December 1966. I was determined to make this the best month of my life so far. My new life, which began that summer. The first summer of my girlhood.

These thirty-one days with Bobby would be our honeymoon. Of course, this was Connie, my sister, being her usual sarcastic self. Although, the emotional weight of this interregnum in our complicated lives really hit me when Mrs. Messina joked with me as I was helping her wash dishes after dinner the first night Bobby was home.

“You know, I wish I hadn’t given you those birth control pills. If you were pregnant right now with my grandchild, Bobby would’ve gotten a deferment from the draft.”

I broke down in tears and Mrs. Messina hugged me, apologizing for her careless quip. But I wasn’t crying for the reason she thought. She didn’t know I could never have Bobby’s babies. Or anyone’s, ever. And there was nothing I wanted more than to be the mother of Bobby’s children.

That night, in my own bed at home, I slept fitfully, only to wake up with my arms tightly wrapped around Harold my life-size plush Bengal tiger. I was wearing the pink chiffon cami and shorts pajama set Bailey had given me as a farewell gift after the Brooklyn Fox show. I smiled when it occurred to me that Bobby had never seen me wearing an outfit like this. Well, it was a better than even bet he’d get to see it before the month was out.

Friday was the first day of our farewell tour of the small circle of friends we had in Bergenfield. After a full day of ice skating on Cooper’s Pond in the morning and shopping at The Bergen Mall in Paramus in the afternoon (Bobby loved the former, hated the latter), we drove fifteen minutes north of Bergenfield to Emerson High School in Bobby’s newly reclaimed Cherry Red Chevrolet Corvair Corsa. Bergenfield High was opening its basketball season on the road and all our friends in the band would be there.

“I heard your dad’s sending you to a Catholic girl’s school, Immaculate Heart in Washington Township,” Trudy, our first French Horn, said to me as everyone gathered around Bobby, guys slapping him on the back, girls pecking him on the cheek, wishing him luck as he shipped off to Nam.

“Well…Dad’s thinking about it. It’s pretty expensive though. I don’t know where we’re going to find the money…”

“You’ve got the grades for it, I’m sure.” She took me aside. “Rachel’s been telling everyone that they kicked you out of school because they found out you’re really a boy.” I sputtered and blushed.

“That’s…that’s ridiculous. She’s psycho. Just because Bobby chose me over her.”

“Yeah, that’s what everybody figured. By the way, you look really cute in that outfit. You should have dropped that tomboy phase a lot sooner. You’d be surprised how many people thought you really were a boy.” She laughed in a voice that eerily mimicked the French Horn she played.

Bobby finally extricated himself from his adoring fans and gave me a quick glissando of a kiss on the lips. “Want a soda, babe? 7 Up, right?” I nodded and waved my little fingers as he walked over to the refreshment stand. When Trudy went off to join the rest of the band in their warm-up, I overheard a couple of girls I didn’t know, probably juniors, stealing furtive glances at me while talking a blue streak.

“I’d bet anything she left school because she’s preggers. With Bobby’s baby.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t send Bobby to Nam if he’s an expectant dad.”

“They won’t admit that. Imagine the scandal. They’ll send her off to a relative until she pops that baby out. And who knows if he ever gets back from the war. I feel sorry for her being a single teen mom high school dropout.” Taking a breath. “Rachel told my sister Bobby was a jerk.”

Mortified, I turned and ran toward the refreshment stand. I barely avoided crashing into Bobby as he was carrying two cups of soda in his hands.

“Whoa! What’s wrong? Why are you crying? Did someone say something?”

“No, it’s…it’s nothing. I don’t feel that well. Can we get out of here? Let’s go back to your house. I’ll cook dinner for you and your family…”

“Trying to poison us? Oh, no, let’s eat out. Chinese? Italian? Burgers? You choose.”

“No, Bobby, I’m a good cook. Really. Let’s go to Shoprite and pick up some stuff. I’m sure your mom will love having someone else make dinner for once.”

“Okay, but I warn you. My sisters are really picky eaters. Of course, my dad’ll eat anything put in front of him. And I’ll try anything you cook…”

The Messinas loved the eggplant lasagna I made, especially Bobby’s ravenous little twin sisters (they inhaled it in record time and asked for seconds AND thirds). Bobby’s dad burped rather loudly so I guess he approved of my cooking. Mrs. Messina, Gloria, kept saying she looked forward to eating more of my cooking in the future, winking at me as she chortled. Everyone seemed to assume I’d be part of the family eventually if not sooner. Bobby just looked embarrassed as the talk went around the table.

