sat, face all sneered up and huffy, me and Jamesie made out.
Jamesie, even if he is a probable blockhead, had this real genius for making out. I was too dazed to feel it then, but now when I'm in my room listening to “Light My Fire,” sometimes I think of him, sliding his hand under my shirt, or slipping his tongue in my mouth.
I'd just die if anybody knew that.
After Cookie's mom and my mom and Jamesie's mother had the whole scene arranged, after I had a knock-out yell-fest with my mother, after I refused absolutely to go, after my mother told me to “be charitable,” after she threatened to get the nuns over to talk to me, after she told me I was grounded forever if I didn't go: Jamesie called me.
My little brother runs by, stares at us standing there, and says, “Want me to get it?”
My mom snaps into action and grabs the phone.
Besides his Elvis haircut, did I say that Jamesie stutters? I hear this pathetic “Is-is-is E-e-e-e-e…” crackling through the line.
My mom doesn't even let him spit it out. She gushes, “Oh, Jamesie! Edith's right here!” I'm even more pissed off ’cause I told her a million times my name is Peach.
She hands me the phone and decides that now would be a really great time to dust the phone table and hum a lot.
I wait and let Jamesie ask me. It takes about five solid minutes for him to get it out. I pass the time by remembering all the tracks on the Woodstock album in order, from John Sebastian to Jimi Hendrix.
After his last hiss, I say, “But wouldn't you rather go to the Moratorium?”
He says, “Wh-wh-what?”
I roll my eyes. “The Moratorium,” I explain. “It's this big antiwar protest. The government won't stop the war, so everybody's going to stop doing everything and go to D.C.”
“So wh-wh-why do you have to go to D-D-D.C.?” he asks. “You c-c-could s-s-stop doing everything at the p-p-p-p-prom, too!”
“But Allen Ginsberg's going to be there!” I protest. Though famous poets are probably not on Jamesie's must-see list.
I don't know what to say.
My mother mouths, “Be charitable.” So I ask if there's going to be a band.
Oh, gross! The D-D-D-Duprees are going to play there—my mom's kind of music! I put my hand over the phone and hiss to my mom, “Maybe Jamesie should take you.”
She swats me with the dust cloth, so I console him. “Well, Sha Na Na was at Woodstock.”
Jamesie doesn't know who this jokey oldies band, Sha Na Na, is. Maybe he thinks I'm stuttering.
Nobody says anything.
I don't know where Jamesie's mom is, but she's nowhere near the phone. Jamesie says, “I th-th-think of you all the t-t-time, b-baby.” He says he wants to kiss me all over in the d-d-d-dark.
I turn purple and say, “Look—I'll catch you at the prom.”
I hang up. My mother's smiling and humming. Another smashing success for the Association of South Philadelphia Aunts. She needs to know what Jamesie said so she can report at the next meeting—in other words, as soon as she can get a dial tone.
I say, “Mom, he wants to sodomize me.”
Her smile goes a little wonky, just for a second. Then she makes believe she didn't hear. I yell, “I just want you to know that I will never, ever live this down!”
She says, “Little one, it's a long life.”
Everything my mother says would look good printed on a dish towel.
| ANCIENTWORLD HISTORYPeach Sweeney | |
| The Prom Story, by Mrs. Sweeney (as | |
| told—1000 times—to Peach Sweeney) | |
| “The Prom was the most wonderful | |
| night of my life. Your father was the | |
| best-looking boy in the room, with his | |
| broad shoulders and his lovely manners. | |
| We only danced a few dances, but I | |
| knew then that I wanted to spend the | |
| rest of my life with him. (Sobs.)” | |
| The End | |
| There's this picture of them that I've | |
| seen fifty times. They're on the dance | |
| floor at the gym, with paper roses for | |
| decorations in the background. When | |
| I was younger, I couldn't stop looking | |
| at it—not 'cause of the weird fancy | |
| clothes, the puzzling wrist corsage— | |
| but because my mom is smiling. She is | |
| actually happy. | |
Track 4: Somebody to Love
Jefferson Airplane
Franco doesn't say he wants to kiss me all over in the d-d-dark on the phone. But when we're in bed, he says, “Oh, baby, baby, baby. I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Franco and me spend all our time in bed. In South Philly, if you go all the way, you're a slut. I asked Luna.
Luna says, “If somebody wants it, it's a point of honor to share.”
Franco definitely agreed.
I was sort of a virgin, in spite of the rape stuff that happened. At least, I thought so, and I wanted to hang on to the little bit that I had.
Me and Franco cut school and lay in bed at Luna's house. We'd get high and naked and crazy and do everything except go all the way—I mean, make love—I mean, you know what I mean. Franco talked a lot about love and sexual politics and brain damage.
Franco said, “Virginity is a form of brain damage.”
| HEALTHPeach Sweeney | |
| Sexual politics: sex · u · al | |
| pol · i · tics—having to do with | |
| the relationship between men and | |
| women, particularly in terms of | |
| power. | |
| What? Huh? | |
Track 5:
Ball and Chain
Janis Joplin
I go to mass with my mother and my brother. My brother ditches us right away to go sit with his buddies—he says, so he can make arm farts, but I know he's embarrassed. People still stare at me, Our Lady of the Miscarriage. I try to keep my eyes on the windows and the ceiling. In the chapel on the side aisle, there's a creepy statue of the Blessed Mother. I always feel like the BVM is eyeballing me, and that she doesn't like what she sees. When I look away, I glance back quick to see if her eyes have moved. My mom elbows me and tugs down
