Girl in the Song Read online

  I just knew I didn’t like it when my baby sister walked in on me when I was changing clothes. I brushed the knots out of my hair and took a quick look in the mirror. My hair was getting longer, and it made me feel a little more grown up. Oops, almost forgot my robe. When I wore my pink robe over my pajamas, it made me feel just like my mom because that’s what she did. Tying the sash around my waist, I made one more stop in Mom’s bedroom. I grabbed a lipstick from her makeup drawer, slipped it in my pocket, and made a dash for the living room.

  Hurry, hurry, I told myself. This is going to be a great episode. Each week, I looked forward to being with my “friends” on Happy Days. I scurried downstairs and got cozy in front of our big console television set. I preferred sitting on the green shag carpet instead of on the couch, because I could scoot up as close as possible to the TV.

  As soon as I got comfortable, my baby sister came running into the room, with my baby brother toddling behind her. They always interrupted my TV time, a game that they seemed to thoroughly enjoy. When they were born, I decided that instead of being annoyed by their arrival into the world, I’d use them as a means to establish some authority.

  “Now, Susie, you shouldn’t be right in front of that TV; it’s bad for your eyes. Come sit on my lap and watch with me. The show is gonna start soon, okay? So you need to be quiet now.” Thankfully, Dad would come in and scoop the two of them up for bed, which always made being the oldest child glorious in my young mind. I said a distracted good-night, then got back to my spot as the opening theme song ended.

  I watched as Richie Cunningham walked into the living room of his beautiful home with his mom and dad sitting on the couch, when his sister, Joanie, came running down from her room. I felt we had a lot in common. Their house was neat and orderly like mine, and they had a great mom and dad like I did. Richie and Joanie would always have guy friends over, teenagers who wore sweaters with big letters on them and shiny penny loafers. There was one thing, though, that made their lives look quite a bit different from mine: They were teenagers. It seemed as if they almost always had crushes on guys and girls and went out on dates, or at least tried to. I wasn’t sure what all that meant, but I figured that the more I watched the show, the more I’d understand.

  The girls had on poodle skirts and cute tops, with scarves around their necks tied off to the side. They wore red lipstick, which I really liked. It seemed that they spent a lot of time at Arnold’s, the neighborhood diner, meeting there whenever they wanted. The jukebox would play endless cool songs while Richie and his friends enjoyed milk shakes, burgers, and fries.

  And then . . . the boys’ bathroom door would open and out would come one of the stars of the show—Fonzie. With his slicked-back hair, white T-shirt, black leather jacket, light-washed jeans, and black motorcycle boots, he got everyone’s attention right away. He would raise his hands and . . . snap! Every time he snapped his fingers, a different pretty girl would leave her group of friends, run over, and kiss him right on the mouth!

  I knew exactly what he would say next—“Very nice”—before he turned away and walked over to Richie and the others in the booth. A moment later, another girl came through the diner’s door, and Fonzie put his arm around her.

  I leaned back where I was sitting to see if anyone was close by. No one around. Good. I reached into the pocket of my robe and took out my mom’s lipstick. I removed the top, rolled it all the way up, and covered my lips with the ruby-red color. Then I put it away and continued watching the show, certain that my lips matched those of Fonzie’s girlfriends.

  Although my show was really funny, in moments like this my mind would wander off. Even though I couldn’t see myself kissing Fonzie like the girls in the diner did, I felt secretly drawn to what the teenagers were doing. It kind of made me blush and feel a little embarrassed. I was really curious why Fonzie didn’t have to try hard to get girls’ attention like his friends did. He didn’t have one girl, he had one on either side . . . all the time. It was as if he had some special power to make them appear and cling to him.

  It was getting to the end of the night’s show, so I stopped daydreaming. “Hey, Fonz,” Richie said. “Where are you off to?”

