of bed, pulling on my clothes, I hurried out of the cabin to try and find him before my parents arrived to pick me up for the drive back to Maryland. The entire camp was buzzing with activity, as kids and parents were reuniting, packing up cars, and saying their goodbyes to counselors and cabin-mates. Stationing myself on a long, low wall that bordered the path leading to the dining hall, I hoped that I'd catch Michael on his way to or from breakfast. I anxiously scanned the crowd, worried that it was too late and he might already be gone.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally saw him coming up the path with several other boys from his cabin. I stayed on the wall until he was nearly upon me, before calling his name. He stopped and turned in my direction. Jumping off the wall, I walked over and looked up at him. Now that I was there with him in front of me, I didn't know what to say, especially with his friends watching and listening so attentively. After an awkward moment of silence, without really thinking about it, I reached over, took hold of his shoulders, pulled him toward me, and kissed him—not a small peck on the cheek, but a full-on lip-to-lip kiss.
That kiss probably only lasted a second or two, but in my memory those seconds were stretched out and relived many times: the moment of contact, the soft yielding of his lips (much softer than I could have imagined), and the solidness of his shoulders and neck under my hands. My first real kiss was gentle, warm, and just right. I pulled away, exhilarated, smiled at Michael Rossi, and said, "Just wanted to say goodbye."
Before he could speak, I turned and headed off back towards my cabin. Rain clouds were coming in off the lake, the air was turning chilly, and it was only then that I realized I had left my windbreaker behind on the wall. I didn't go back to get it.
This piece was written and published online in 2005. Some names have been changed.
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