Bittersweet Sixteen

        The year I turned sixteen, I had a crush on an “older man.”  His name was Joey, he was eighteen, and he broke my heart for the first time. Joey, with his wavy, shoe-polish-black hair and olive-green eyes had only to look my way and I would actually gasp. It was Joey I invited to my Sweet Sixteen party, and who agreed to be my date.  It wasn’t until years later that I learned that women with self-esteem didn’t wait for men to agree.  Such women had men who begged to be their dates. But, at sixteen, having Joey accept my invitation was as good as it got.

          It has been many years since that party – the party for which it took me two months to find the perfect dress.  I ended up with a strapless gown, the color of raspberry sorbet, with a white bow at the waist that made me look like Little Bo Beep. I also needed some help holding up the bodice. The padded bra I wore was loaded with so much foam rubber that when I accidentally spilled fruit punch down my chest, I squooshed for hours.

          When Joey came to pick me up, his eyes went directly to my chest.  He handed me a box, shaped like a small plastic coffin.  Inside lay a corsage of tiny roses and baby’s breath.  Joey proceeded to attach the flowers to my dress, but stuck the pin in my left breast, instead.  I let out a loud yelp which brought my parents scurrying into the room.  It was a scene that would live in infamy for the rest of my adolescence. Even now, when I think of Joey, that’s what I remember most.

         All that spring, Joey and I “went out” as it was called.  We went to every movie theater in town: Montauk, Central, Lincoln and Capitol, with hot dogs afterwards at Rutt’s Huts in Clifton, malted milk shakes at Wasser’s, or pizzas at Mario’s. We took long walks through Passaic’s best-kept secret places and exchanged passionate kisses in random rooms of my house.  By the middle of June, before I left for my last year at summer camp, I predicted that Joey and I would go through life together.  But when I returned, Joey had already met the tall and lovely Amanda Cranshaw, who, at sixteen, had everything I didn’t: long legs that never quit, a silken mane of blonde hair and a smile that had never been obliterated by a row of silver braces. In retrospect, it seemed only natural that a boy like Joey with his greasy pompadour, would want a girl like Amanda – a girl who threw her hips around when she walked, and who knew how to maneuver her lips into perfect little hearts. There was no denying: Joey and Amanda were a match made in teenage heaven.

      As with many other devastating moments in my life, I turned to my girlfriends for solace. There was Janey and Susan, Patty and Ruthie, who spent endless hours convincing me that Joey wasn’t worth the amount of tears I shed. By Thanksgiving, they had bucked me up sufficiently, promising me that one day I would move on to bigger and better boys, and that eventually a real man would come along and change everything.

          They may have been right, but the year I turned sixteen, Joey was all I thought about.  I imagined running my fingers through his hair. Joey’s hair was so stiff from Brylcreem that I once thought I had broken it when, in the middle of a kiss, I reached out and touched his head.  Joey bolted up, grabbed my hand and told me his hair was off-limits.  Then he removed an Ace comb from his pocket and ran it through his pompadour while I sat back and swooned.

          Each night I made entries in my diary:
November 3.  Dear Diary, today I saw Joey. He was wearing a black t-shirt and tight jeans. His pompadour is getting higher. I’m not sure, but I think he winked at me. Then again, he may have gotten something in his eye. Even though he spends all his time with Amanda, I know that in his heart he still thinks of me.  One day he will come to his senses and we’ll be together again.  I will wait for Joey forever. 
Then, I cried myself to sleep.  But the diary entries continued:
February 14.  Dear Diary, I received a Valentine’s Day card signed: ‘A Secret Admirer.’ I’m sure it’s from Joey so I sent him one, too.  As soon as he gets Amanda out of his system, he’ll come back to me.  In the meantime, I plan to concentrate on other interests, read books and improve my mind. 
The movies I watched were Brief Encounter and Marjorie Morningstar, which made me feel even more depressed.  

          As it turned out, the Valentine’s card was not from Joey.  Weeks later, I learned my “secret admirer” was our paper boy, Larry, who was besieged with acne and was a total nerd. When Larry revealed his identity, I told him I was already involved with someone else.
          “Who?” Larry asked.
          “Joey Blatt.” I said.
          “That’s odd,” he said. “Last night Joey Blatt and Amanda Cranshaw were making out in the balcony of the Montauk Theater.”
          Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Larry the paper boy observing life from the balcony of any theater. “How do you know it was Joey?” I asked
          “No one else has that pompadour,” he said.
          I couldn’t argue with that. By May, Joey and Amanda were still going strong. So was I. I still had a crush on Joey even though I dated other boys all of whom looked like Woody Allen. To make matters worse, my parents adored them, and told me I should stick with boys who would amount to something.  But, at sixteen, it wasn’t amounting to something I was after.  I wanted Joey who could practically make me stop breathing - Joey, who swaggered rather than walked, and who could hold a cigarette between his teeth and talk at the same time.  Joey, who knew the score, unlike those other squirts with horn-rimmed glasses, who poured over their books.  My obsession with Joey lasted well into the following fall.  When he cracked his knuckles and squinted his eyes into sexy slits, I nearly fainted.  Joey could drive a girl crazy just by saying hello. At sixteen, he was all I needed to make my life complete. 

          Joey never called me again, not that year, not ever, and eventually I did recover. I grew up and got married and had a beautiful daughter. Much later, I learned from a friend that Joey, then thirty-five, had married and divorced Amanda Cranshaw.  He had two kids and his greasy pompadour was no more. For a moment I felt terribly sad. Joey had suffered a fate worse than death: he had gone bald.

          I sat back and rewound the mental tapes of my life: Joey, puffing on his Lucky Strikes as though he hadn’t a care in the world, my ugly party dress, the lethal corsage, and how Joey had ruined my sixteenth year.  But in the end, I had finally gotten my sweet revenge: the thought of Joey going through the rest of his life without his hair made my day, and kept me smiling for years to come.