The gravel path

I grew up in a Christian household, where Bible study was as important a subject as geography or literature. My experience with the opposite sex, from age 0 to 18, was very very limited. Virtually nonexistent in fact. I was the quiet, modestly smart girl whom the boys just couldn't see "in that way." And while my love life remained steady at 0%, my notions of like, like-like, and love bloomed inversely. The Christian additive of spiritual and perfect love perhaps catalyzed my idealism.

Up until age 15, I had never kissed a boy. My forays into romance in high school were limited to one-sided crushes and the one boy I dated for a week. And yes, the one boy was the only boy I had kissed in high school and we only kissed once.

Not that I went to a pristine high school. Kids were having sex at age 12. I knew a girl who had an abortion at age 14. And I had heard of parties where people got drunk and got high and "hooked up." To me, all of this was as foreign as showing up to church without a Bible. And so, in the absence of a love life, any experience I had with any guy was magnified ten fold.

One such experience began with a gravel path.

It was winter and I was fifteen years old. I was walking to church on the gravel path, a remote side street that served as the boundary line between a lightly wooded area and a yellowed grass field. That morning my brother had gone to a different church with his friend and my mother had gone to an earlier service. I had no ride so I had to walk the mile and a half to church. It was a little cold, but tolerable, probably 40 degrees.

As I walked along the road, I could hear a car drive slowly from behind. I walked to the edge of the road to let the car pass. But instead of passing by, the small white sedan slowed down. The driver was a young man, Yellow, with smooth tawny skin that stretched over his high cheekbones. Next to him was another young man, also Yellow. The driver rolled down his window and smiled. "Hi there."

"Hi," I said, still walking, holding my Bible and notepad to my chest. His smile was so warm, I couldn't help but smile back.

He kept driving along next to me. "Isn't it too chilly to be walking by yourself?" he asked me.

"Nah," I said, still walking, "it's fine."

"Where you off to?" he asked.

"Church."

"Really? Me too. Which one?"

"First Presbyterian Church, right down this road."

"Really? That's where we're going to too."

I stopped walking. "Really? Which service do you go to?"

"The college group with Pastor Ham."

"Oh yeah," I said. "I'm in the youth group. I guess our services start around the same time."

"Do you need a ride?" he asked me.

I looked at the empty back seat and then turned to the gravel path that stretched ahead of me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was perhaps a little too chilly to be walking by myself. Still, I felt obligated to say, "Are you sure that's okay?"

"Of course," he said. And so he unlocked the back of his car and I opened it and hopped in. As I sat in the back seat, adjusting my Bible and notepad, the driver looked at me through the rearview mirror so that I could only see his narrow eyes. "By the way, I'm Johnny."

"Hi Johnny," I said, "I'm Yellow Gal."

"And this is Tom."

Tom turned around to say to me, "Hi."

"Hi Tom," I said. He turned back around to face the road.

I don't remember exactly what we chatted about for the next few minutes. Was it about church? The youth group? The upcoming church retreat? I'm not sure. I do remember sitting there in the back, feeling the car quake on the bumpy gravel path and looking at Johnny through the rearview mirror, or just his eyes rather, as he glanced from the road to me throughout the ride. And suddenly I didn't feel that cold anymore; I felt very warm in fact, just sitting there and talking to him. He was so easy-going, so friendly. Tom, for the most part, spoke only once or twice to interject a "yeah" or "uh huh."

When we got to church, he drove up to the youth group entrance to drop me off. "Thank you," I smiled to him as I shut his door.

"No problem," he said to me with a nod. I stood there, wanting him to say something more. But instead he drove away to the lot to park his car.

I went to service as usual, my heart beating beneath the Bible I held to my chest, still shivering from the bumpy ride. He definitely seemed older. The way he spoke was just different from the way the boys in my algebra class spoke. Something more grown up, but still boyish.

I hoped against all hope that I would bump into him in church that day, in the hallway or out on the lawn. But I didn't. For the next several weeks, I looked for him on Sundays, hoping I'd see him again before or after his service. But I didn't. My fifteen year old mind envisioned various circumstances under which I would bump into Johnny. At the supermarket perhaps. Or maybe at the mall. Maybe we'd bump into each other at the same Christian shop. But we didn't.

And so, of course, as time passed my crush faded and in its wake, other short-lived crushes cropped up and similarly faded. It would be a year before I'd see Johnny again.

I was sixteen now and had made the JV cheerleading squad for what would be a brief stint in high school. It was winter and therefore basketball season. The JV basketball team just finished winning their game, and the gym court cleared for the varsity cheerleaders and varsity basketball players to warm up before their game. I was chatting with some squad members, commenting on a particularly pathetic toe touch the other team's cheerleader did, when I happened to spot a random girl in crutches hobble around the court. She stopped in front of one of the bleachers and started playfully kicking someone with her still good leg.

That someone looked very very familiar.