  I could tell that Richie really wanted to be like Fonzie, especially when it came to girls. Fonzie slid into the booth and put his arm around the girl with the red lipstick and said, “You. Me. Inspiration Point. Tonight. . . . Aaayy.” The girl giggled and snuggled up to him. Ralph commented, “Well, I guess we know what he’s doing tonight.” To which Richie chimed in, “Yeah, there goes another conquest. I hear that Inspiration Point is . . . exhilarating.” And they all started laughing and the audience started laughing too.

  What’s so funny? I didn’t get it. Still, I always wondered what really happened at Inspiration Point. What was he going to do with that girl? Probably kiss but what else . . . ?

  Just then, I heard the phone ring a few times in the kitchen. My mom was upstairs getting my brother and sister settled in bed and my dad was in the basement, pulling laundry out of the dryer. The wall phone had an extra-long cord so you could actually talk outside the kitchen.

  “I got the phone, Carol!” Dad yelled as he ran up the stairs with his arms full of clean clothes.

  “Hey, Lorna! How’s our favorite nurse doing?” I heard Dad say. “How’s it going in Philadelphia?” As much as I didn’t want to cut short my show, as soon as I heard her name, I jumped up and ran to the kitchen. I had missed Lorna so much since she had left for nursing school.

  When I came into the kitchen, Dad wasn’t there. The pile of clothes was on the kitchen table and the phone cord was stretched into the stairway to the basement with the door shut. I knew I shouldn’t, but I cupped my ear against the door, trying to hear what was going on.

  “Lorna, you have to calm down. Lorna . . . slow down. Just tell me what happened. Lorna, listen. Calm down. Does he know? Please stop crying and tell me.”

  My mind started to fill with questions. Did Lorna get hurt? Was she in a car accident? Why was Dad talking behind the door?

  “Lorna, does he know?” Dad repeated the question. Then there was a long pause. “Get some rest and call me tomorrow. Carol and I will be praying for you. We love you, Lorna.”

  Dad opened the door and came up the steps. He had a troubled look on his face.

  “Daddy, what happened?” I followed him up the stairs toward our bedrooms.

  “Lorna’s not hurt, Chrissy, so don’t worry.” Then he told me that I should go to bed. Dad went into his bedroom and closed the door. I just stood there; my feet wouldn’t move. I didn’t mean to listen, but I heard my dad say, “Carol, Lorna is pregnant.”

  I leaned against the wall, frozen by what I had just heard. I was confused, sad, and guilty all at the same time. Suddenly, more questions popped into my mind.

  I knew how babies were made. Lorna would only do that if she were married. How had it started? Maybe she liked kissing him. Maybe they went out to dinner, but what did they do then? Why would she do something like that? I thought only mommies and daddies did that.

  My parents told me the next morning that Lorna was going to have a baby. They said that when we make mistakes God always forgives us. If we ask Him to.

  I had heard the word temptation many times at church. The Lord’s Prayer says, “And lead us not into temptation.” Now someone whom I looked at as a second mom, who went to church with us and really loved God, had caved in to temptation. I loved her, and it sort of made me feel embarrassed to know that she felt ashamed. What would I say when I saw her again? What would she say to me?

  That night, for the first time, I had trouble sleeping.

  And for some reason, something changed about the way I felt about Happy Days when I saw it. Every kiss made me more curious. Every mention of Inspiration Point made me want to know more.

  EVERYONE WAS BUZZING because it had been only a few months since we had moved into Brooklyn Tabernacle’s new building on Flatbush Avenue. A year befo
re, by a miracle, we’d found an old vacant movie theater. It needed a lot of work—it was pretty disgusting inside when we bought it—but now it was beautiful. The theater was completely different from the original church where my parents had started—the run-down little building on Atlantic Avenue. Now there were comfortable apricot-colored upholstered pews, carpet running down the aisles, and a huge chandelier hanging in the middle of the ceiling with smaller ones surrounding it. Everything was so bright and new, it made the Sunday service feel like a special event. It wasn’t only the building that looked fancy; the people started to dress fancier too. Men in suits and ties, and women in attractive dresses.

