Hallie Weibel
Liberation (9 of 11)

With a smirk, he countered that I had a lot to learn about him. 
Blushing, I opened the car door, threw in my backpack, and
climbed in.

We drove around my little town, past the dark, empty factories and the lights of the football field, debating our music tastes.  I couldn’t believe the way I was talking to him, joking and teasing him like he was a friend.  I’d always been afraid that voicing my opinions and showing my sarcastic side would chase guys away. Yet, here was Jon, laughing beside me.  When a Mellencamp song came on the radio, our hands brushed as we both reached to turn it up.  Was that jump in my stomach just the thrill of being in this scandalous situation, or was there more to it?  The classic rock station played some southern blues next and the steel guitars carried us all the way to the farm’s weed-lined driveway.

Instead of heading inside, I followed Jon behind the paint-chipped barn, where he pulled some beer bottles out of a broken cooler hidden by the weeds.  The night was cool but clear, wind whispered through the nearby pine trees, blowing the pungent smell of the woods into the yard.  We sat on a small hill overlooking an abandoned, overgrown pasture watching the stars, talking about everything.   I’d lied to my parents again; they thought I was staying with a friend tonight.  When I asked how old he was, he answered, “twenty-three.”  He asked if we would we keep doing this.  As I shrugged my shoulders, Jon offered to try to make it work, even to meet my parents. 
 

Page 10 of 11>
<Previous Author                        
Viterbo University | Touchstone | Art Index | Literature Index | Dedication to Sr. Laurian | Credits
Questions or Comments Contact valuz@viterbo.edu © Copyright 2006, Viterbo University