After dinner, Bobby and his dad sat down to watch the Knicks game. I’m bored by sports, but I nestled into Bobby’s side on the couch and tried not to fall asleep before the first half ended. Actually, Bobby’s dad fell asleep before the 4th quarter started, his can of Schlitz beer precariously held in his right hand. The Knicks lost to the St; Louis Hawks…again. Bobby walked me the 50 feet back home. We kissed on the doorstep just as my father opened the screen door.

“It’s cold, kids. And late. Good night, Bobby. Come in, Shuggie.” I stepped inside, blowing a kiss to Bobby as he turned to walk away.
“Billy called. A couple of times. He said he’d call back around 11.” He looked at his watch. “Just in time. Another 10 minutes. You want a 7 Up while you wait?” Without waiting for an answer, he strolled into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of 7 Up out of the fridge. “Want a glass?”

“Do you expect me to chug it down from the bottle—”

“Like you used to? No, I guess not. Here, princess, a glass for your beverage.”

We were talking about the Knicks game (well, Dad was) when the phone rang. We both got up, but Dad beat me to the phone. He confirmed it was Billy and handed the receiver to me.

“Hey, Billy. What’s up?”

“Shuggie, I’ve got 2 tickets for you and Bobby to see Simon & Garfunkel at Fordham University tomorrow night.”

“Gee, thanks, Billy. Bobby and I were wondering what we were going to do tomorrow. And we planned to spend a lot of time in the city over the next few weeks before…before…you know, he has to leave.”

“Just show up at the box office. They’re holding your tickets for you. And after the concert, I need to speak to you about something I’ve put together for you—”

“More recording?”

“No, it’s about school.”

“Has Dad been speaking to you? I really don’t see myself attending a Catholic girls’ school.”

“I can just imagine what you’d look like in a school uniform.”

“Billy? Are you still there?”

“Right, listen, Shuggie. We’re talking about a real educational opportunity for you. Something that’ll be in line with what I assume you want to do with your life. But we can talk at length about this after the concert. See you tomorrow night. Good night, Shuggie.”

I looked at Dad and, after telling him about Billy’s mysterious call, he shrugged his shoulders. Mom came into the room and told me to go to bed. It was late.

The only college campus I had ever set foot on before Bobby and I arrived at Fordham University’s Rose Hill Gymnasium in the Bronx on Saturday night was Rutgers in New Brunswick, New Jersey, where Connie matriculated (I think I caught her once doing that in the laundry room). But I digress.

The first thing that I noticed after we retrieved our tickets and found our seats was how overdressed Bobby and I were. The audience was packed with college age fans, many of them looking as if they’d just rolled out of bed. There were a few in the crowd in suits and ties or proper dresses but we still felt out of place: two Jersey kids sitting among highly educated New York young adults. Billy had met us at the box office and told us he’d be backstage until the end of the concert, promising to introduce us to Paul and Artie afterwards.

The concert started at 8:30PM with The Cyrkle, a group that had a hit with a song Paul Simon had written and offered to them, “Red Rubber Ball.” They had backed Simon & Garfunkel in recent years before breaking out on their own and even opening for The Beatles on their American tour that summer. Tom Dawes, the lead singer, sported a crew cut he had from just recently joining the Coast Guard (to avoid being drafted). I think Bobby and I had the same thought because we turned to each other at the same moment. They saved “Red Rubber Ball” for their final number.

There was a fairly long interval between The Cyrkle’s last song and Simon & Garfunkel finally appearing on stage. Born and raised in New York City, they were local heroes. Few people realized they’d been in the music business since high school. But “Sound of Silence” was a #1 hit in January 1966. In the years between, Paul had spent time in England and Ireland pursuing a solo career as a folksinger and Art had earned a master’s degree in Mathematics from Columbia University, planning to be a math teacher. Their careers skyrocketed when their producer Tom Wilson, inspired by Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” which he had also produced, added electric guitar, bass and drums to “Sound of Silence,” turning a rather contemplative folk song into a folk-rock landmark. Paul hushed the crowd and introduced their signature hit song.

