“Now do you see why I was eating so slowly?” my mother asked. “You almost ruined your surprise.”
The surprise party, I would learn, had been Mickie’s idea, and she had leaned heavily on Ernie to get some of my classmates to attend.
At the dining room table, my mother and Mickie embarrassed me by insisting that I wear a pointed party hat, something my friends also encouraged. The photographs are also in the scrapbook and, ironically, everyone in them has red eyes from the flash of the bulb. After I blew out the candles, my mother cut and served the cake while I opened presents.
Ernie handed me a card. “This is from all of us.”
“Seven guys, one card. That sounds about right,” I said. Glued to the inside of the card was a brown paper bag with six five-dollar bills.
“Jensen still needs to pony up,” Ernie said. Rich Jensen, the center on our basketball team, was a notorious cheapskate; I didn’t expect I would see his five dollars.
The Cantwells handed me a wrapped box, which my mother said was unnecessary but thoughtful. I unwrapped it and found a baseball autographed by none other than the great Willie Mays encased in a clear plastic, like a priceless jewel. “No way,” I said, turning the case and considering the signature from every angle. “How did you get it?”
Mr. Cantwell shrugged. I knew his business was doing well, because he had moved out of the garage to a high-rise office building, and, of course, he’d bought Ernie the car.
My mother sent us downstairs to the basement, which they had converted to a teen hangout. My father had put in a television, pool table, dartboard, and pinball machine, all of which he’d obtained from the owner of a bar on Broadway that went out of business. Mickie ran the pool table like a hustler. No one could beat her, though it didn’t stop my friends from trying. They were clearly more interested in watching her, and with good reason. I had been shocked the prior summer when Mickie had accompanied my family to the Russian River and wore a bikini. She had a lean, athletic build with a tiny waist, rock-hard abs, and a butt my classmates joked could be used to snap off a bottle cap on a beer. They were enjoying watching her chalk the cue and bend over the table, something Mickie did dripping sexuality. Everything she did dripped sexuality. It was apparent to me she was enjoying the attention.
“Don’t you think you should give someone else a chance?” I whispered.
“I would if someone could step up and beat me,” she said. “I thought Saint Joe’s was a jock school.”
This only led to further challenges.
Shortly after midnight my classmates departed, though not before three offered to drive Mickie home. She declined and sat on the sofa between me and Ernie, her head on my shoulder as we watched a late-night movie.
“Mickie, I better get you home,” my father said, descending the stairs. Then he stopped. “What am I saying? Sam, you have a license now. Why don’t you drive Mickie home?”
We made our way upstairs to the kitchen, where my mother was finishing the dishes. I hugged her from behind. “Thanks for the great birthday, Mom.” I felt guilty about wanting a car, knowing how hard my father was working to make ends meet.
“Did you get everything you wanted?” she asked.
“Even more,” I said.
“Driving is a big responsibility. You be careful and come right home.”
I promised I would.
“And do not sit parked in the car,” she said, giving me a knowing look.
“Mom . . .”
Mickie had entered the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Mrs. H. I won’t let him try any funny business.”
“I know you won’t, Michaela, because you are a young lady.” My mother was the only person who could get away with using Mickie’s full name.