Trevor is 12, but he turns 13 next week. I’ve only been 13 for two months — since August — so the whole age difference doesn’t really matter even though Dana and Christa says it does. They only kiss older boys, they say. I haven’t seen any actual evidence of this but with Dana it wouldn’t surprise me. Christa on the other hand — I can’t imagine she’s ever kissed anyone. She’s always so grumpy and flipping her hair out of her face.
I’m sitting in the little room listening to Prince. Not Purple Rain. That would be too tacky and besides it’s not my favourite song or anything. Just because it was playing when Trevor kissed me doesn’t make it “our song.” I’d have to be a loser to think that. He’s not even my boyfriend. He’s a guy I kissed at the Halloween dance. Correction: he kissed me. I’m not like Veronica or Nicole who go around kissing guys and wear jeans so tight they have to lay on the bench in the girls’ changing room after gym class and wriggle and twist to get the fly done up. They look like flappy fish when they do that — flappy fish with big blond hair, blue eyeliner and goopy lip gloss.
Trevor wanted to hold hands after the dance and the kiss. I pulled away at first. I mean, everyone could see. And then a moment later I didn’t care any more and let him hold my hand and kiss me again.
*
Image: Prince, Us magazine, August 7, 1989.
Welcome to the Little Room is a series of 250-word re-imagined vignettes from my ’80s youth with a focus on music and style. It appears weekly on periodicult.com.