Backstage, in the cramped dressing room Fordham had improvised out of an athletic equipment room, Billy introduced Bobby and me to Paul and Art as they packed up to leave. Art, Bobby and Billy were trading stories about the business while, to one side, Paul was trying to chat it up with me.

“So, you’re the infamous Sugar Pie we’ve all heard about?”

“Oh, do tell. What’ve you heard and who from?”

“Touring musicians, as you well know, often cross paths as they trek across the continent. And, when we’re in the same geographical locus, we enjoy discussing new faces and new voices we’ve encountered. You, my young lady, are one such as we’ve discussed.”

“May I ask why you speak with a vaguely British accent? It says in your bio that you’re from Queens.”

“Strange. I hardly think it’s that noticeable. I spent two years in the British Isles and it, shall we say, rubbed off on me. Some find it charming. Do you?”

“Oh, of course, I do. But you were saying you heard about me. From who…er…whom particularly?”

“Artie and I were in L.A.—”

“Not that jerk Jim Morrison!”

“Who? No, it was Zal Yanofsky and John Sebastian from The Lovin’ Spoonful. You know them?”

“We were at Newport on the same night.”

“Yes. Well, they both were quite enamored of your…voice. Among other things.” He looked up at me. I’m close to six feet tall when I wear three-inch heels. Paul was 5-5 at best. I resisted the urge to crouch when speaking to him. “But who’s this Morrison guy? You seem to have a distinct dislike for him.”

“He’s the lead singer for a band called The Doors—”

“Oh, Jim Morrison! He’s all the buzz in the business. Just recorded an album for Elektra. Billy was telling us Jac Holzman tried to get him to produce.”

“How do you know Billy?”

“Everyone knows Billy. But specifically, I labored in the Brill Building salt mines for a brief moment and Billy had the cubicle across from me on the 7th floor. Very talented guy, Billy. I keep telling him he should go back to performing. I guess there’s just too much money in producing. And he gets to work with some very interesting talent. Like you—”

“Shuggie, ready to go? Hey, Artie, Paul, catch you later.” Billy and Bobby shook their hands. I extended my hand to Paul. He took it and leaned in, getting on his tippy-toes, and kissed my cheek. Art just waved.

“I forgot to mention,” Billy said to me as the three of us bundled into a yellow cab. “Paul can be a little forward with pretty women.”

“Little man syndrome, right?” Bobby surmised.

“Be kind, Bobby. Not everyone’s Adonis. Anyway, Paul’s still depressed about the girl he left behind in Ireland. When he got called back home because “Silence” was climbing the charts, she wouldn’t leave with him. Said her life was there in Ireland.”

“I kind of understand what she’s thinking,” I said.

“But you would have stayed with me in Canada—” Bobby interjected.

I entwined my right arm with his left and leaned into his shoulder. “But you’re my life, Bobby. You know that, don’t you?” Bobby smiled in reply. Billy looked at me through the rearview mirror, his expression indecipherable.

We sat around the island in Billy’s spacious kitchen as he poured out glasses of Madeira wine which we sipped while munching on delicious brownies from Orwashers Bakery on East 78th Street.

“Best way to eat brownies. A little Madeira, my dear.”

“Ohhh, you charmer you,” cooed Bobby in a high-pitched voice.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks. I’ve given your educational crisis some thought. A lot of thought. You’re too smart a girl to be a drop-out. So, I’ve been searching for a solution. And I’ve found it.”

“Like I said on the phone. I’m not going to some Catholic school. That’s Dad’s loony idea in the first place. He was just angry at Principal Sloan.”

“Actually, I want you to go to a public high school…in New York City.”

“Don’t you have to be a city resident?” asked Bobby.

“We’ll get to that. I’m looking to get you placed in The High School of Music and Art. You’ll need to pass an audition to get in but that should be easy for you. You’ll knock their socks off when they hear you—”

“But what about…you know…”

“You wouldn’t be the first ‘unusual’ student they’ve had. It’s the arts. Half of their faculty probably cross-dresses on weekends.” Bobby spit out his wine. “Okay, I’m exaggerating. But they’re very understanding. As long as you don’t cause any trouble like try to date half the student body or seek out local politicians for sugar daddies.”

I blushed. “I’d never do anything like that, Billy.”

“I know. Your dad impressed upon me that you’re a good girl when he was showing me pictures of his 30-06 hunting rifle.” Bobby laughed as he wiped his mouth with two paper napkins.

