Ants on Peonies

GREAT IN EIGHT. I’ll remember that line till my last breath because it was my first to Ava Anderson. We had just met in Miss Lee’s eighth grade homeroom and were randomly partnered to create a slogan that would define our hope for the new school year. We hadn’t even underlined the date in our notebooks and I blurted it out: Great in Eight.

Ava’s smile was a mile wide. “Yep, that’s it.”

I mirrored her grin and introduced myself. “My name’s Valentine Ann. People call me Vann for short.”

“Neat name.” She smiled again. “I’m Ava.”

“I like yours, too. We both have Vs.”

An alphabet letter seems like such a tenuous block on which to build a friendship, but that’s all it took.

By October, we were on the phone half of every night or until one of our parents yelled for us to clear the line. The conversations were predictable: Cute boys, bad teachers, fries with gravy, Tiger Beat and The Brady Bunch topped our mutual interests. It was enough for a night’s chatter, with spillover.

By November, we were shopping together – in and out of the same four stores Main Street offered up for misses’ fashions. There wasn’t a lot of choice; in small-town America change came slowly and that included retail shipments from the city, but the deft saleswomen kept moving the merchandise around so it felt like we were seeing new arrivals,

And then, one magical Saturday in December, our mothers let us take the bus from Bridgewater to Brockton to spend the day shopping at Macy’s department store. It was only a 15-minute drive, but the significance of travelling alone was not lost on us. We could barely contain our excitement, memorizing the Macy’s Christmas flyers in anticipation of the event.

When the day finally arrived and we walked through the revolving door to a glass counter devoted entirely to gloves, we actually stopped and hugged in the aisle. It was a seminal moment; one from which our burgeoning friendship never looked back.

It goes without saying we rang in New Year’s 1974 together — at a party Ava’s parents threw. Our toast? Friends till the end.

But no relationship is perfect, ours included. Secrets, crafted quickly to patch the awkward early moments of friendship, are too sloppy, too flimsy, to outlive it.

Mine was a doozy. Here it is.

I was in love with one of Ava’s brothers. She had four, whom she affectionately dubbed the Quad Squad Crazies: Jackson, Elliot, David and Dexter. The two oldest, Dex and Dave, were away at university for most of the year, while Elliot and Jackson were still at home. Ava had a favorite, Jackson, whom we all called Jack. He was my favorite too, and not in a brotherly way.

As much as I longed to share this with Ava, it was out of the question. Ava was beautiful, ethereal more than checklist pretty. You’d get swept up by her look, think you knew it, and then the light would change and her face would reveal itself all, and differently, again. Sadly, her insecurities were just as multi-faceted.

Knowing her looks granted access to something bigger than themselves, some kids at school clung pathetically to her side. It skewed her confidence, making her more than a little crazy about people’s motives. Which is why I uttered not a word of how I felt about Jack; I didn’t want her to think I was using her to get to him.

But, oh, to get to him!.

Jack was gorgeous, not in Ava’s otherworldly kind of way, but straight-up handsome: cornflower blue eyes flecked with violet and framed by a tousled mop of chocolate hair. And he had such an easy-going character that it drew you in from the get-go.

He was two years older than us, so when Ava and I met he wasn’t around much, consumed as he was with high school activities. But since I practically lived at Ava’s house it was inevitable that we ran into each other occasionally.

One night, soon after deciding we’d keep our best friend status over the summer break and sealing the deal by becoming each other’s blood sister, Ava and I had an indoor campout. We had new sleeping bags for the May long weekend and were intent on a backyard adventure, but the fickle spring weather turned foul so we had to unroll our bags over the Persian rug, rearrange a few sticks of furniture and set up camp in her living room. We made Jiffypop on the stove and drank Coke from a Thermos, and we fell asleep making plans for our upcoming Grade 8 graduation dance.

I can’t recall the last bit of conversation as I drifted off, but I remember the night vividly because I awoke in the middle of it with Jack crouched over me, lifting up my pajama top and fondling my left breast. I want to tell you that I was outraged, but I was actually kind of flattered because I figured it meant he liked me. Still, I didn’t know how to react, so I pretended I was asleep and just rolled over.

Not a memory for the scrapbook, but the truth.

The next morning, I felt like a different version of myself. The Incident was the first thing I thought of when I woke up and it altered my actions for the day.

Normally, Ava and I would have gone to the family breakfast in our baby dolls, but I insisted on getting dressed first, which Ava thought was “weirdo.”

And, at the table, my usual motor mouth was stalled, so I simply ate my peanut butter toast in silence, prompting Mrs. Anderson to ask me if I was feeling all right.

I tried to make eye contact with Jack, to see what registered on his face. I needed proof that the Incident had occurred because the further away I got from the moment the less real it seemed. I couldn’t get him to look at me, but when he got up from the table without having seconds I knew it had really happened. I was relieved by that silent affirmation.

