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I want to add more to the list, but I can’t exactly tell my son about skipping school to go to the movies, or the pasture parties with big bonfires, or any other things I did that might just give him ideas for his own teen years. I’m willing to spill a little in the interest of being cool to my kid, but I don’t want to give him ammunition to throw in my face later.
Bruce has no such reservations.
“Listen to your mom, Cooper. She was the coolest person I knew in high school. Did she tell you about the time she made an actual one hundred on a huge science test on the same day she led the pep rally for the whole school?” Cooper listens raptly, eyes glued to Bruce. Honestly, I’m listening just as closely, not remembering the day he’s talking about but somehow not surprised that he does. “And then after we won the game, she led what had to be almost the entire school in a rousing rendition of the school song. Everyone was singing along.” He sways a bit in his chair, humming under his breath, and I remember.
What he’s leaving out is that all that happened at one of those back-pasture bonfires and that we were all a little tipsy, some on beer we shouldn’t have had, but mostly on the excitement of the win and the buzz of possibilities. He’s leaving out that he picked me up by my waist and helped me stand on the roof of someone’s truck, keeping his big, rough hands circled around my bare thighs so I wouldn’t fall as I conducted everyone’s off-key singing like a choir director. He’s leaving out that after we all sang our fool hearts out, he’d helped me back down and my whole body had run the length of his as my feet met the grass. He’s leaving out that we’d made out in the bed of his truck that night, going further than we ever had before.
I don’t recall the test or the pep rally, but I remember the feeling of his hands on my breasts through my sweater that night and the way he’d moaned the school song against my neck while the bonfire burned out. I remember that part like it was yesterday.
One look at Bruce, though, puts a damper on those memories. He’s smiling lightly, like none of that has even occurred to him. It’s just a silly story to tell to a kid about some high school fun.
I take a breath, forcing my mind into the past with an open heart. I can do this too.
“What Bruce is forgetting to tell you is that he won the game for us that night,” I say brightly, smirking at Bruce, who shakes his head at me in warning. Oh, two can play this game. “He might not’ve scored any touchdowns, but he literally stopped the other team from gaining a single yard all night.”
Cooper’s excitement bubbles up. “Tell me everything,” he says dreamily, hands tucked below his chin and elbows resting on the table.
We do.
Somehow, Bruce and I manage to talk for over an hour, telling Cooper stories or at least the child-safe versions of them.
Homecoming dance. School carnival. Parties. Movie dates. Stargazing. Sandwich picnics. Walking the fields at Tannen farm. Dancing in the church parking lot after fast-food dinners in town because we were broke. Football games.
As soon as I let one memory out, they all rush back at once, overwhelming me. But it’s in a good way. The happier times remind me of who I was, maybe of who I can be again. Not fully, but maybe just a little drop of that innocent girl could grow again inside me? Like a seed or sapling? Or hell, more like a weed that refuses to let the ugly concrete keep it down and searches out any crack to grow through until it finds its own sunlight. That’s me . . . Dandelion Allyson.
Bruce seems to be feeling it too. His gruff grunts and monosyllabic answers toward me have turned into drawn-out stories, amped up for dramatic effect, much to Cooper’s delight.
Best of all, we don’t feel like enemies. Not like friends exactly, either, but the progress feels important.
Too soon, he says he has to go.
“Oh, man, just one more story?” Cooper begs, and Bruce looks at his watch.
“Sorry, kid. Gotta get the rest of my deliveries out and get home for dinner.” But he says no with kindness and a smile Cooper soaks up happily.
I intervene, hoping for a redirection of Cooper’s attention. “Are you telling me that your bedroom and bathroom are clean? Are they worthy of a visit from the queen?” I eye him speculatively.
Cooper’s grin is so wide it shows off the gap on the back side where a baby tooth has come out but the permanent one hasn’t made it all the way down yet. “Why, yes, Milady. ’Tis spotless, I proclaim.”
