Playboy

Becky W. was the first girl I ever kissed. Well, actually, she kissed me.

I remember exactly where I was at the time. Standing on the sidewalk in front of her house. We’d walked home together from school — at the outset, in the company of two or three classmates, and then, for the last block, just the two of us.

Along the way, we “accidently” bumped against one another a few times, eventually joining hands, interlacing our fingers like I’d seen the high school kids do. Nothing was said. Instead, we finished the walk in silence, both of us looking straight ahead, taking turns squeezing the other’s hand.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked, taking my other hand after turning to face me.

“Yeah … ” I said in a whisper, barely able to catch my breath, “… tomorrow.”

And that’s when it happened. Popping up on the balls of her feet she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

Stunned, I stood, immobile, and watched as she raced up the long, curving driveway to her front door. As corny as it sounds, I decided then and there not to wash my face that night — and I didn’t.

Later, laying in bed, my 12-year-old brain struggled to make sense of the rush of thoughts, feelings and sensations, not to mention my extraordinary good fortune. I liked Becky. I’d liked her since the first day of 6th grade. She was standing in the girl’s line and I was lined up with the boys directly across from her. I smiled, as did she, followed by a little wave.

Many times I’d thought about when I, like my older brother Doug, might have a girlfriend. They seemed to have so much fun together.

But was Becky really my girlfriend? I didn’t know — and the more I thought about it, the more uncertain I felt about what that even meant. Walk to school together? Sit next to each other at lunch? Talk on the phone after finishing our homework? Go to her house? Hang out on the weekends? Meet her parents?!

And what about a ring?

Joan, my brother’s girlfriend, wore his High School class ring on her wedding finger, fuzzy, bright-red yarn wound tightly around the band in order to make it fit.

I didn’t own a ring, so the next morning I rifled through my “junk drawer” in search of a suitable alternative. It was slim pickings. Among other items, a set of purple-colored, hard-resin clackers, a half-completed, faux-leather, locking personal diary, dozens of paperclips, two or three ping pong balls, a handful of tattered Star Trek trading cards, old bicycle bell and set of handlebar streamers, several flashlights of differing sizes, a couple of Adam’s-brand pea shooters, and an orange suede, draw-string bag embossed with the word “Gemstones” and containing a handful of diamond-sized pieces of broken, tempered glass.

I went back and forth a bit between the clackers and bag of gemstones before finally deciding on the latter. Well, deciding is, perhaps, too strong of a word.

For her part, Becky seemed surprised by the offering.

“Oh,” she said, on tipping the contents of the bag into her hand, “Thank you.”

With that, she turned and ran up the drive way, and disappeared into her house.

Making my way home, I replayed the scene over and over in my head, my anxiety steadily growing along the way. What was I thinking? A bag of broken glass?! Surely, the clackers would have been the better choice.

Anyway, at that point, I was certain our relationship was over.

My worst fears seemed to be confirmed the next day as we waited in line for school to start. I glanced over at her several times, but we never made eye contact. After school, she bolted out of class, and up Bennett Avenue without looking back.

Now, I was devastated. Approaching her house on the walk home, I lowered my head and picked up my pace, working hard to keep my feelings in check.

“Hey!” I heard Becky call out. “Wait there. I have something for you.”

I then watched as she ran down the drive from her garage, box in hand — the thin, rectangular kind clothing came in on your birthday or at Christmas.

“Open it when you get home, ok?” the excitement evident in her voice.

I could barely contain myself and did as I was told, running as fast as I could most of the way. Alone in my bedroom, I hurriedly untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. There, under a layer of tissue paper, I found a magazine with a pretty blonde woman on the cover. She was making a kissy face. I took it as a sign. A gift. The pucker-lipped woman. Becky still liked me.

Relieved, I put the box and its content in my junk drawer and went to work on my homework. It wasn’t easy to stay focused, however. I kept thinking about the following day. Seeing Becky. Walking home together. Holding hands. And maybe, just maybe, another kiss.

One thing I knew for sure was, this time I’d be giving her the clackers. Retrieving them, the magazine once again caught my eye. Playboy. I’d never seen or heard of it before. That said, the image on the front struck me as the perfect memorialization of our relationship.

The pictures inside, I soon discovered, were an entirely different story. The women were naked —including the one on the cover whose full length, head-to-toe photo in the center of the magazine actually folded out over three pages.

I didn’t know why, but I knew I had to get the magazine out the house. Tossing it back in the box and replacing the lid, I rushed, package in hand to the garage. Instinctually, I grabbed one of my Mom’s gardening trowels and ran down the street. In a large field, next to a massive scrub oak surrounded by tall grasses, I hastily dug a hole and buried the box.

Within weeks, Becky was holding hands with another boy in our class, one she would later wed and with whom she remains partnered to this day.

I thought about that box many times on my way to and from school, but never retrieved it — not even when, on my last day of eighth grade, I came home to find a bulldozer had removed the old oak tree and was clearing and leveling the field to make space for a new home.