Walking back to the car, Mrs. O’Reilly and I discussed the exhibit while Pete and Tez joked around, knocking off each other’s ball caps and trying to administer something called “Apaches,” the equivalent of a friendly scalping.
On the drive home, Pete reached over and took my hand. My breath caught, and I smiled, not daring to sneak a peek at him. It was definite: I was one hundred percent in like with him.
§§
Pete and I became immersed in the crush we had on one another. I ate, slept and breathed Pete O’Reilly. I’d had crushes before, but not like this. My friends were happy for me, but annoyed by my new fixation. My journal logged further evidence, rapidly filling with entries and doodles only about him.
“You’re the cute one,” Pete said one night on the phone.
“What do you mean?”
“No offense to your friends, but they’re dogs.”
“They are not!”
“What, are you blind?”
“Ha ha.” I picked at a loose thread on my rainbow comforter. “Everyone always thinks Katy is the pretty one.”
“Actually, I think Katy is the one who believes that, but she’s a bow wow.”
“Pete, that’s not nice.”
“Hmm…is that what I am?”
“Among other things.”
“What other things?”
My cheeks warmed, and I was grateful he couldn’t see my face. “For starters, you’re cute.”
“Nice and cute? You’re killing me, Anna.”
I registered his disgust, forgetting how much guys hated to be called such things. “I meant handsome. And you have gorgeous eyes. I love the color of them, particularly with your hair.” I gulped. I’d revealed too much.
“You’re not so bad yourself. I like that you don’t wear any makeup. You don’t need it.”
I beamed. “Thank you.” Anytime I’d experimented with cosmetics, it resulted in disaster. Some girls benefitted from makeup, but others—and it was obvious who—had no clue how to apply it or what colors complemented them.
“Are you ready for your first rock and roll lesson?”
“Lay it on me.”
“I want to take you to see a concert—”
“The Gap Band? The Ohio Players? Funkadelic?” I joked.
“You’re a real comedian, Trapani. Are you ready to be serious?”
“Yes, dear,” my tone filled with bogus repentance as I drug my phone across the room and sat down in front of my records.
“We’re going to see Rush.”
“Never heard of ’em.”
Pete conspicuously cleared his throat. “That’s why this is a rock and roll lesson, remember?”
“When’s the concert?”
“Two weeks. Reese and I are getting tickets tonight.”
Fourteen little days until another big date! “Who else is going?”
“A bunch of us. And you should hear them first so you can enjoy the concert more. Can you come over tomorrow after school?”
“I’ll ask.” I kept my tone cool, but in the privacy of my room, I raised a fist and punched the air a few times. I was going to his house!
My parents didn’t fight me about going to Pete’s—they acted amused by our budding romance. After school, Pete and I rode his bus the short distance to his home off Skyline Boulevard.
Mrs. O’Reilly greeted me warmly and Janie gave me a bear hug, which I found endearing. We dropped our books and Pete gave me a tour. The O’Reilly house was immense, a sprawling three-story brick home with a panoramic view of the city and bay beyond. A massive pool and redwood hot tub filled part of the backyard, plus a three-car garage. Besides the station wagon, Mrs. O’Reilly had a sporty red Jaguar—her little hot rod, Pete said she called it.
In the kitchen for a snack, Mrs. O’Reilly asked if I liked her home. Liked it? They lived in a fantasy house, a kid paradise. My family was middle-class, but not rich. I couldn’t help being awed.
Pete ushered me into his room. Rock band posters and one of Pelé (the famous soccer player, he explained), adorned his walls. Sports trophies lined his shelves, along with an assortment of books. I sat on the end of his twin bed while he rifled through what I guessed to be over a hundred albums. He plucked one out and held up the cover. The artwork resembled outer space, the numbers “2112” emblazoned under the band’s logo.
“Twenty-one Twelve,” he said with reverence, “is the definitive Rush album. Keep in mind there are only three guys in the band.” He placed the record on his turntable, turned it on and positioned the needle on the spinning black disk.
I started to speak but Pete shushed me.
“Just listen,” he said.
The spacey, strange music enveloped the room, at times animated and intense. I couldn’t imagine how only three musicians made the diversity of sounds echoing against his bedroom walls. I dug the drummer.
“Are you listening to the words? The title song, ‘2112,’ has seven different components, and they all tell a story.”
I nodded yes, but lied. I hated to disappoint him, but I couldn’t decipher most of the vocals and it bored me to try. Attention span was not one of my strong suits. And anyway, being this close to Pete made it hard to concentrate. I mean, didn’t he want to kiss me? Kissing him consumed my thoughts.
Mrs. O’Reilly poked her head in the room. “Anna, would you like to stay for dinner?”
“I’d love to, Mrs. O’Reilly, but I’ll need to check with my mom first.”
Pete steered me to the phone near the kitchen, and I dialed the number to my mom’s office, praying she was there. She worked in real estate and could be out showing a home.
“Diane Trapani,” she answered.
Relief. “Mom?”
“Hi. Is something wrong?”
“No, but Mrs. O’Reilly invited me to stay
