She was
in the back seat and I was in the passenger’s seat. We were sitting in a sedan,
driving from the Staten Island Ferry terminal to my church in the Willowbrook
section of Staten Island. I hadn’t really known this girl before the day began,
but I knew her now. She was, in fact, all I could think about as our chaperone’s
car cruised along Crystal Avenue and the radio station played Debbie Gibson’s latest
song.
It’s
funny how the smallest of decisions can change a life or two. My church’s youth
group was taking a February field trip to the Statue of Liberty and South
Street Seaport. My brother and I, along with several other teens, were among those
taking the trip on this Sunday. One of my fellow 12th-graders, a
girl named Erica, had asked a school friend of hers if she wanted to go along.
The friend had said yes, and she joined us in the crowd of teens traveling by
cars and ferryboats to our destination.
This new girl chatted with me during
the Circle Line ferry ride to Liberty Island, where our conversation was
interrupted by a then-immature younger brother of mine, who was playing a game of
“punch your brother in the crotch.” Somehow, the girl and I were able to ignore
this painful distraction, and before long our voices and eyes became more
flirtatious. By the time we were walking up the stairs of Lady Liberty, the new
girl was massaging my shoulder. On the ferry back to Manhattan, she was
snuggling up against me for warmth amid the chill of New York Harbor. At South
Street Seaport, we ate pizza together, and I realized that my 18-year-old
hormones were fully engaged.
So, on the walk back to South
Ferry, we drifted to the back of the line and, when the moment was right, we stopped
and let the others walk ahead. I knew little more than her name, the sing-song
melody of her voice, her strawberry blonde hair and the high cheekbones that framed
her face. But after turning toward the new girl, I now knew the taste of her
lips. It was clear that this might lead somewhere.
In that car ride back, Debbie
Gibson was singing her monster hit of the moment, “Lost in Your Eyes.” The new
girl told me later that as she listened to that song, she thought about my
brown eyes and the song felt right, in a mix-tape kind of way. When the girl told
me later that she had a boyfriend, I said I wasn’t going to get in the middle
of that, but to keep me posted. Two days later – on Valentine’s Day, no less –
the girl broke up with her boyfriend. The next day, I asked her out. She said
yes.
It’s a sweet and corny little high
school romance story, and many of us have something like it. The difference here,
I guess, is where this went afterward. While most of my peers waited to find
their life partners much later, this girl and I couldn’t shake each other. In
fact, we’ve been together ever since. Her name is Amy, and we’ve been married for
18 years. Tomorrow, it will be 25 years since I first asked her out.
Growing up together was not always
easy, and I wouldn’t suggest this path for my daughters. But I guess we’re
living proof that when it feels right, and the girl you see beneath the glitter
of the Brooklyn Bridge looks like everything you’ve ever wanted, you might want
to kiss her then and there. You never know where it might take you. The Debbie
Gibson song is nostalgia now, but the girl is still new to me in all the right
ways, every day.
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