Hadley
It was the summer before high school, and I talked to her on a dare.
I was at the park on the last day of June, playing basketball with my friends on the blacktop court. The sun glared from a cloudless sky, and the hot smell of grass and dandelions rose in the air all around us. It was hard playing in the heat, and after my friend, Darryl, won the game—sinking a fifteen-footer over two other defenders—we retreated into the shade of a nearby tree, where we had left our water bottles.
As I downed my blue Gatorade, Darryl nodded in the direction of the playground equipment. A girl was over there pushing two little kids on the swings. He dared me to go and ask her name.
"If she's cross-eyed and snaggle-toothed," I said, "I'll say you want a date."
"Go to hell."
At thirteen years of age I didn't know enough, yet, to be shy around girls. I took the dare and crossed the lawn, wondering if the girl was pretty, or if she'd be angry thinking we were playing a joke on her. Looking at her long brown hair, I tried to guess her name: Jenny, Lisa, Karen. She wore a white tank top and faded blue cutoffs, and stood with her back to me. Her legs were long and smooth and tanned.
I stopped about five feet behind her.
"Hey, how're you doing?" I said, suddenly nervous, and unsure why.
The girl didn't answer. Didn't even turn—she just kept pushing the kids on the swings: a boy who looked about five years old and a little girl, with long dark hair, whom I guessed was about three or four.
"Are you new around here?" I said, a little louder.
No response.
The guys were probably laughing their asses off watching me.
The kids on the swings looked in my direction, and the girl turned a moment later, seeming startled to see me. I don't know how long I looked at her, but for a couple of seconds that's all I could do. She was beautiful. Brown hair and hazel eyes, piercingly pretty—the kind of pretty that makes your eyes focus hard and your windpipe sort of close.
"Hi," I wheezed, suddenly needing to clear my throat.
"Hi."
"My name's Wendell," I said.
"I'm Hadley Graham."
"You new around here?"
"I'm down from Guelph looking after my little cousins for the summer."
The way she looked at me was odd. Like she was concentrating on me. I felt kind of embarrassed, but I liked it. The way she talked was different, too. Like her words were dull around the edges.
"Are you deaf?" I said.
Hadley nodded. "I had encephalitis when I was five. When I got better I couldn't hear anymore."
I never heard the word encephalitis before.
She smiled. "It's okay, though. I know what you're saying as long as I can see your lips. So, you better mean what you say to me."
I didn't go back to my friends that afternoon.
Hadley's aunt lived on Cyprus Avenue, a fifteen-minute bike ride from my house.
"She'll probably take in boarders soon," Hadley said one afternoon. "There are four bedrooms upstairs and Aunt Maeve might turn half the basement into a studio for herself and half into an apartment for somebody else."
The day was mild, clouds high, swirled across the sky. It was a week after we met, and I had gone there on impulse after seeing Hadley around the park a few more times. I woke that morning thinking of her; the address on Cyprus Avenue she gave me rolling over in my mind. After lunch I was on my bike pedaling east, leaning over the handlebars. I found her sitting on the back porch, watching her cousins, Jamie and Sarah, splashing in their Mr. Turtle swimming pool.
"Why did your aunt move from Guelph?"
"She divorced in May," Hadley said, "and wanted to live some place else. When school finished, Mom sent me down to help."
Hadley loved her cousins, so the summer was more vacation than work. "I spent a lot of time with Aunt Maeve back home," she said. "I'd play with the kids while she painted pictures in the garage. She had a regular studio out there—paints and pastels and her pictures everywhere. When the kids napped, I'd go out and watch her. One time she did this really great picture of an old man in a rowboat, fishing. I watched her make that picture start to finish."
Hadley watched her cousins. "She gave it to me for my birthday. Best present I ever got."
At one point she went inside to pour us some iced tea. I remained on the porch, marveling at how long her cousins could play in their pool. A few minutes later, Hadley returned with our drinks, and a notebook under her arm.
"Can I tell you something?" she asked.
"Sure."
"I like to write," she said. "Poems."She looked at me, watching for my reaction, I guess. "Would you like to see some?"
"Sure."
She handed me a spiral notebook with a sunrise on the cover.
On the first page, written in big letters:
POEMS
BY
HADLEY GRAHAM
Poem About Being Bored
I wish I was doing something fun.
A single poem appeared on each page.
I wish I was somewhere warm & dry.
On the next page:
Don't cry.
On the next page:
Big dogs.
Lightning.
Being alone.
On the next page:
Summer.
Cats.
Being by myself.
I read the whole book.
Being thirteen, I never knew anybody who wrote anything, let alone a whole book of poems. Hadley watched at me, waiting for my reaction. I told her what I thought:
"These are the best poems I've ever read."
"Yeah?"
"Better than anything I read at school. These make sense."
She hugged me.
Things were different with Hadley. Sitting around and doing nothing was fun with her. I guess it would be romantic to say I lost myself in those summer days, but I didn't. It was more like I found a part of myself—a glittering, scintillating part I never knew was there.
Hadley was the first to hold hands.
And there was the night we rode out to the lake. It had rained earlier and the night air was hazy and cool by evening. Reflections of the streetlights shone on the wet roads, and the moon searched for a way through the clouds.
Riding along Old County Road, listening to the song of the crickets, the wet hum of our tires on the pavement, I wondered if Hadley could remember what it was like to hear. I figured she might and thought about describing the sound of the crickets to her; how big the sound was—then realized she wouldn't see my lips in the dark. I thought to tell her later, but the moment had already passed.