I broke away from the group and started walking towards the girl and her victim. As I got closer and closer, I recognized the tawny skin, the smooth cheekbones. It was Johnny. He seemed to be sitting with a group of upperclassmen.

"Stop kicking me!" Johnny was saying to the the girl, laughing.

"Ha-ha!" she said as she swatted him one last time with one of her crutches before hobbling away, giggling.

I stood there, pom poms in hand, staring at Johnny, until he looked at me. "Hi," I breathed.

"Um, hi," he said. Clearly he didn't recognize me.

"Um," I said, "didn't you give me a ride before?"

One of the older high school girls behind him started snickering. "That sounded bad," she smirked. So much for an opener.

"Huh?" he said. "A ride?"

"Um," I said. "Last year. I was walking to church and you gave me a ride. It was to First Presbyterian Church...?"

He kind of looked at me for a second and narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah," he said nodding slowly. "I kinda remember you. You were in the youth group?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's Yellow Gal. In case you forgot."

"Oh yeah, I remember," he said, smiling. I beamed at him, wringing my pom poms in my hand.

"You're Johnny, right?"

"Right," he smiled. And we chatted some more. I sat down next to him on the bleachers and we talked about where he was now (still in college) and whether he went back to that church (no). I soon learned that he had attended my high school a few years before. Apparently he knew some of the older siblings of some of the upperclassmen. We watched the varsity game and he, in a very unsportsmanlike manner, yelped a falsetto "shazoo!" every time the other team had a foul shot. It usually worked. And as crude as his behavior was, I of course found it endearing.

The game ended with another win. As people started trickling out of the gym in good spirits, I stood up. "Well," I said, "I'm gonna call my mom to pick me up now."

"Oh, do you want a ride?" he asked.

"Ummm," I said. I did some quick mental math, wondering what were the chances of my parents freaking out over a college guy giving me a ride home after 8 pm. Then I figured I could just lie and say so-and-so's mom drove me home, it was on the way. "Sure!" I chirped.

(I could always ask God for forgiveness for lying and dishonoring my parents later.)

"Cool," he said.

And so I ran to the locker room to grab my bookbag and jacket, and met him by the gym's side exit. He held the door open for me as I exited the gym. It was very dark outside.

"Isn't it so funny how we bumped into each other again?" I said, walking next to him.

"Yeah," he said as he pulled out his keys, "what a coincidence."

By the time we got to his car, there was only the distant sound of people hooting and cars driving away. His white sedan glowed faintly beneath the dim street lights. He unlocked my door and opened it for me (Such a gentleman! I had thought to myself). Then he closed the door for me once I was seated. I watched him get in the car, seat himself comfortably, place the key in the ignition and turn the engine on. He fiddled with the radio a bit before settling on a station. Ace of Base was singing "The Sign," and Johnny and I just sat there, waiting for the car to warm up. Then he turned to me and asked, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," I said. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-one," he said.

"Oh," I said, "okay." I was suddenly worried that he'd think I was just a kid, too young and immature to like-like, much less like. He's probably used to older mature college girls, I thought to myself. I really really wanted him to like me.

"My dad's ten years older than my mom," I added. And as soon as I said that, I felt really stupid.

He kind of laughed and brushed my cheek with his hand before putting the car in reverse. "You're really cute," he said as he began backing out.

I felt my heart race. "Cute" as in funny? Or "cute" like a baby? Or "cute" like a woman? People always think I look 12 years old, I thought miserably to myself. He pulled out of the parking lot and I gave him directions to my house. As I sat next to him, I looked at his face and watched it flicker beneath the passing street lights, and his hands as they steadily steered the steering wheel. He looked different at night.

Soon we were pulling into my driveway at my house. He slowed the car in front of my garage and put the car in park.

"Well," I said nervously, "it was good chatting with you. Thanks for the ride!"

"No problem," he said slowly. I was adjusting my bookbag to leave when he asked me, "So can I have your number?"

I felt my heart skip a beat. "Sure," I said. JOHNNY IS ASKING ME FOR MY NUMBER! I was screaming inside my mind. I stealthily unzipped my bag, shuffled for a notebook and pen, ripped out a corner of a page, and scribbled my name and number on it.

Then I handed it to him shyly. "Sorry it's so sloppy," I offered.

"No worries. Thanks," he said, "I'll call you."

"Cool," I said, beaming. Then I hopped out of his car, closed the door, and walked to my front door, listening to the sound of his white sedan back out of the driveway.

* * *
Okay this blog entry is getting long. I'll finish the rest of this anecdote some other time. A couple things struck me though as I relived this memory: (1) It's kind of scary for a fifteen year old girl to get into a car with two male strangers on a remote road in the middle of winter. It sounds like the beginning of a really scary movie, doesn't it? and (2) It's kind of grody for a 21 year old college dude to fraternize with a 16 year old. But at the time neither of those instances struck me as odd. Parents, watch your kids!

Anyhow, I'll finish some other time.