Jennifer had brought Bay City Rollers, Elton John, ABBA, and a single called “Seasons in the Sun” that they were playing about every twenty minutes on the radio.
“I call first pick,” said Jennifer.
David sighed and handed her the ABBA album. “I’ve only heard this, like, a hundred times.”
We put on the record. David and I sprawled out on the floor, and Jennifer sat on the edge of my bed—which I thought was pretty cool: she was
on
my bed—and mouthed the words of the songs. I watched her eyes travel around my room—the Hitchcock poster, the Truffaut poster—hoping maybe she’d ask me something about them, so I could be all hip and fascinating, but she didn’t say anything, not even when she saw my camera on the desk. We all talked a bit about school and teachers and TV, but we only got through about four or five songs before Mom called us down for dinner.
Mom was pouring the wine and gave me half a glass and asked the Godwins if it was all right if their two had a small glass as well.
Dr. Godwin sort of snuffled and said, “Yes, yes, of course,” but I could tell Mrs. Godwin was a bit shocked.
“Do you like wine?” I asked Jennifer. We were all three of us together at the end of the table.
“I don’t know yet,” she said, taking a sip. She wrinkled her nose, but then took another sip.
I was feeling pretty suave now, the big-city boy with the cool bohemian mom who let me drink wine. I was wearingOld Spice and there were pictures of me in
Time
magazine.
“Your parents let you drink all the time?” David whispered beside me.
“Oh sure,” I lied. The grown-ups were already yakking away, so I explained to David how Mom’s parents were European and had let her drink when she was a teenager. And how it was better that way, because then she didn’t go crazy and get drunk all the time when she turned nineteen.
“Man,” David said. “Wow.”
The truth was, I still wasn’t that used to wine. Since that first taste on my birthday, I’d had maybe a couple of tiny glasses, and the one Mom had poured me now was bigger than usual. But it didn’t taste so bad to me any more, and with every sip I felt warmer and more relaxed. David and Jennifer and I were talking and eating and drinking our wine, and the conversation was moving so fast it was hard to keep up.
The meal seemed to accelerate. Occasionally I tuned in to Dad and Dr. Godwin’s conversation. Dad had the charm at two hundred watts, and was talking about Project Zan and how the big grant application was coming together. Whenever I checked in with Mom and Mrs. Godwin, it was usually Mrs. Godwin droning about the trouble they’d had with their new electric oven, or how they were getting their patio stone replaced, and Mom trying her best not to look bored. If Mom was talking, she was very dramatic and her hands were going, and she was talking about American foreign policy or the art show at the university gallery, and Mrs. Godwin was just nodding and looking at Mom like she was an alien life-form.
After dessert we went back upstairs and David put on
Led Zeppelin II
and pretended he was playing guitar, while Jennifer and I laughed at him.
“They shout too much,” Jennifer said when the song was finished. “Your pick,” she said to me.
“I must be crazy,” I said, “but I’m ready for more ABBA.” I was still feeling pleasantly hot and speedy. My body wanted to move.
“No!” howled David, then he threw back his head and said, “Oh, all right! Spin those crazy Swedes!”
Jennifer put on “Waterloo” and cranked it. My room throbbed with sound. Jennifer started singing along and sometimes she’d look right at me and swing her hair, and it was the most electrifying thing I’d ever experienced. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were amazing and if she’d dangled a leash I would have bowed my head so she could slip it around my neck. I couldn’t look away. Then I heard David singing out the chorus, and before long I
“I call first pick,” said Jennifer.
David sighed and handed her the ABBA album. “I’ve only heard this, like, a hundred times.”
We put on the record. David and I sprawled out on the floor, and Jennifer sat on the edge of my bed—which I thought was pretty cool: she was
on
my bed—and mouthed the words of the songs. I watched her eyes travel around my room—the Hitchcock poster, the Truffaut poster—hoping maybe she’d ask me something about them, so I could be all hip and fascinating, but she didn’t say anything, not even when she saw my camera on the desk. We all talked a bit about school and teachers and TV, but we only got through about four or five songs before Mom called us down for dinner.
Mom was pouring the wine and gave me half a glass and asked the Godwins if it was all right if their two had a small glass as well.
Dr. Godwin sort of snuffled and said, “Yes, yes, of course,” but I could tell Mrs. Godwin was a bit shocked.
“Do you like wine?” I asked Jennifer. We were all three of us together at the end of the table.
“I don’t know yet,” she said, taking a sip. She wrinkled her nose, but then took another sip.
I was feeling pretty suave now, the big-city boy with the cool bohemian mom who let me drink wine. I was wearingOld Spice and there were pictures of me in
Time
magazine.
“Your parents let you drink all the time?” David whispered beside me.
“Oh sure,” I lied. The grown-ups were already yakking away, so I explained to David how Mom’s parents were European and had let her drink when she was a teenager. And how it was better that way, because then she didn’t go crazy and get drunk all the time when she turned nineteen.
“Man,” David said. “Wow.”
The truth was, I still wasn’t that used to wine. Since that first taste on my birthday, I’d had maybe a couple of tiny glasses, and the one Mom had poured me now was bigger than usual. But it didn’t taste so bad to me any more, and with every sip I felt warmer and more relaxed. David and Jennifer and I were talking and eating and drinking our wine, and the conversation was moving so fast it was hard to keep up.
The meal seemed to accelerate. Occasionally I tuned in to Dad and Dr. Godwin’s conversation. Dad had the charm at two hundred watts, and was talking about Project Zan and how the big grant application was coming together. Whenever I checked in with Mom and Mrs. Godwin, it was usually Mrs. Godwin droning about the trouble they’d had with their new electric oven, or how they were getting their patio stone replaced, and Mom trying her best not to look bored. If Mom was talking, she was very dramatic and her hands were going, and she was talking about American foreign policy or the art show at the university gallery, and Mrs. Godwin was just nodding and looking at Mom like she was an alien life-form.
After dessert we went back upstairs and David put on
Led Zeppelin II
and pretended he was playing guitar, while Jennifer and I laughed at him.
“They shout too much,” Jennifer said when the song was finished. “Your pick,” she said to me.
“I must be crazy,” I said, “but I’m ready for more ABBA.” I was still feeling pleasantly hot and speedy. My body wanted to move.
“No!” howled David, then he threw back his head and said, “Oh, all right! Spin those crazy Swedes!”
Jennifer put on “Waterloo” and cranked it. My room throbbed with sound. Jennifer started singing along and sometimes she’d look right at me and swing her hair, and it was the most electrifying thing I’d ever experienced. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were amazing and if she’d dangled a leash I would have bowed my head so she could slip it around my neck. I couldn’t look away. Then I heard David singing out the chorus, and before long I
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