Somehow that got me thinking about her poems, delighting in the fact that she would share them with me—feeling a spark of envy that she could write out how she was feeling. After reading the poems I realized I never said anything to anyone outside of saying hello or telling a friend to go to hell. Even with Hadley, I did most of the listening. Yet I had this aching, bursting feeling in my gut, a sense that there was something I wanted to tell her.
I looked at Hadley. She pedaled evenly, watching the road; her hair swept back, waving behind her.
"Hadley," I said.
She didn't turn.
"I know you're leaving at the end of summer." My throat was tight and I was suddenly nervous. "I'm going to miss you bad when you go."
The words hung there amid the sound of the crickets and the hum of the bike tires. Hadley pedaled and watched the road.
As we approached the lake, I wondered if any older kids were already there. Nothing was worse than riding all that way to find a couple of cars parked at the tree line, and the beach full of high school kids, drinking beer, making out; a portable stereo on a picnic table blaring the Top-40 radio station. Nights they were there, we'd continue down the road to a narrow clearing where people launched their fishing boats. It wasn't near as good as the beach, but better than just riding home.
My worries were for nothing: the beach was empty except for the slanted picnic tables, and the barbecue with a dented oil drum beside it.
The air was full of night sounds: the song of the crickets, the lilting call of a loon, squirrels and raccoons running through the bush; the flutter of wings. The air was heavy with the raw, damp odor of the trees and foliage and sand and water; the beach was flat and unmarked like new-fallen snow.
It was dark, and though my eyes adjusted to it I figured Hadley couldn't see my lips. I wondered how we'd talk, and decided it didn't matter. We left our bikes by some trees, and I slung her beach bag—she packed it with towels and two blankets—over my shoulder and took her hand.
Although the older kids went to the late to skinny-dip, I had no plans of doing that with Hadley. But watching her pull off her T-shirt and step out of her cut-offs; seeing her clad in that bathing suit, sure gave me a stir. I cared about her in so many ways I couldn't even keep track of—but seeing her in that one-piece bathing suit made me want to kiss her all over.
The lake was warm. The moon found a way split in the clouds and reflected across the water in a brilliant, narrow track. It was strange night-swimming with Hadley. Whenever I went with my friends the lake was filled with whooping and hollering and laughing. But she and I were quiet, though the silence was not empty. We swam to a raft anchored thirty or forty yards from shore. The moon hung balanced between the receding clouds; the air cool on my ears and cheeks; and the soft regular lapping sounds of our movements in the water. The night sounds mingled into one constant hum.
I climbed onto the raft first—a wooden platform covered with artificial turf atop a dozen oil drums fastened together—and helped Hadley out of the water. We sat on the edge, breathing deep, shivering; looking at the lights dotting the tree line across the lake.
My chest and back and arms felt taut in the chill air. Hadley glimmered like a mermaid in the moonlight. And I thought, Kiss her.
Glanced at Hadley. She sat in lovely silence.
Kiss her.
I couldn't. Couldn't bring myself to move.
Kiss her.
"Hadley," I said. She didn't turn. My pulse thrummed. "I want to kiss you."
I touched her shoulder. She turned. All I could do was look at her; my heart was pounding so hard.
She smiled—
—and pushed me off the raft.
As I surfaced, I heard her call, "Race you back!"
She dove into the water.
I caught her ten yards from shore, grabbing her ankle. She shrieked, startled, laughing. I pulled her back and plunged ahead. Hadley lunged on my back. We tumbled beneath the water and as we broke the surface, gasping and laughing, Hadley slid into my arms and pressed her lips to mine.
A strange, wonderful feeling shot through me, tracing the length of my back, exploding warm in my cheeks and ears. I had kissed girls before, but this was different. I had never wanted it so much. Kissing her lips, cheeks, eyes, forehead, chin; stealing glances of her smooth, placid face; long dark eyelashes, wet hair swept back. Held her close, felt the curve of her hips, ass, legs; the swell of her breasts against my chest.
Finally she opened her eyes, smiling: surprised, expectant. And somehow I was thinking about her poems, wishing I had something to share with her. Felt something stirring, words rising. She could probably have read my lips being that close, but I didn't know how to say what needed saying. I kissed her instead.
When we got out of the water, we headed into the shadows of the surrounding trees to towel-off and put on dry clothes. I wished everything wasn't so wet because I would have built a fire. But we did without. Hadley spread a blanket on the sand, folding it so the damp wouldn't soak through. I sat down. She sat between my legs, facing the water. Wrapped the second blanket over my shoulders and my arms around Hadley.
And it was good. Quiet and peaceful. I kissed the top of Hadley's head. She squeezed my arm. Then, without really thinking about it, I started singing. I never did anything like that before; my friends would have thought I was crazy, but it seemed natural enough. I sang something I heard as a kid. My father loved soul music, Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye and Jackie Wilson. My favorite song was "Ray of Sunshine," by Malcolm Brooks:
I've got a girl
Who loves me all the time.
I've got a lover
Who knows that she's mine.
My girl's true and
My girl's fine.
She fills my heart
like
A ray of
sunshine.
I never sang to anybody before and it felt strange. Felt good.
Hadley turned to look at me. With her back against me she probably
felt the rumble of the words in my chest. I kissed her cheek and turned her face away.
She picks me up
When I'm feeling down.
She's smiling
When I'm wearing a frown.
My girl's sweet and
My girl's fine.
She fills my heart like
A ray of sunshine.
When I finished singing I kissed Hadley. She squeezed my arm.
Then I listened to the night sounds, looked on the lake: the raft resting motionless, tree line surrounding the lake like a dark, uneven wall. The clouds bright against the night sky. The moon slid behind their gauzy veil.
"Hadley," I said. "I love you."
She squeezed my arm.