  The women in the congregation provided me with my own personal fashion show each Sunday because they seemed to pull out their nicest clothes for church. They took a lot of their fashion cues from one woman in particular—my mom. She was super stylish and had an effortless sense of fashion. Her look was always modest, but with an eye-catching edge. Since turning eleven I was starting to fall in love with nice clothing, and my love for shoes that had begun when I was a little girl was turning into a longing for them.

  One Sunday morning, I entered the back of the auditorium, making my way down the aisle to take my seat near the front. Mom caught my eye as she glided across the stage to take her place at the piano. I always marveled at how beautiful she looked. She was wearing a candy-apple red dress that had black pin dots in the fabric. Her wide, shiny black patent-leather belt and her high-heeled patent-leather shoes with ankle straps gleamed under the bright lights.

  I found my place in the third pew, where the choir members were seated. People continued to file into the room as the service began, with the musicians playing an up-tempo praise song. The congregation didn’t need any direction at all—they began to sing loudly, clapping and swaying, a spontaneous rhythmic expression of their worship. The resounding praise coming from our beautiful rainbow of people was what I was used to—it comforted me.

  Suddenly I noticed that my dad wasn’t on the stage.

  That’s strange. He’s always up front during worship.

  One of the deacons came forward to pray for the offering before the ushers started passing the collection baskets. Just then, my dad walked up onto the stage. He looked a little worn out when he took the microphone to introduce the choir. The group, now numbering ninety people, filed onto the risers as Mom took her place in front of them. With the piano, bass, and drums behind her, she began to wave her arms, directing them in the first song:

  In everything, give Him thanks, give Him thanks.

  In the good times, praise His name,

  in the bad times, do the same . . .

  As I looked around, it was apparent that the people all around me were just as moved as I was by the music. All over the auditorium people began to stand—one by one—until the whole audience was on their feet. I was standing, too, and looked up at my parents. Even though they were leading the meeting, they looked like they weren’t conscious of anyone in the room except for the One they were worshiping. Dad’s eyes were closed and I saw a tear running down his cheek, and Mom stopped directing and stood with her eyes closed and her hands raised.

  The presence of God was stronger than I had ever felt before. Everyone’s faces were turned up to heaven and their hands were stretched high, as they were pouring out their hearts to God. Wave upon wave of worship flowed from the congregation. The song ended but the praise didn’t. The musicians kept playing, and it felt as though we couldn’t stop even if we wanted to. My eyes started tearing up too.

  Finally the sweet worship died down, and everyone began to take their seats. Dad stepped forward to the pulpit. “Open your Bibles with me to the book of Romans, chapter 3.”

  I pulled my small burgundy Bible out of my purse. My grandma had bought it for me and written my name on the first page: “Dedicated to Chrissy on her 11th birthday.” I had a couple of highlighters in my purse too and got them ready.

  When I found chapter 3, I smoothed the pages and looked up at Dad. He just didn’t look like himself—almost as if he were distracted. While he was preaching his sermon, my mind started to wander—I was thinking a lot about my friends.

  Lately, I had started hanging out with the teenagers at church between our morning and evening services. Hanging around girls my age just wasn’t fun anymore—they seemed immature, and I realized I had less and less in common with them. They still liked to play games and run around, while I was starting to pay more attention to how I looked and what I was wearing. I didn’t want to mess up my clothes and get sweaty; besides, I was way more interested in what teenagers talked about, how they would sit around having interesting conversations about things that were still mysteries to me.

  I looked around to see if I could locate any of them in the congregation. I wonder if they’ll wait for me after the service today. I hope I can go to the pizza shop with them. Will they think what I’m wearing is cool? I had so many questions running around in my mind. Like last Sunday, when I hung out all afternoon at the church with a group of them while we waited for the evening service.

  Devon, Veronica, Janelle, Karl, Alex, Rosie, and I had been sitting in the middle of the sanctuary, scattered across three pews, talking about pretty much nothing. Alex and Rosie were the teenagers who were my closest friends. I would spend the night at their house and they would come to mine. Their mom was our volunteer youth director, so my parents really trusted her. Both Alex and Rosie were really nice to me, and I secretly thought Alex was kind of cute. I often imagined that the two of them were the reason that everyone else in their circle of friends was so nice to me.

