He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hand and shook his head.
I laughed.
“My pain amuses you?”
“No. Well, yes. Sorta.” I sat up, banging my head on the car’s unyielding metal roof. “Ouch!”
“That’ll teach you.” Pete glanced at his watch.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” I rubbed the sore spot.
“Unfortunately. Either I take you home or your father will send his Mafia hit men after me.”
I punched him in the arm. “My father’s not in the Mafia!”
“That’s what you think. He already tried to make me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Pete imitated Marlon Brando from The Godfather in a strained voice.
“Then you better get me home before you find a horse’s head in your bed.”
We pulled ourselves together, climbed over the seat and drove home, holding hands the entire way as tunes blared from KMEL.
Once ensconced in the comforting embrace of my waterbed, remnants of the sensations from our bodies responding to one another fluttered through me. It was so different from how it had been with Alec. Pete treated me with tenderness and respect. I reveled in it, and my body ached for him. It was only a matter of time before we went all the way. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Fear and doubt descended with the weight and speed of an avalanche. Knowing Pete was a virgin—me being the first girl he’d even kissed, according to Reese—what would he do when he found out I wasn’t? It’s not like I could keep it a secret, plus could I even make love with a boy now? I shuddered, remembering the horror in Alec’s bedroom—the pain, the blood and the shame. If it hurt like that again, I couldn’t do it.
Tears trickled down my face, and I swiped them away using my forearm with force. The unfairness of it smothered me. I didn’t ask for any of that to happen, and now I could lose the boy I loved because of it.
§§
Pete and Tez picked me up Friday night and drove the short distance to Jaime’s, where we collected her and Reese. After everyone piled into the station wagon, we headed to the Greek Theatre for a Santana concert. My rock education continued, thanks to Pete. Although he’d only played one album for me, even I understood Carlos Santana’s mega talent.
Tez lit a joint and Reese passed around a bottle of peppermint schnapps as we traveled into the north Berkeley hills. Upon arriving, we all had a mellow buzz rolling. Warm air and a pleasant breeze wafted off the bay, a perfect night for an outdoor concert.
After walking into the arena, I understood why it was named the Greek Theatre. An imposing stage built from whitish-gray stone featured giant pillars and ornamental objects. Colosseum-style seating fanned out in rows, creating an intimate bowl-shaped amphitheater.
Although individual chairs were available near the stage, the majority of seating consisted of flat concrete slabs manipulated into the semicircle shape of the theatre. We found our assigned spots in one of these sections about midway. Pete had the foresight to bring a blanket, allowing us to avoid sitting directly on the unforgiving cement ledge.
Jaime and I chatted about my cheer practice and her summer job while the boys talked about sports and musicians. As the sun melted into the horizon, the announcer introduced Santana.
Performers covered the stage, including five percussionists, two guitarists, two keyboardists, a singer and Carlos Santana himself.
“Watch those guys on the timbales,” said Pete. “The one on the left is Pete Escovedo and next to him is José Areas.”
I stared at the percussion section, trying to figure out which instruments were timbales.
“That’s Graham Lear on the drums,” he added, “and Greg Walker on vocals. Did you know Neal Schon used to play guitar for Santana?”
My blank stare made my ignorance obvious.
He sighed over the music. “The guitarist from Journey?”
I nodded with recognition.
“Even though most of these musicians are masters, they can’t touch Carlos. He’s in a class all by himself.”
Pete didn’t exaggerate. Santana’s guitar wailed into the night, mesmerizing us into a trance. The percussion section also captured my heart with its Latin beat melding with and supporting every note emanating from Carlos’ magical fingers.
They played newer songs from the radio like “Stormy” and “Well All Right” and their popular hits like “Black Magic Woman,” “Oye Como Va” and “Evil Ways.” My favorite of the night was “Open Invitation,” an energetic song that stretched over fifteen minutes and got my blood pumping.
The concert over, we filed out of the arena, high from the show even as our buzz waned.
I told Katy about the concert on the phone the next day.
“You are so lucky! I love Santana,” she whined.
“Carlos amazed me and so did the entire band. Those drummers, I mean percussionists, they were playing congas, timbales and bongos. And that didn’t even include the main drummer!”
“I hear they put on a hella good show.”
“That’s an understatement. Pete says they play a lot in the Bay Area, so go next time!” My eyes fell on my poster of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John from Grease. I should take that down and replace it with a cool rock band poster instead. “Enough about me, what’s going on with your football player?”
“He wants to meet me after practice.” I detected some smugness in Katy’s tone.
I whooped. “That’s great! What’s his name?”
“Nate.”
“Sounds manly.”
“He’s all that and more. And he’s got ultra-big muscles.” She sighed blissfully.
“And a KSLB?”
“Let’s hope.”
“You better call me and tell me all about it later.”
“I will. I suppose you and Pete are going out again?”
“Yup.” I grinned.
“So when are you going to do it with him?”
I didn’t have to ask what she meant. Do it only denoted one thing. “We’re heading that direction.”
