It was August, and Trudy was fifteen. She stood in front of the mirror in her white jeans. When she sucked in her stomach, she could actually zip them up, and she thought she looked pretty good. Her cheeks were sun burnt, her arms were tan, and her long brown hair had been ironed straight. Trudy was going to the carnival that night with Stanley Bartels. It was kind of like a date. She had always thought that tight white jeans were the ultimate attire for a summer night.

Trudy had never been particularly interested in Stanley. He and Joyce had been a couple for so long, they might as well have been married. But two weeks ago, they had broken up, and now Stanley was trying to get back into circulation. Trudy knew she was the first girl he had asked out since the break-up. She was very flattered. She wondered if Stanley had begun to notice her even while he was with Joyce. She wickedly speculated on the possibility that she may have even contributed inadvertently to the split. Trudy was new to these things. She had seemed to acquire a certain power this summer, and she was playing with it, learning how it worked.

Stanley was acceptable because the other girls thought he was cute. He had curly black hair, blue eyes, and a mouth that was lippy and pouty, kind of like an Elvis mouth. She supposed this was a good feature. His skin was rosy and flushed -- "ruddy", she decided -- it sounded more masculine. Although they were both in Mrs. Warner's English class, Trudy could not think of much else that she knew about Stanley. Well, he had hated The Red Pony. But who didn't? Alas, he seemed immune in general to the power of books, which struck Trudy as a little bit sad, for she had long ago discovered that she could lose herself among the pages of a novel, and it was a wonderful secret. On some level, she sensed that Stanley's inability to experience this phenomenon was vaguely unattractive, but she preferred to contemplate his assets, not his flaws. Wait until the kids saw them together at the carnival! He with that naughty mouth, and the boingy black tendril of curl that fell just so upon his forehead, she in those white jeans. "Don't they make a sexy couple?," people would say. "And what about Joyce? She must be dying. "

Even when he had called her, their conversation had been limited to about three sentences: he nonchalantly asking her out, she agreeing, time and place set, then the click of the receiver, leaving her to guess at whether she might have imagined the whole thing. Should she have asked for permission? Her mother would not have cared, but her father would have turned it into a federal case, probably even insisting that Stanley come to the door to meet him and escort her out like some retard. God, how embarrassing. This wouldn't be a good time to bring it up, anyway. She could hear her parents arguing in the other room, their voices escalating, her mother's shrill, elongated cries, her father's machine gun style rattatat. She turned up the radio.

Wild thing. You make my heart sing. You make everything groovy...

She liked that song. It was a little bit rude. The guy had a raunchy tone of voice implying bad intentions, and it was interesting.

Come on, come on, Wild Thing.

Maybe she would be wild. Could she make Stanley's heart sing? She brushed her long hair, posed in the mirror, wondered whether she was capable of inspiring love. Well, Stanley Bartels had asked her out. This was good. This implied some sort of desirability.

The carnival by day was sad and sordid, as carnivals always are. But on this August night, Stanley and Trudy were greeted by colorful lights, calliope music, and the sweet, cloying smells of cotton candy and buttered corn. Everyone was there. Stanley bought a long strip of red tickets.

"What do you wanna do first?" he asked.

Trudy scanned the scene. There was an appealing aura of cheap festivity and tawdry romance. "Maybe we should just walk around a little and see what there is," she replied.

"Ferris wheel! Ferris wheel!" he suddenly shouted. "I love a good ferris wheel." And before Trudy could express an opinion one way or the other, she was herded in that direction and led onto one of the ferris wheel's swinging cabs.

Stanley took her hand and their little car was lifted upward until it dangled above the fairground. Strains of music wafted by, and the screams and roar of the roller coaster. For a brief moment, the world below became faraway and unreal. Then as they descended, Trudy felt a flutter in her stomach, and the rush of summer air, plush with promises of rain.

They bought ice cream and walked in the direction of the game booths. Men with cigars and leathery skin called out to them. There were all kinds of prizes to be had for pitching a ball through a hole, shooting down a pigeon, catching a fish -- easy stuff.

"I'm gonna win us a prize," said Stanley.

Trudy wistfully eyed a lavender bear and hoped his aim was true. But the targets were tough to hit, the wooden pigeons moved, the flat tin fishes swam away. It was all very tricky. Stanley became visibly angry and frustrated -- "determined", Trudy decided, it sounded more dignified. Nine tickets later, he handed her a small paper fan, which she concluded was much better, so useful, and she thanked him. He was her warrior, returning from battle, her hunter, bringing home the kill. Deep, ancient stirrings surfaced, and she looked at him, starry-eyed, trying to ignore a distracting bit of chocolate on his chin.

Stanley put his arm around her, and they walked along like people in love. Trudy felt as if she were in a movie, and she thought she was well-cast. They encountered a group of kids from school, one of whom, a close friend of Joyce's, looked at her with disapproval and dismay. "He doesn't belong to Joyce," Trudy thought. She felt no loyalty to these popular kids who laughed among themselves at jokes she didn't get, who had parties and didn't invite her, who whispered in class and made her self-conscious. She was glad to be observed in this, her shining moment, walking with Stanley and wearing white jeans. She moved a little closer to him, and he held onto her more tightly, more possessively. She liked it.

