Doug got up. "Well, I must be off."
"Bye now," Angie smiled secretively to him.
Brad sat up. He took in Angie's smile and looked appraisingly at Doug as he walked away.
"Brad, are you coming to the dance tonight?" Mary Jane gushed.
"Not if I can find something better to do." He narrowed his eyes and looked at Angie.
She looked at him wide-eyed.
"You've been looking good lately," Brad said to Angie. He turned to the other girls. "Don't you think so?"
"She sure has," Mary Jane said. She looked enviously at Angie.
To her chagrin, Angie blushed.
"You do," Brad insisted. "Maybe it's because you have a boyfriend now."
Angie's chin went up haughtily. "He's just a friend."
"Friend or not, it's made a change in you," Brad said.
"How?" Angie asked.
"Ohh," Brad searched for words. "You're happier — more approachable."
"Oh, I'm not," Angie protested.
"I'd like to get to know you better," Brad said confidently. "When can I come over? Tonight?"
"No," Angie objected. "Tonight is Friday."
"So?" Brad smiled enigmatically. "What's so sacred about Friday?"
"Nothing," Angie replied. "It's just that I already have plans for tonight."
"Why can't I be included?" Brad persisted.
"Because why should I change my plans?" Angie said mockingly.
"Because you'd like to take pity on a poor homeless bachelor," Brad mocked back at her.
Mary Jane and her friends clustered around Angie, obviously impressed by Brad's pursuit of her.
Angie preened, proud to be the center of attention. "What would we do if you did come over?" she asked tentatively.
"What you usually do," Brad said boldly, his face expressionless. He added, "We could play records."
"Maybe you could come over for a little while," Angie said carelessly, with a guarded glance at the girls. She was rewarded with envious expressions on their faces.
"What time?"
"7:30," Angie said. Then she thought for a moment. "No, better make it 8."
Brad studied her face. "Not 7:30. 8."
That afternoon, after school, Angie went straight home and went to her bedroom and laid on her bed and began to worry about what she had done. What if Brad found out about what she and Doug were doing? He'd probably tell and then she'd be in a mess. Her mother would die from the shock. It was dangerous to let him come. Maybe she should call him and tell him not to come? The envious faces of Mary Jane and her girlfriends came into her memory. Their avid glances and rapt attention to her verbal tongue-of-war with Brad pleased her all over again. They had walked with her to her classroom afterwards, chatting with her like old friends. Her dreams of friendship were coming true.
Her mind was rationalizing. Why not let Brad come? It would be a joke on Doug. They would talk and play records for a while and then they'd send him home early. She and Doug could make love afterwards. She could have the best of everything.
Finally, she heard her name being called.
"Angelica."
It was her mother calling! What did she want?
"Angelica!"
"Yes, Mother."
"Open your door."
Angie swung off the bed, padded to the door and opened it a crack.
"Yes?" Angie asked.
"Aren't you going to let me in?" he mother asked, somewhat uncertainly.
Angie stepped back and opened the door wider. Now what? she asked herself. The occasions her mother visited her room were in frequent. Angie stood, waiting.
Mr. Marlowe seemed uneasy. She kept prowling about the room, seemingly unable to settle down. The silence grew strained. Embarrassing. Angie determined not to break it. Let her. She invaded my room. I didn't ask her to come.
"Well," Mrs. Marlowe said nervously. She cleared her throat loudly. "I've — I've been thinking. About what you asked me. And — and I think it's time you did know-some things," she ended lamely. She stopped, confused, and look at the floor.
Angie watched her mother with clear eyes. She supposed she should feel sorry for her but all she could feel was indifference and, yes, pity. If she could only see what a pitiful spectacle she was making of herself!
Mrs. Marlowe looked up at Angie, couldn't bear to look in her probing eyes, and looked out the window.
"It's hard to explain," she started again hesitantly. "Especially to a younger girl. Only married women really need to know."
Angie's eyes met hers unflinchingly. Her mother looked away quickly again.
"But, girls should be aware — they should watch out for compromising situations. Like, you should never stay alone in a room with any boy-or man. And don't let them touch you. Anywhere. Men are animals. It's their nature. A girl has to protect herself."
"From what?" Angie asked innocently.
The simple question threw her mother in a tizzy. Her face turned red, her mouth opened involuntarily and hung open, bereft of words. Obviously, her mind was confused and shame filled her body.
"What happens, Mother?" Angie asked stubbornly.
Her mother concentrated on a spot on the floor. "They touch you. It doesn't feel good. And you'll probably get pregnant right away." She frowned, searching for words. "It's better to put all thought of sex out of your mind now." She straightened up. "And now you've been warned."
"Warned against what?" Angie asked, disgusted.
"About getting pregnant."
"I wasn't wanting to," Angie said. "I just wanted to know how it happens."
Her mother looked at her silently for a long moment. "You don't have to worry about it until you're married." She added with a playful smile, "And that's several years in the future."
"Where do babies come from?" Angie asked point blank.
"From love," Mrs. Marlowe said, embarrassed.
"Then where did I come from?"
"What do you mean?" her mother asked, confused.
"You don't love Daddy."
Mrs. Marlowe turned white with an almost rising anger. She sat in agony for a few moments, trying to control herself. Finally, she said, "It has nothing to do with you."
Angie looked directly at her. "Yet, it has. I might have had a sister or a brother."
Mrs. Marlowe jumped up. "Impudent!" she screamed.
"Isn't it true?" Angie persisted.
"You're just as bad as your father — always getting off the subject." Mrs. Marlowe rushed out of the room.
It's just as well, Angie thought as she lay back on her bed. She can't tell a straight story anyway.
But an idea kept popping into her mind and bothering her. Something must be wrong with me because I enjoy sex. There must be some good reason why Mom is uptight about it. I must be a pervert of some kind. A nymphomaniac!
She got up and turned on the stereo as loud as it would go, subconsciously wishing to drown her thoughts in noise.
She poked through her clothes closet. I must dress up tonight. Brad's coming. I hope Doug won't be mad at me. We'll get rid of Brad some way. Then we can have it out. I can't go on. Shame engulfed her. I must stop. It must be wrong to enjoy sex. Why, I don't know. It seems so natural, once you get the hang of it. I wish I had a mother who could help me. Tears filled her eyes, her vision became blurry. She had difficulty seeing the dresses. The tears silently rolled down both cheeks and dropped on the floor.
When the doorbell rang at 7:30, Angie was waiting. She'd had second thoughts about surprising Doug and bad decided to tell him Brad was coming.
"Oh, Doug…" she said as she opened the door.
Brad stepped in. "I hope you're not disappointed that it's me," he said with a confident smirk on his young face.
"I told you to come at eight," Angie said angrily.
Brad hit his palm against his forehead in simulated distress. "Did you? You told me two times — seven-thirty and eight. And I kept thinking, 'Not eight, seven-thirty.' I must have turned them around."