“Time is short with Christmas coming up in 3 weeks. Their audition period ends on the 16th. Pass the audition and you could re-start your senior year in January.”

“Re-start?”

“They’re not going to give you credit for the three months at Bergenfield High. Which is fine. You can finish your senior year by attending summer semester. You’ll have to double up on credits, but you’ll graduate in August. Just in time to start college in September.”

“I gather you’ve gotten me an audition?”

“Not quite. You’ll have to pre-audition for one of the professional advisors that the school sometimes relies on to screen prospective candidates. Good thing for you I know one such advisor. And we’re going to see her next Thursday, the eighth.”

“Who are we talking about?”

“My good friend and former schoolmate, Barbra Streisand.” Bobby choked on a brownie. I slapped him on the back.

“I…I have to audition in front of Barbra?”

“Easy peasy. You’ve sung in front of thousands. I’m sure you’ll pass with flying colors. Now, the issue is what to sing for her and the Music & Arts panel. I’ve picked out two songs you can do just accompanying yourself on piano.” I winced. “I’ve heard you tickle the ivories, Shuggie. You play well enough to do this.”

“That’s right, babe. All those years when we practiced, you played piano for us…I mean me.”

“So, we’ll rehearse Monday through Wednesday at 1650 Broadway—”

“Bobby and I wanted to spend two solid weeks seeing all the sights in New York City. I mean, Bobby won’t get a chance to do that for the next two years—”

“Or ever,” Bobby noted.

“We’ll rehearse a couple of hours in the morning. The rest of the day is all yours.”

“In that case, I guess that’s alright. Okay, Bobby?”

“Of course it’s alright. Go for it, Shuggie.” He squeezed my hand and I nodded to Billy.

I didn’t see Bobby on Sunday. He went to visit his maternal grandparents in Camden, a small city just outside of Philadelphia. To say goodbye before he shipped out for two years, hopefully to return intact and alive. Mom took the opportunity to take me shopping for school clothes at a couple of the nearby malls. After all, I couldn’t wear my silver lame dress or Connie’s hand me downs to school, assuming I actually got admitted to The High School of Music and Art in January.

While I was trying out a cute pair of red patent leather Mary Jane shoes at Adore Footwear in The Bergen Mall, Mrs. Rheingold, my erstwhile Home Economics teacher, came into the store and immediately spotted me.

“Shuggie, what luck! I was hoping to see you before you left town to attend Immaculate Heart. I do believe a religious school like that would be perfect for you. Public schools are so…so…”

“Public, Mrs. Rheingold? Good to see you too but I’m not going to Immaculate Heart. That’s just a rumor started by some underclass girls.”

“Is that your mother sitting there?” She waved to Mom who was inspecting a pair of pumps for herself.

“Yes, we’re shopping for clothes to wear at my new school…wherever that might end up being.”

“I always thought it was a real shame that a girl with your looks and nice figure dressed like a boy all the time. It’s good to see you’re embracing the girly side of you. Speaking of which…” She whispered “you’re not in trouble, are you? It’s not my business but such a sweet young thing having a baby and the father away in the war—”

“Mrs. Rheingold! I’m not pregnant!” Everyone in the store turned to look at us. Mom jumped up from her seat, dropping the pumps onto the floor. I lowered my voice as I drew Mrs. Rheingold into a corner. “How do these rumors start? I’m just changing schools. There’s no scandalous reason for it. My parents just feel I should find a school that better develops my talent…my…uh…various talents. Various and sundry talents. As it were.”

“I’m sorry, Shuggie. I shouldn’t listen to malicious gossip. How could I believe such a thing about you? Well, good luck with finding the right school. And, please, keep in touch. I just know you’re going places, young lady! Bye!” She left the store just as Mom appeared by my side. She twirled her finger against her temple as if to say, “what a maroon.” I could only nod in agreement.

The view from Barbra Streisand’s Central Park West duplex penthouse was spectacular. Standing on her terrace you could see the Central Park Reservoir and, farther out, the East Side of Manhattan. It was Thursday afternoon and we (Billy, Bobby, and me) were sitting across from a coffee table from a very pregnant but glowingly beautiful Barbra Streisand, drinking tea and munching on chocolate-tipped biscotti. She was telling us that her baby was due at the end of the month. She was hoping for a New Year’s Day baby.