It was a Sunday morning and my mom was on her way to pick me up for church – the Andersons were not churchgoers, a fact I was reminded of at every turn by my mother.

So, while I had entered Ava’s house at 6:45 Saturday night as Valentine Ann Scott, girl, I left on Sunday morning, a disorganized version of myself — less whole, but more complete. The energy of that moment had changed me.

I sat in the pew at church earnestly trying to focus on the priest as he lectured about our responsibility to be Christian beacons in a world that was losing its light, but all I could think about was Jack and his hand on my boob.

My skin began burning — an unfamiliar pattern of heat that slow-danced its way across my lower belly and down my inner thighs. What is happening to me?

I looked over at my mother. Santa Margarita — Maggie to most — sat reverently, rosary beads in hand, absorbed in the homily.

I wish I loved church as much as she did. I wish I wasn’t always thinking bad things in good places. I wish I were a better person.

God, help me to be the person I should be. I’m sorry for thinking about Jack so much when I should be thinking about you. I’ll say an extra round on the rosary tonight. But you know, if you could make it happen, please make Jack like me back.

* * *

I uttered not a word about the Incident and continued to make plans with Ava for our graduation and summer holidays.

I ended up going to the eighth grade dance with Michael Greymore, who I’d known since kindergarten. I wore a long white dress with little blue dots that Mom felt was pretty and appropriate. I had been hoping for something more glamorous, though I have to say the smocking detail across the chest area unintentionally enhanced my bust line, plus I got to wear white, crinkly patent sandals with a 1 1/2-inch heel (yes, I measured them). My hair was more co-operative than usual so, overall, I thought I looked OK. Michael looked nice too, but since the Memorial Day weekend, I could only think of Jack.

In fact, I couldn’t wait for the grad dance to be over because that delivered me closer to the annual Fourth of July party hosted by the Andersons. Ava’s parents, who owned a restaurant in Bridgewater, were famous for entertaining and the start of summer was always a big deal for a town that was a gateway to seasonal tourists.

And this was the party everyone waited for. They held it outside, closing off the street at both ends with long wooden sawhorses borrowed from the town. Curbside, they set up banquet tables bathed in a swath of blue cloth, punctuated with vases of red and white carnations and platters of food. Salads, steaks, burgers — pick your pleasure, you’d find it there.

When darkness settled, which was pretty close to 9 p.m. at that time of year, there were fireworks followed by dessert. Instead of a flag-themed cake, the Andersons’ ordered theirs frosted with colors borrowed from the half-light of a summer sky — swooshes of orange and pink.

Then the dancing started. The oldest Anderson brother, Dex, had a pretty good stereo system and an amazing cassette collection, so the music played well past midnight.

Much deliberation went into wardrobe planning, mostly because Ava and I had completely different objectives. Ava was always trying to downplay her assets. So, her party ensemble consisted of a fringed, suede vest over a baggy tee, bellbottom jeans and flat sandals to minimize her height.

I, on the other hand, wanted to play up what I didn’t have. I’m not ashamed to admit I had stuffed my bra on more than one occasion, though I had the forethought not to engage in such activity on this night.

The outfit I settled on was pink gingham hot pants paired with a white crocheted tank and my patent sandals (since acquiring these for grad, every single outfit was built around them). No socks – natch.

To deal with my obstinate hair, I twisted it into a side pony. I felt more chic than I looked, I’m sure. At 14, I still hadn’t lost my baby fat, and was just over 5 feet tall, so I didn’t have the sexy vibe working. But what I lacked in looks, I made up for in attitude. Ava and I were total opposites in that regard.

I went over early that Monday to help set up, but Mrs. Anderson had a few waitresses from the restaurant already at work, so instead Ava and I hung out by the pool drinking Tab and planning our summer adventure.

Weeks before, Ava had invited me to spend a month with her family at their cottage on the ocean waters of Onset Bay, about 30 minutes south of Bridgewater. I was so certain my mother wouldn’t let me go, that I never asked. But Ava kept bugging me for an answer, so one night I screwed up my courage and took the plunge.

I had worried for nothing. Mom thought it was a great idea as long as I came home Friday to Sunday to help with my kid brother, Toby, and attend church. Easy-peasy.

So as we sat poolside waiting for the Independence Day party to get underway, we busily drew up plans for our summer holiday that would officially begin July 8th. I wanted to master waterskiing on a single ski and I was pumping Ava for tips. She’d conquered this feat a couple of years before and was considered one of the top skiers on the Bay, not always easy water given the currents.

“You’ll be great on one ski, Valentine. Everything will be great about this summer. Oh, that reminds me, I have a surprise…”

“Ava? Valentine?” we were interrupted by Mr. Anderson, who had just arrived home and was looking for helping hands. I was only too happy to get things moving — the sooner we ate, the sooner we danced.

Besides, I liked helping Mr. Anderson; his un-dad-like ways intrigued me. He knew how to cook, still played sports and always made time to goof around with us kids. So different from my dad, I can’t begin to explain.