They paused at a shadowed corner, and Stanley grabbed her awkwardly and kissed her, an odd little kiss that involved the insertion of his tongue into her mouth. Trudy had vaguely fantasized about his kissing her, but this tongue thing was unexpected. She wondered if it was something people routinely did when they made out, or whether it was a unique innovation of Stanley's. He seemed practiced. He poked his tongue around her mouth like a little cocktail frank. Who bought cocktail franks, anyway? Were there ladies who actually served them with cocktails before dinner? She couldn't imagine her mother buying cocktail franks.

She stood there with her mouth open limply while the probing went on. Was she supposed to do something? He tongued her teeth. How strange this was. No tongue but her own had ever before touched her teeth. Should her tongue touch his while it was visiting anyway? Should she poke her tongue out too, and reciprocate? Should she swallow her Juicy Fruit? She had never realized what a microcosm of details and decisions were involved even in kissing.

But he wanted her. It was validating, titillating. Soon she would go home and contemplate all this. She would sit in her room and savor it. She had become the object of lust and affection, and the world would never be the same.

They walked along in silence. Trudy tried frantically to think of a topic for conversation. She imagined the things that Stanley might be interested in. She didn't know much about sports, darn it. She almost mentioned school, but decided that would be a bummer. She'd gone into Woolworth's that day with her friend Denise. This was interesting: you could actually order a sundae at the counter and then pop a balloon to see how much it would cost. The highest price was 79 cents, but it was possible to pay only a penny. Denise had gotten one for a quarter. Not a bad deal. Trudy wondered whose job it was to blow up the balloons and stick the prices in. And in what order. Oh, and Sharon's mother was working in the Rainbow Shop next door where Trudy had bought her white jeans. Sharon probably gets a discount on everything. (Like he's gonna care --right?)

Maybe they could talk about music. Trudy listened to WABC. She could ask him what he thought of that song, "Wild Thing". God, no. That would be so embarrassing. He'd definitely get the wrong idea. How about "96 Tears"? She liked that one. Yeah, but what if he didn't? What if he thought it was stupid? It was kind of stupid.

This week Trudy had earned $6 babysitting, almost memorized "The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock", figured out the perfect technique for applying Maybelline liquid eyeliner, and written twenty-three pages in her journal, Leonardo. Do boys keep journals? Not a good question. Which smells better: Emeraude, or Ambush? God. What do they talk about? She wished she were funny.

"It looks like rain," said Stanley. "We better go home."

Well, thought Trudy, maybe after kissing there just isn't much to say. Why belittle the experience with a bunch of conversation? Deep feelings simply speak for themselves. And the rain had come. They hurried along, getting ridiculously wet, laughing about that, at least.

They stopped in front of the mailbox at the end of the walkway that led to Trudy's house. Once more, Stanley leaned forward and kissed her, not a complicated kiss this time, but a light one, a kiss all mixed with rain and the scent of dripping lilacs. The front light was on, but the house was asleep, and Trudy tiptoed to her room.

It was the kind of summer storm she loved. Sultry hours of anticipation culminating in a mighty release. There was thunder and lightening, and so much rain, angry and beautiful, pounding the windows, pummeling the earth. For an instant all the trees would be sharply etched in a blue world, brightly lit, then darkness would ensue, while the relentless rain went on. Trudy could neither contain nor comprehend the feelings that up within her. The world was vast and filled with mystery and possibility, and she yearned from the very depths of her soul to partake of it all. She stood at the edge of her childhood and the very brink of life. She despised her passivity and would embrace the world with ardor and courage. The air was electric, and it infused her with passion.

Stanley. Stanley and Trudy. They had kissed. A lot. She could not sleep. She was a cat in a cage, all riled up. She wanted to run outside and drink the rain. She longed to be one with this crazed summer night, one with the rain and the sweet silences that followed. She wondered when he would call and what they might do next. Adventures were beginning -- at last!

The phone rang at noon the next day. It was Joyce.

"I just wanted you to know that me and Stanley are back together," she announced. "Stanley had a shitty time with you, Trudy. A really shitty time. He told me. You know what he said? It was boring."

Trudy sat in the little hallway chair. The receiver felt heavy in her hand. She thought there was something she should say, but she had neither words nor the voice with which to speak them. Anyway, she was pretty sure she was going to throw up.

"He's on his way over here right now." Joyce continued, as scornful as spit. "He loves me. Going out with you helped him realize that." And she hung up the phone.

Trudy's hands were trembling now, and her face felt hot with shame. She was profoundly embarrassed, not for what she had done, but for what she had allowed herself to invent, what she had dared to dream. She should have known these things were not for her. The secrets of that summer night. The thrill of being in somebody's arms. She had been so willing to give her heart, only to have been judged and found wanting. She had heard the mermaids singing, each to each. How foolish to have thought they sang for her.

But Trudy did not cry. She went to the fridge and found some ice cream. She turned on the radio and picked up a book she had been reading. Jane Eyre. It was a good story. She ate a bowlful of ice cream while she read. The white jeans lay in a heap upon the floor.

Cynthia Carbone
1996