After some more conversational niceties, she pointed to the piano in the corner of the room and invited me to display my talents. Billy nodded confidently and Bobby gave me a thumbs up as I crossed the room.

I took a deep breath and made myself comfortable on the piano bench. I was wearing a blue floral print dress that I had purchased at the mall just that Sunday. Just as a change of pace, Mom had broken out the curlers and given my hair, which was now past my shoulders, some gentle undulations.

Billy selected songs that could be sung with minimal accompaniment and we both agreed that this John Lennon composition would be perfect for my vocal range. Looking at Bobby, I sang these beautiful words.

I didn’t expect what I heard when I finished. Barbra shouted “Brava! Brava!” Billy and Bobby followed suit and clapped loudly. I smiled, rose from the bench and bowed in Barbra’s direction, mouthing the words, “Thank you.” I had received ovations even more thunderous during the summer, but the enthusiastic reception of my performance here was galvanizing. I felt light-headed.

“Shuggie has another number that we’ve prepared, Barbra. Something seasonal that the M&A panel might find charmingly appropriate.”

“Please, Shuggie, let us hear it. We’re all ears, sweetie.”

I laughed, remembering my grandmother’s bewilderment by that English idiom, “all ears.” Re-setting my affect, I sat back down at the piano, my face exhibiting confidence and concentration. Then a laugh escaped my lips as I realized the song I was about to sing was a happy tribute to the upcoming holidays. It was “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

Another ovation from my three “auditors” immediately followed the last chords of the song and I was bowing like crazy. I think I even tried a curtsey. Barbra waved me over to her. She took my hands in hers and shook them excitedly.

“You are very talented, young lady. Of course you are. Billy’s got a great ear. I will definitely ask the M&A panel to give you an audition as soon as possible. Are you available all week next week?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Streisand! Any day next week is fine.”

As Billy walked with us to where Bobby had parked, he could see the wide smile creasing my face.

“Don’t celebrate yet, Shuggie. Barbra can get you an audition with the school, but you still have to pass their audition.”

“I know, Billy. But I’m so happy Barbra really liked me! No one’s ever shouted brava at me before.”

“Okay, okay. You and Bobby have fun exploring New York City the next few days. Just keep your powder dry for your audition next week.”

“What powder?”

Billy called the very next day and told me that Music and Art had scheduled my audition for Wednesday, the 14th, at 10:30 in the morning. So, Barbra really did have a lot of clout with the school administration. Billy told me to celebrate in moderation until then and said he’d find some time to talk to my parents about some details that needed to be ironed out when not if I get admitted to the school. When I asked what details, he just said not to worry my pretty little head about it and the call ended. Maybe it wasn’t the prudent thing to do but I decided not to worry my pretty little head about it. So there.

Bobby and I ran around the city like out-of-towners, taking in all the sights, looking at art exhibits in museums, seeing movies like the new Man from U.N.C.L.E. film, One Spy Too Many, going to jazz clubs to hear some of Bobby’s favorites like Nina Simone (who waved to us between songs) and Sonny Rollins, romping through the snow in Central Park, skating on the rink in Rockefeller Center, and returning to the Café Wha? to catch Richie Havens sing “Handsome Johnny.”

The High School of Music and Art was located in West Harlem, a couple of blocks from the campus of City College. It was a public high school dedicated to the instruction of young musicians and vocalists and established by colorful New York Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia in 1936. Billy told me some famous alumni included Diahann Carroll, songwriter Cy Coleman, Eartha Kitt and minor actors like Billy Dee Williams and Robert DeNiro. Oh, and someone named Janis Ian, who had just released a single entitled “Society’s Child,” was currently a student there.

There was a panel of four auditors seated at a long table facing the back of the stage where a Steinway B Grand Piano stood, similar to the one in Barbra’s apartment. The head auditor was an odd-looking man wearing an enormous fuzzy mohair sweater that threatened to swallow the upper part of his body.

The pinched look on his face seemed to say he wasn’t a happy camper today (or any day). Billy told me his name was Mr. Spinetti. I asked why his sweater was so over-sized. One of the other auditors, a pleasant looking woman who looked to be about 60, leaned over and told us Spinetti’s wife hated to waste the extra yarn she’d bought so she used it all. She cackled but stopped when Spinetti looked over at her. I was the third prospective student to audition and when my name was called, I walked quickly to the piano and sat down.

