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Friday, Jul 10, 2009
Mark Covelli had dated the hottest girl in school, but we fell in love and he will always be the one against whom I measure all others.
Jun 12, 2002 | In the fall of 1975, my best friend Trudi was dating the high school basketball star, Mark Covelli. She lost her virginity to him in an upstairs bedroom, and it's a known fact that several of Mark's friends had climbed up a tree to watch her deflowering from an open window. Trudi was a hot-looking girl. We called her Titty instead of Trudi in junior high school because she had been so flat-chested but then, surprisingly, sprouted lush, full breasts in our sophomore year. So lush and so full that she literally caused car accidents when she wore halter tops, short shorts and platform heels.
Trudi was a party girl who loved to smoke grass and hash and drink sloe gin fizzes, whereas Mark was a jock and only occasionally swigged a beer or two. So it was an odd alliance, one not destined to last. After that fateful night they broke up, and I was not surprised. I knew Mark was smart, serious, going places. He was 5-foot-7, muscled, with dark hair, the consummate Midwestern Italian boy. I wanted him. I remembered seeing him walk off the basketball court, removing his jersey to towel off the sweat, and I loved the look of his nipples, like dark pennies on a smooth plane of flesh.
A couple of weeks later, trees turning colors, flocks of geese overhead in the sky, I walked over to my cousin's house for a basement party on a Saturday night. Basement parties were great because they meant no parents hovering around. They meant loud music, vodka secretly mixed with fruit punch, and dark corners for fooling around, swapping spit, French-kissing. And I knew Mark was going to be there. So I walked down the steep incline of Washington Avenue, past the dark green expanse of the golf course, past the forest of trees adjoining it, then past Holy Rosary Church.
And as I walked, I was conscious of the smell of musk oil on my neck and wrists, conscious of my navy blue bell-bottoms swinging around my boots, my fake fur jacket unbuttoned, my small breasts bouncing as I reached the bottom of the hill. Then I turned right on 26th Avenue, walked three blocks and rang the doorbell, which was a series of chimes: bing, bong, bing, bing, bong. My cousin Teddy answered the door with his usual, "Come in, come in. Make yourself homely." I laughed as I was supposed to and followed him downstairs to the basement.
The lights were off except for a lone blue bulb hastily screwed into a flamingo lamp next to a jumbo bag of potato chips and a bowl of French onion dip on a green felt card table. Teddy took my hand and led me over to the washing machine, where a bottle of his father's cherry wine was uncorked, and poured me a glass in an empty jelly jar. As my eyes grew accustomed to the blue darkness, I saw couples embracing: 15- and 16-year-olds wrapped around each other, nearly suffocating. Teddy left to put on Grand Funk Railroad's "Closer to Home," and I lit a cigarette wondering where his parents were; probably playing poker with my parents.
Then suddenly I heard "Hey," and turned around to see Mark. In the darkness, his lips looked bigger than the rest of his face. I said, "I think you should kiss me." And he did. It was awkward, tentative, lips too tightly closed, but sweet. "Mmm ..." he said, and pulled me into his arms. And that was the moment, in that basement, cherry wine staining my lips, smelling the sweat of his neck, his hair, his right foot wrapped around mine, that I knew I would fall in love with him.
He walked me home that night and it was understood that we were already a couple. It was understood that I was his girlfriend, that I needed to ditch my other boyfriend, and I was happy to comply. That was not much of a relationship anyway; Freddy took me behind the garage on Saturday afternoons, French-kissed me, fished around in my panties, and then ignored me. Or we'd drive down to the lake in his vintage Eldorado Cadillac, have a couple of joints, then a hand job, then he'd drive me home. It wasn't a difficult decision. Mark was the kind of boy I could bring home. The kind of boy my mother trusted to baby-sit with me on Saturday nights. The kind of boy who would play basketball with my brothers, teach them magic, help me make popcorn -- the kind of boy that swore he would always love me.
At 16, I didn't need or want anyone else. I told him everything about myself. I didn't leave out a single detail. For the first time in my life, another person knew my life history, convoluted and painful and beautiful as it had been, and he still loved me. We went pretty far in his basement and in mine, but never all the way. There just wasn't the time or the privacy, until we went to the drive-in one Friday night. We agreed in advance that we would "do it." He had a package of Trojans for the big night. I dressed carefully and remember putting perfume not just on my wrists and neck but even between my legs, because I was aware of crossing a threshold. Not only aware, but also eager and even a little bit awed.
I felt shy getting into his father's car that night, a brand-new Javelin, painted bright blue. He bought me flowers and had even procured a small flask of whiskey, which was sweet because he didn't really drink. I sat primly on the passenger side of the car, my legs crossed, a smile across my face as we drove out on the county highway to the Thunderbird Drive-In. We parked way in the back of the lot, completely isolated, and didn't even bother to hook the speakers onto the car window. We started kissing and it wasn't long before the windows were steamed and my pants were off. When he tried to enter me, I was still dry and a little bit afraid, the rubber slipping off, but suddenly glad that I had put perfume between my legs.
He was very patient and loving, kissing me, slipping his fingers up inside me. We were a tangle of adolescent arms and legs and heavy breathing. At one point, I glanced at my face in the rearview mirror and saw that my lips were redder and fuller. I loved him for not pressuring me or blaming me because it just wasn't working. Even though the front seat was lowered as far as it could go, it was still awkward, not to mention cold, and I couldn't relax. He lay back, and I fell into his embrace. Neither one of us was embarrassed or ashamed. We knew we could just keep trying until we got it right. There was no hurry. And that was when the bright beam of light shone into the car.
Mark gallantly rolled over on me, covering my body. He nervously rolled down the window. It was a guard from the Thunderbird Drive-In. The bright light from the flashlight saw everything; we were completely exposed. I don't remember what the guard said to us; I just remember begging him, "Please, oh please, don't tell my mother, please!" When he was finished ogling, he left as abruptly as he arrived. We began to suspect that he wasn't an official guard, merely a voyeur, his job searching out teenagers going at it in the back seats of cars. I'm sure we were an easy and obvious target.
We quickly dressed and drove up closer to the screen, relieved that nothing more was going to happen. Mark got out and came back with hot dogs, popcorn and soda. He hooked up the speakers and we watched the rest of "Enter the Dragon." We were now officially a couple. We had almost gone all the way. We were in love. I nestled into his arms, settled into the leather and wool of his letterman jacket, black and red and maroon, and watched Bruce Lee kick ass and conquer the world.