  Suddenly Karl said, “Hey, have any of you guys ever . . .” At first, it seemed like he was talking only to the boys. But then everyone became quiet and started listening. As Karl went on, I started to feel really uncomfortable. What is Karl referring to? Am I the only one who doesn’t know what that word means? Some of the others were laughing. Obviously, they knew what Karl was referring to. Alex and Rosie seemed more aware than I was. I wasn’t about to embarrass myself, so I pretended to know too. The rest of the afternoon, I kept thinking, Should I ask my parents? I decided against it, even though I knew the topic wasn’t something that should have been brought up at all, let alone in church.

  “Okay, I’m going to ask everybody to keep their seats and give me their undivided attention for the next moments.” This is strange, I thought, looking up at my dad, still behind the pulpit. Dad never says that at the end of a sermon. I noticed the deacons sitting behind him, which was also out of the ordinary.

  “There’s something I need to announce today that is extremely difficult for me.”

  Difficult? What would be so difficult for Dad to announce? He definitely had my full attention, as well as everyone else’s in the sanctuary.

  “Last Sunday, we received a handwritten message from my associate.” Dad paused. “He ran away with a woman in our church.”

  Wait a minute. My dad’s associate? Dad has only one associate—Samuel. I was confused. Samuel? He’s married. My brows scrunched up as I tried to think straight. I turned around, craning my neck, hoping to see . . . what? My brain didn’t even know what it was telling my eyes to look for. Then it came to me. Where is Samuel?

  Dad had stopped talking. His face was beet red. It looked like his words were all choked up in his throat.

  As the news began to sink in, people all over the auditorium started to react. The man sitting next to me dropped his head and his shoulders began to shake uncontrollably as he started to weep.

  A choir member was crying so hard that she seemed as though she could collapse. An old woman sitting a few pews behind me looked frozen, staring up at the ceiling as big fat tears rolled down her cheeks. It was as if time had stopped in that moment. The joy and praise music that had begun the service had been replaced with shock and devastation and the heartbreaking sounds of sadness.

  Suddenly, it seemed as though my world were a mir
ror that had fallen to the ground, shattering into a million pieces. Nothing was clear. I couldn’t make sense of any of it. What made it so bad was that Samuel chose to run away with my friends Alex and Rosie’s mom. What made it even worse was who he left behind: my Rina.

  I felt like my heart was being ripped apart. I couldn’t understand how this had happened. I had spent so much time at Rina’s house. From what I could see, she and her husband loved each other. If they loved each other, what made my friends’ mother better than my Rina? What made her worth doing that? Why wasn’t my Rina good enough?

  The rest of the day was a blur to me. I didn’t remember getting in the car after the service, the drive home that afternoon, eating dinner, or even putting on my pajamas that night. I just lay in bed, looking at the framed prayer on the wall. As I read it silently, I burst into tears.

  How many times had I recited those words as a child? I just wanted to turn back time and be that little girl again, looking at that prayer in my old room in New Jersey. My mind was going to a place it had never gone before. I became aware of something I couldn’t even name. I pressed my face into my tear-soaked pillow, drew my knees up into my chest, and tried to curl my body into the smallest ball I could, the covers wrapped tightly around me. I just wanted to feel happy and protected. I didn’t feel safe anymore. Something died in me that day.

  “CHRISSY, YOU’RE SO PRETTY.”

  I stood in front of the bathroom mirror with my makeup sponge, scooped up a dollop of beige foundation, and smeared it across my left cheek, then my right cheek.

  “Chrissy, you’ve grown so much, you look so much older. You’re a knockout. So beautiful . . .”

  Right on cue, my thoughts, that seemed almost like voices, started to taunt me. When I first heard them, I wondered where they were coming from. My head? The mirror? I wasn’t sure. But I was certain of one thing—the voices always came and surrounded me when I was alone in the bathroom, getting ready. “So pretty . . . so pretty . . . so pretty.”