Somehow, I know deep in my heart that no one owns another person, that we belong to no one. But sometimes, if we’re lucky, we belong with somebody.
The boy weeps when I share this philosophy. I think I’m being profound; he thinks I’m being callous. He truly believes we belong together, that we should, once we mature, get married.
He’s so upset, and so convinced I don’t love him as much as he loves me, that I promise he can choose all the films we watch for the rest of the week.
To my dismay, he makes me sit through a slew of Westerns in the screening room while he chomps on popcorn and drinks Coca-Cola: She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, Colorado Territory, Calamity Jane and Sam Bass, and White Heat.
Compromising in a relationship is a nuisance, but up in my room he makes up for it by indulging me as we take turns reading from the stack of new books I brought back from the Gotham Book Mart in New York City. I try to expand his literary palate with:
Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell—
“Now this here’s something,” he says, totally engrossed.
The Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles—
“This one’s alright too,” he admits.
The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir—
“Now hold up,” he says, tossing it to the floor. “You go on and read that one on your own.”
The Baron in the Trees by Italo Calvino—
“I’m keepin’ this one,” he says, flipping through it. “For later. It’s just weird enough to suit me.”
And The Kingdom of This World by Alejo Carpentier—
“Don’t move,” he says, settling in. “This one’s got to be read out loud. Sounds better in my voice than it does in yours, anyhow.”
Afterwards, we decide we’ve read enough for one holiday season, and that it’s more than enough for us to go back to school wiser than a tree full of owls. We need to make out more and forget about all this academic stuff, at least until we have to separate again.
***
Christmas turns into New Year’s Eve, when we close our eyes and make secret wishes for 1950, kissing under the moon at midnight.
His dad comes running out of the apartment building and warns us not to do that again.
“Happy New Year, sir!” I shout as he heads back inside.
“And to you, Miss Birdie,” he calls over his shoulder, already halfway up the stairs.
“I’ve got crackers, want to set them off?” I ask.
“Shoot, yeah,” he grins. “Hand ’em here.”
The other kids are around too, each with their own stash of fireworks. Dads in horn-rimmed glasses and pomaded hair are everywhere, scratching their heads, trying to keep a group of unruly children safe while also playing with fire.
I’m allowed to stay at his parents’ apartment tonight, but I have to sleep on the sofa in the parlour. Miss Mary is away for New Year’s, visiting family in Arkansas. She’ll pick me up in the morning.
It’s all perfectly respectable, and I’m so helpful in setting and clearing the table that everyone concludes I’m saintly and a good girl.
***
I have to go back to school before his birthday. I give him his present before I leave, a portable record player. I’ve also bought him a stack of records to go with it, plus a gift voucher for Poplar Tunes, the record shop near his place.
“Happy fifteenth!” I say. He thinks it’s all too much.
“For you, baby,” I say, feeling like an adult, “nothing is ever enough.”
***
I invite his parents and Miss Mary to dinner at the Peabody Hotel. It’s my last night at home before heading back to school.
As we walk from the car to the hotel, the boy’s father mentions that a local sound engineer named Sam Phillips, who works for the radio station we all listen to at night, is opening a recording service on Union Avenue this month.
“He’s fixin’ to start recording local Negro artists here in Memphis,” he says.
The boy’s eyes grow two sizes bigger. “For real, Daddy? Now that’s somethin’!”
I smile and add, “One day he’ll record you.” I nudge him before we take our seats at the table.
The boy smiles, then frowns. “But I ain’t a Negro,” he says quietly. “You’re still cool though.” I put my arm on his shoulder. “Never say never,” I add.
“Now,” I say brightly, changing the subject, “what would you all like?” I try to sound like a grown-up host. “I’m sure Grandpa George sends his regards, and thank you all for looking after me for him.”
The boy’s mother gives me a long, sad look. I can tell she thinks I’m going to be more trouble than I’m worth.
A pang of anxiety bores through me, but I pretend not to notice. I’ll show her.
My novel GREAT ARE THE MYTHS will be serialised (one chapter each day) over the summer of 2026. If you would rather listen to the audiobook, the full story is available for free on all the usual platforms. Info and links HERE
My World of Interiors 