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Sit at foot of bed with racing heart and spinning head. Temples throb as does another unmentionable place - I’m at a loss to know what to make of it all. The call, I mean. What we said just now to each other on the phone. RF told me she just turned 16. Sweet 16 and never been kissed. Not by me, at least. Not so far, anyway. But now, since that call, it seems anything’s possible.
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While it’s still vivid - and as accurately as my scrambled mind will allow – what follows is a transcript of our intercourse (a little pun I throw in there, free of charge), the salient parts, the gist, if you will. However, I feel compelled to point out: It isn’t actually what was said and felt at the time, but more my perception of what was said and felt. More than that, it is only a memory of a perception. An interpretation of a memory of a perception – relative to what actually happened, which, of course, we’ll never know.
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And so on.
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Unwinding it here will help make sense of it I hope, help me believe that it really happened when I wake up in the morning, believe that my fantasizing hasn’t finally gotten the better of me. (Gotten? I’m sure I use that word all the time, but suddenly, for no reason I can think of, it just doesn’t sound right. Gotten - is it a word? Mental note: Check Dictionary. It’s like saying the word ‘pyjamas’ over and over. Eventually it loses all meaning and you begin to wonder if it really is a word at all.)
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Lying face up, back on bed, staring at the ceiling, avoiding thinking, saying the sound ‘inga’ out loud, repetitively, as you do if you did TM™ once and don’t know what to be doing with yourself now, if you know what I mean, when the phone rings. I get up and go downstairs to the kitchen. Reaching for receiver on the wall, I introduce it to my ear, saying ‘inga, inga, inga’. A disconcertingly familiar voice breathing down the fiber-optic cable, snaking its way through my cochlea and into my head. A smoky sound.
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‘Hey, Leo. What d’ya know? Rachel here.’
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Mouth a-jar, brain a-buzz, heart a-thumping, Adam’s apple a-bobbing - all I can get a hold of is the name: Rachel. Rachel Rachel Rachel Rachel Rachel… what does it mean?
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Don’t ask me!
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Rachel Ferguson? The Rachel Ferguson? Thoughts shoot into overdrive –
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couldn’t be must have dialled the wrong number but no she said my name how did she know it was me maybe she’s calling a different Leo –
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Stiff as a laid flat mannequin, sandwiched in the spongy embrace of Surprise and her evil twin, Shock, I panic and begin screaming internally, frantically. Calm down got to play it cool -
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cool wet grass cool wet grass… Cool yeah… that’s the ticket -
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think of The Fonze - think of Mr Spock - or is it Dr Spock?
.
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No. Dr Spock’s the guy who wrote that baby book… HEY! Why are you wondering about Spock when Rachel F is on the line? .
Suddenly my voice returns from the ether and gets back into its box. ‘Rachel Ferguson… Oh yeah, Rachel. Hi. Howzit going? What’s up?’
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‘Oh, the sky, the clouds, my nipples, airplanes…’ She sighs drowsily. I wonder if she’s really said nipples or whether it’s just wishful thinking on my part. I’m going ask her to repeat herself but don’t get the chance. She asks how I am, you know, since my recent visit to the girl’s room. All right, I tell her.
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‘Cool,’ I say to back it up.
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‘Good. I told you you’d be fine. Gosh! Leo. That was the first time I’d seen you in years…’
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Yadda yadda yadda. Without an interjection, I let her talk a lot of small talk (not that I can get a word in edgewise), and lose track of time, lost in her words. Not in what she’s saying, really, but by the sheer sound of her voice. It’s kind of low, in a good way. Dark and dusky. Sultry. It has a unique quality – soothing and stirring at the same time. A sensual massage for the ears. She intimates how it’s kind of magical, ever since turning 16 – and how she feels like a whole new person, and that she’s seeing many things very differently.
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‘I just don’t feel myself anymore, if you know what I mean?’
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I thought that maybe I did know what she meant...
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Ask her what she feels now instead!
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but still can’t trust my hearing. Is it just a bad line? A good one? Provocative, I muse. Perhaps it wasn’t implied, just my inference or something.
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Cool. Just be cool.
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‘Funny you should say that,’ I say extemporaneously, clueless to what’s coming next, ‘but when I saw you last week in the hall, that’s exactly what I was thinking: how you’re like a completely different person and all.’
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‘Really? Way cool!’ A squeal and a giggle. ‘‘Cause when I saw you I thought the same thing. Like I saw you in a completely other kind of way. Or like I saw you for the first time or something. You know?’
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On a higher level I thought she was talking fresh air, basically. But, on a lower level, I felt I understand her. Simpatico. Something in her voice makes my ears burn: the beat of her words on my drums is having the most curious effect. Part of me, afraid of heading into this uncharted territory bails out right then and there, leaving the rest of me to fly on Automatic Pilot.
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Please place trays in the upright, locked position, fasten your seat belts… take up crash position… there is no pilot.
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‘Rachel?’
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‘Yeah?’
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‘Anyone ever tell you that you have the most beautiful whisper?’ I want to whisper to her, but, instead say, ‘What I want to know, is… is that old saying true?’
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‘What old saying’s that?’ Sounds like she already knows. I can hear her smiling.
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‘Sweet 16 and never been kissed,’ I tell her. Muffled sounds from the other end and I fancy she’s blushing now: picture her biting lower lip, pacing bedroom floor in shiny red shoes.
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‘There’s all different kinds of kissing,’ she breathes. ‘What kind do you have in mind?’
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And that was pretty much the flavour of our conversation, and it continued, taking on a life of its own, growing more peculiar with each sentence, all the while bringing me closer to my wildest dreams. Had I been the author of our dialogue, I wouldn’t have written it any differently, couldn’t have written it any better. It climaxed (ha ha!) in Rachel discovering that I am soon to have my 18th birthday - which got her talking about things like nature, the birds and bees, men and women, birthday suits. She ended up saying that she’d show me hers if I’d show her mine. Not acquainted with this kind of thing, my empty tongue fumbled foolishly for a response. The urge to doze off into a catnap fell upon me like a warm blanket. It was a battle to keep from slipping into sleep.
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What would the Fonze say at a time like this?
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‘Heyyy!’
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