The Party
I wasn’t allowed to have boy friends when I was little and my parents were even reluctant to allow me to go to a friend’s house, unless it was an Italian friend. They were in short supply in my neighbourhood though, and any that were the right nationality weren’t girls or weren’t my age. This made my non-girl non-Italian Grade 6 crush very inconvenient. At least we got to hang out at recess and pick each other when it came to teams and projects. It helped that my best friend had a crush on my crush’s best friend. It was like we were double-dating except we couldn’t date or see each other outside of school unless we strolled past the boys’ houses by complete accident.
It was our good luck when Ann-Marie, who lived down the street from me on the next block, announced she was having a party where boys were invited. Her parents were not Italian so she actually got to have a life, even in Grade 6. Our respective crushes asked my friend and I to go so the only thing left to work out was how to get permission from my parents. I didn’t master the art of fabrication until high school but even at a young age, I was skilled at lying by omission. Telling them about our boyfriends was out of the question, of course. That alone would blow up any chance of me going to the party and probably result in the reigns being tightened even more. I was sure my mother, the rule-maker and disciplinarian in our family, would lock me in my room until I was thirty.
I enlisted the help of my older cousin, who was married by then and was close to my mom. My cousin bridged the divide between Italy, where she was born, and Canada, where she grew up. I often appealed to my cousin to help my mother cross that divide herself and this time it worked. She convinced my mother to let me go. My cousin didn’t know about the boyfriends. I thought it best to downplay the whole boys being at the party thing.
On the night of the party, the boys had strict instructions to wait at the corner, about 6 houses down the street, at exactly 7 p.m. My friend, whose parents had no issue with boys, boyfriends, or the party, was ecstatic. She came to my house a bit early so we could get ready. Makeup was forbidden but we primped and preened and practiced multiple slow dancing hand placement options behind the closed door of my bedroom. We were so proud of ourselves for pulling this off. My dad was at work and my mother didn’t suspect a thing. Until the boys, wearing goofy smiles, came to the front door of my house and knocked. And my mother answered the door.
My first thought was, I’m done for. There’ll be no night out for me. See you when I’m thirty. My second thought was that I’d come this far, lies of omission and all, so what did I have to lose? I blew past my mother’s objections, grabbed my wide-eyed friend, and motioned at the boys to shut their mouths and follow me. I was thankful they didn’t understand my mother’s agitated Italian but was pretty sure her gestures said it all. I didn’t look back and prayed to all the Catholic saints I was forced to worship, hoping they’d make my mother stay put. I was lucky she had my little brother at home or she probably would have followed us and dragged me home by the hair. I knew I’d face her wrath later but for that evening, I didn’t want to think about it, and told myself to enjoy the freedom.
Most of our classmates were already at the party and for the first time, I felt like I fit in. Arriving on the arm of a boy did wonders for my reputation. Ann-Marie’s parents were so much cooler than mine, even though when someone played “Cecilia” they stormed into the room, and pulled the needle off the record player. Maybe they objected to the references about making love in the afternoon. Or switching partners in the bedroom. I guess even non-Italian parents had their limits. I had my first slow dance with a boy that night. I followed his lead until I knew where his hands were going and then picked the corresponding hand placement option. The Beatles, “Let it Be” played in the background. I felt like this was a dream and I was someone that wasn’t me. Even after the song ended, I could feel the warmth of his hands on my waist. I hoped the feeling would never go away.
I didn’t get locked up until I was thirty but I got an earful from my mother when I got home. My Grade 6 crush broke my heart before the start of Grade 7. And for a long time I couldn’t listen to “Let It Be” without feeling warm and cold at the same time.
None of it mattered. And all of it was worth it.