Ava and I were assigned burger duty: to shape the ground beef into disks, then season and stack them on a platter, little squares of waxed paper keeping them separated. It took awhile, given that there were 75 burgers. We finished around 7 and transferred them immediately to the red-hot coals of an industrial-sized grill. Within minutes, neighbors enticed by the aroma started to pour into the street.

The weather co-operated beautifully: no wind and a clear sky with stars aplenty. Everything was falling seamlessly into place. I could practically feel myself wrapped in Jack’s arms, slow-dancing to the Eagles classic, Desperado.

Usually around ten, one of the boys would slip a fifth of vodka into the remnants of the punchbowl and I was counting on that kick of courage to make my move. Tonight I would kiss Jackson Thomas Anderson — on the mouth.

I was pretty confident about my technique since I’d practiced a lot — not on a real person, but on a better substitute than the pillow Ava used. I had Beethoven.

I got the idea one day while waiting for Sister Magdalene to call me in for my afternoon piano lesson at the local church hall. It was just me and a life-sized bust of Beethoven — he with his perfectly proportioned lips and me with curious ones. Once I realized the potential, I made sure to arrive at least ten minutes early for my weekly lesson. My mother was thrilled with my improved attitude toward piano.

So on the night of the cookout, I was ready for anything. Ava and I were piling the fixings on our hamburgers when Jack came into view. My heart started thumping in my chest, and Ava sang out, “That’s it! That’s my surprise!” She pointed excitedly at Jack.

With a girl.

Well, bless-me-father-for-I-have-sinned, but who the fuck is that? Jack was walking toward us, fingers entwined with the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. I was holding a bottle of ketchup, which went limp in my hand and began emptying over my pink shorts.

“Valentine, look out, you’re spilling ketchup everywhere!” Jack laughed. She laughed too. I went as red as the condiment, drenched in silent humiliation.

What a fool I’d been to let him touch my boob and then think that it meant something.

I stared blankly at the trio with their happy, stupid smiles and forced myself to swallow the burning lump that sat at the top of my throat, before announcing, “Wow, I’m starving. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so late in all my life. I’m going to go find a seat.” I walked the length of the blue table, turned right at its head and plunked myself hard onto the curb. I balanced the plate on my knees, wondering how I’d manage to swallow a thing on it.

I was trying hard not to cry, but when I glanced down at my new pink shorts plastered to my thigh with red goop, my lip quivered on its own, triggering a swell of fluid in my nose and eyes.

“My mother’s going to kill me; she just made this outfit and it’s supposed to last all summer,” I snuffled to Ava, now at my side. “I think I should go home so she can soak it or something.”

“Really? You’re leaving? But what about the fireworks and the spiked punch?”

I couldn’t be swayed. “Honestly, if I don’t get home and deal with this, my mom’s going to have a conniption fit and then my whole summer will be ruined.” I was pretty sure that’d just been seen to, but I needed some excuse to bolt.

“Well, OK. Want me to walk you home?”

“Nah, you stay for the party; I’ll call you tomorrow or come by on my bike.”

“Are you sure you couldn’t just change and come back?”

“I don’t think so. My mom gets pretty weird about stuff like this; I don’t wanna push my luck.”

Ava seemed resigned to my leaving, but not upset. Before I knew it, she had bounced off to find a Coke.

Lost in misery, I couldn’t even find my manners to thank the Andersons for the invitation. I headed down the street, focused on a game of rock soccer, randomly kicking the same bit of stone for several blocks, trying to acquaint myself with the emotions I’d just been introduced to.

I felt so small, bits of me falling away with every step forward. Soon I’ll disappear between the cracks in the road, I sniffed, running the back of my hand across my nose. Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

And then suddenly, there was Ava standing in front of me and I was full size again. Breathless and smiling, she chided, “Clean the wax outta yer ears, would ya! I’ve been trying to catch up to you for two blocks.”

“Oh, I didn’t hear. I was thinking about stuff.” I scooped the rock into my palm and fondled it for comfort. “What’s up?”

“I have a graduation present for you.” She handed me a brightly covered pink package with a bow the size of her smile.

We moved to the side of the road and sat on the curb, knee to knee. Inside was a red velvet diary with a shiny gold padlock. In a matching velvet pouch was the key – two actually. The pages were edged with gold. It was the most perfect, grown-up gift.

For the second time in an hour, I blinked away tears. “How did you know this is what I wanted?”

“Ah, let’s see… cuz you talk about being a writer all the time.”

I burst out laughing. “Well, I love it, I really love it. But, um, I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything.”

Ava didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t feel badly. I wasn’t expecting anything. I mean, we never talked about it; it’s not like it’s Christmas. I just saw this at Macy’s a few weeks ago and it made me think of you. That’s all.”

Ava Anderson, beautiful inside and out. Ava Anderson, my best friend. Nothing could topple that — certainly not boys.

I smiled back, then handed her the spare key.

*********************************

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