“Good morning, Miss Brennan, is it? Yes, well, you will pleasure us, hopefully, with two songs, for which you will be graded by each of the auditors on this panel. We will notify you of our decision as soon as we can, seeing as the end of the Fall term is upon us. I do have one question, if I may, before you begin. What is the reason you withdrew from your former high school in…let me see…New Jersey?”

“Umm…my parents thought I should be enrolled in a school that more properly addresses my talents. My talents plural. Various and sundry talents.” I smiled broadly. Mr. Spinetti’s baleful expression didn’t change.

“We’ll be the judges of that, Miss...” He looked at the sheet on his clipboard. “Brennan. Proceed.”

I thought the audition went well. So did Billy and Bobby who applauded after each song and raised the ire of Mr. Spinetti who grumbled about outsiders disrupting the audition process. Of course, no one shouted brava! brava! the way Barbra had. The three other auditors did smile at me when we left the theater. Mr. Spinetti was deep into his clipboard and didn’t offer a goodbye. Still, in all, doesn’t 3 out of 4 votes win?

That Saturday, Bobby was away with his family, visiting his Aunt Emily and her family in Glassboro. Her husband was a linguistics professor at Rowan University there. So, I spent the day at the old homestead. It was one of the weekends when Connie decided to stay at Rutgers. Must have had a heavy date. I should ask her. After all, sisters share important things like that.

We were watching The Hollywood Palace on ABC when Dad turned to me and told me he and Billy had had a long conversation over the phone the day before. Since the guests on The Hollywood Palace were extremely boring (Eddie Fisher, Agnes Moorehead, The Kessler Twins, and The Young Americans), instead of feigning sleep, I actually listened to what Dad had to say. Mom was trying to knit Dad a sweater and kept ripping the stitches apart and starting over again. I wanted to suggest she use mohair yarn but the picture of Dad in an enormous sweater like Mr. Spinetti made me giggle.

“Why are you laughing, Shuggie? I haven’t said anything funny.”

“Yet. Sorry, Dad. What did Billy have to say?”

“Well, he thinks you’ve cinched getting into Music and Art. Now, you have to be a resident of the city to attend a city school. Billy has a solution.”

“We’re moving to New York?”

“You know that’s not possible, Shuggie. I’ve got almost twenty years on my job at the plant. I’m not gonna give up my pension when I’m this close to vesting. But you can’t live in the city by yourself. At least not until May when you turn 18. So, Billy suggested you and your mother move into his apartment until you graduate in August. He doesn’t even live there half the time. You know he’s bi-coastal, as the cool people say. And I’ll stay here. It’s the logical answer.”

“What about grandmother?”

“Oh, yeah, Billy said she can go with you guys too.”

“It might be hard on her to move. After all, she’s stuck in a wheelchair.”

“I know she can walk, princess.”
“You do?”

“Yeah, the doctors told us before they released her last month. I figured I’d humor her for a while. Let her get her kicks, you know.”

“Oh, Daddy, you’re too much. Anyway, you won’t mind being here alone?”

“We’ll be together on weekends. Either here or in New York. It’s only a half-hour drive, sweetie.”

I hugged both my parents. Everyone shed a tear. Well, I shed a few more than they did. I really love my mom and dad. I don’t deserve them. Or Billy. What a nice gesture. I wouldn’t let a bunch of relative strangers live in my home for nothing. Or even a bunch of strange relatives.

Christmas was drawing near, and I hadn’t heard yet from the Music and Art people. I was getting a little nervous and starting to doubt Billy’s declaration that I had cinched the audition when Mr. Spinetti called on Friday the 23rd, the day before Christmas Eve. Dad answered the phone and didn’t give anything away with his replies or facial expressions as he talked to Spinetti. He put the phone down and held his arms out to me.

“You’re in, princess! Your classes start on January 3rd in the New Year.”

We hugged. Mom came in from the kitchen and joined in the group hug. Grandmother walked in from her bedroom and hugged me from behind.

“Why are we hugging, Itsuki?”

“I got into The High School of Music and Art! We’re going to live in Manhattan!”

“You’re changing schools? Why doesn’t anybody ever tell me anything?”

“You’re coming with us, sobo. We’re going to live in a luxury apartment on the East Side of Manhattan!”

“Can we afford that?”

“We’re living there rent free!”

“I guess we can afford that.”

