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Boys

A va, you were the best drum majorette we ever had. We want to reinstate you,” Coach said at the start of my senior year.

Words of praise were alien to me. I’d been beaten down at home for seventeen years and shamed at school for over a year. How could I hold my head high and accept forgiveness when I knew I was worthless?

“I don’t deserve to be head majorette,” I told Coach.

He looked into my eyes and said, “You paid for your mistake. The position is yours if you want it.”

“Thank you, but no thank you,” I said, firm in my decision.

I was defeated and preferred to stay that way.

What I didn’t tell Coach was that I had discovered bad boys. They were exciting, dangerous, handsome, and most importantly, attracted to me.

Frankie Lombardo was my first bad boy. His Italian heritage and dark good looks contrasted with my Germanic blond hair and blue eyes. Walking down Front Street in Plainfield, I’d glance at our reflection in the shop windows and imagine what our children would look like. I hadn’t learned bad boys aren’t thinking about the future. For them, it’s all about seizing pleasure in the moment. Frankie was no exception.

My parents held the outdated belief that Italians weren’t quite “white,” something I suspected was a carryover from their parents’ generation. When Frankie invited me to a dance at Plainfield High School, I knew I had to lie about his family name.

“His name is Frankie Lambert. I met him at the library,” I told my mother.

Frankie fit my teenage image of a ladies’ man. Girls flocked to him. He was the best dancer at the high school. I discovered I, too, was a good dancer.

My parents were waiting up for me when Frankie dropped me off after the dance.

“Frankie Lambert ? You’re a damn liar.” My mother slapped my arm.

It wasn’t the first slap, and it wouldn’t be the last. Natalie’s anger was rarely physical, but I almost wished it were. A slap stings for the moment. Words vibrate into your core. Silence inhabits your soul for a lifetime.

“How . . . I mean . . . ?” I saw his wallet on the kitchen table. Frankie must have dropped it as we were leaving.

“He’s a damn I -talian,” my father said, stressing the “I . ”

And you’re superior because your skin is whiter?

“Go to your room. You’re never seeing him again. Understand?” She slapped my arm again.

The next morning our family set off for church. Silence engulfed the interior of our 1955 Niagara Blue Mercury Monterey. My parents laughed and joked with friends, giving the impression we were the perfect suburban family.

The laughs and jokes remained at church. Silence returned and stayed with us as we drove home. I sat on the rattan loveseat in our breezeway, hoping for forgiveness, hoping my mother kept no record of last night’s wrongs.

I heard my mother dialing the phone.

After a pause, she said, “Mrs. Lombardo? This is Mrs. Wilson. Yes, Ava’s my daughter.”

Another pause.

“My daughter lied about your son. Told me his last name was Lambert. We don’t want her dating Italians. We prefer you keep to your own.”

My parents were bigots, but I always expected they’d keep their opinions within the family. It would do me no good to stand up for Frankie and his family, for myself, for equality, or for fairness.

We all experience pivotal moments in life. This moment was one of those, but it wouldn’t be my last. The number one essential human need is belonging. The second is worthiness. I felt neither. I thought about something George Gobel, a popular comedian at the time, said. “Did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo, and you were a pair of brown shoes?”

After seventeen years, I realized I was that pair of brown shoes. Nothing I did would make my mother happy. It was time to make myself happy. From now on, if my mother told me not to do something, I would do it even more.

Frankie and I continued to see each other. I’d invite him to our house when my parents went out. We drank my parents’ liquor in my bedroom. I detested the taste and how dizzy it made me feel, but each sip symbolized a small victory for me and brought me one step closer to freedom.

Once I met Kevin Harrison, I left Frankie. Kevin was cuter and another bad boy. Looking back, I should have stayed with Frankie, but I had already begun my downward spiral.

Kevin and I didn’t last long, just long enough for me to meet his parents and his older brother, Tom. Tom was tall—six-foot-two inches tall, thin, with blond hair and blue eyes. He wasn’t as good-looking as Kevin, but we felt an instant attraction.

I had never met a family like the Harrisons. They were loud, expressive, and argumentative. An open bottle of whiskey served as the centerpiece on their Formica kitchen table. The more Kevin’s parents drank, the louder they became. Tom became the centerpiece of their arguments.

“You drop outta high school to join the navy. Then you fuckin’ get kicked out.” Mr. Harrison slammed his hand on the table and downed the rest of his drink. He poured another before Tom had a chance to speak.

“You’re good for nothin’,” Mrs. Harrison screeched.

Kevin and I tiptoed into the living room. Voices transformed into a low growl.

“What happened?” I whispered.

“Tom got a dishonorable discharge from the navy,” Kevin said. “It’s none of my business. The sooner I get away from this family, the better.”

The sooner I get away from this family, the better for me, too.