The dreaded day was upon us. After a wonderful week of Christmas cheer, it was time for Bobby to leave for San Francisco, where he would board a military plane that would fly him to Southeast Asia to begin his two years in the service. Bobby’s father had booked a room at The Fairfield Inn near Idlewild Airport in Queens, New York for New Year’s Eve night. His commercial flight to San Francisco was set to take off at the ungodly hour of 7AM on New Year’s Day morning. Although the drive from Bergenfield to Idlewild was only an hour and a half, because of the flight being so early, Mr. Messina suggested it was better to stay at a hotel the night before. It was a double room, but I knew my father wouldn’t let me go with Bobby. I was surprised when I saw Dad standing in the doorway of my bedroom. It was too early for dinner.

“Pack something to wear overnight, Shuggie. Bobby’s coming over in fifteen minutes.”

“What? Why?”

“I know you want to see Bobby off tomorrow morning. He’s leaving for that hotel near the airport right now. Hurry up.”

“You mean…”

“Sweetie, I know what you mean to each other. And now that you’re determined to be a woman, regardless of my reservations about it, I’d feel awful if you didn’t have one last private moment with Bobby before he goes away, maybe forever—”

“Daddy, don’t say that!”

“None of us know what’s in the cards for us. War is hell, Shuggie. I know. I was in the biggest one ever. And I’m damned lucky to have survived. I hope and pray Bobby makes it back to you in two years. I really do. Because it would kill me to see you destroyed by that.”

“Thank you, Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Now hurry up. Your man’ll be here in ten minutes.”

I came out of the bathroom wearing my pink chiffon cami and shorts pajama set. Bobby, sitting on the bed of the hotel room, in just his pajama bottoms, whistled as I struck a seductive pose.

“Come here, babe. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“Be gentle, Bobby. It’s my first time.”

He didn’t reply. We fell onto the bed, and he started nuzzling my neck and shoulders.

“You don’t really mind, do you? About, you know…”

“I love you, Shuggie. There’s nothing about you I don’t love. I’ll think about you every minute I’m away from you.”

“Two years is a long time…”

“I’ve loved you since we were 4 and 5 years old, Shuggie. Two years will go by fast. When I get back, we’ll get married. We’ll spend the rest of our lives together.”

I knew what Bobby was saying was probably a fantasy that had no chance of coming true. Where would we be in two years? Will Bobby make it out alive? Will I ever be able to get the surgery I need? The universe was conspiring to drive us apart. Honey was right. God has a plan for all of us. But we can’t know what it is until it actually happens, and we have no control over it.

“Let’s stop talking and just enjoy the moment and each other. Make love to me, Bobby. Please.”

Not another word was uttered. There were sounds, of course. Sounds of pleasure and joy. I learned that night I’m a bit of a screamer. I hope the people in the rooms next to us were deep sleepers. I’d hate to think I deprived some tired travelers of their well-deserved rest. As we made love, the music that played in my head was “The Look of Love.” It was the look Bobby and I exchanged as we moved inside each other’s bodies.

I sat in Bobby’s cherry red Chevy Corvair Corsa in the parking lot of Idlewild Airport. His plane had taken off a half hour ago. I was cried out, exhausted from the heaving, shaking tremors and rivulets of tears. I had held it together when I half-jokingly told Bobby not to get killed. He smiled and said, “Not a chance, babe. I’m coming back to you. I promise.” Then he was on that plane and gone.

I squirmed in the driver’s seat. Damn, I won’t be able to walk normally for a week. Still, I smiled when I thought about how careful Bobby had been, so tender and, yet, I shared his passion and knew how tough it was for him to hold back. Slow, slow, I implored him, and he heard me and responded. Oh, God, please have him come back to me. Please. Please. Please.

I was looking forward to all my changes in the new year. A new school. A new home in Manhattan of all places. Bigger breasts. Yes, bigger breasts! A recording contract with a single Billy swears will be a Top 10 hit. I’ll turn 18 in May. High School graduation in August and college in September. Will I be a real woman in mind and body by New Year’s 1968?

1967 is going to be one wild ride.

Author’s Note: There will be a Book 2. I don’t know when exactly. My next bit of scribbling will begin posting by the end of the week. It’ll be a return to the universe of my story, “Painted from Memory.” So, same bat time, same bat station, see you all there. Thanks to all my loyal readers.