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Do you remember? Do you remember how you asked me if I would like to go with you to Dairy Queen for an ice cream with your friends after the club meeting? 

Do you remember how you forgot my name.  You called me Susan, and I smiled.  “That’s my mom’s name,” I said.  “I’m Sarah.”

You offered to drive me home.  I told you that I would have to ask my parents first.  I gave you my phone number.  When I arrived home that night, I begged my mom to let me get ice cream with you.

She hemmed and hawed.  You were a senior.  She didn’t know you.  In the end, she relented. 

The next week, I hid behind the curtain in my parents’ living room, peeking out the corner of the picture window, watching for your car.  You pulled up to the curb in a car I had never seen.  I watched you open the car door and step onto the sidewalk. 

I grabbed my backpack, hollered, “Bye!”, and  ran out the door, hoping to avoid the awkward meeting between you and my dad.  My dad jumped up from his computer chair and chased after me.  He caught up to us at the front gate.  The three of us walked back to your car, my dad in the middle.  He loped his arms around each of our shoulders.

This, then, was how our first date started — Dad patting you on the shoulder, letting you know you were responsible for his little girl and that he was bigger than you.

Do you remember what we talked about on the way to the YMCA?  I try, but I can’t recall.  I know we talked about something.  Music, maybe?  If so, I flunked that test.  Politics?  If so, you and your high-minded thoughts on nuclear energy should have flunked my test.

But you didn’t. 

Your hair was floppy and soft, your eyes green and your lashes lush.  You smelled good — a combination of clean skin and hairspray.  Every time you shifted gears, you glanced at me and winked, dimples flashing.  Oh, that wink.  It still wins me anew every time I see it.  I smiled and looked away.  At the club meeting, we walked in together.  You held my hand.

I remember Robin, Mo and Chris turning their heads when we walked into the room together.  Robin smiled.  Chris, as usual, was all business.  Mo worked the room, as he did.  My friend Davina gave me a huge grin.

I debated, you sat back and winked at me, watching me blush.  You might have whispered something in my ear.  Or maybe that came during the weeks that followed.  The details have, after all of these years, begun to meld together.

After the meeting, my school friends offered to give me a ride home.  You took my hand and said, “I told your dad I would bring you home.  Do you still want ice cream?”

It was February.  I didn’t really care about ice cream, but I wanted more time with you.  “Yes, ice cream sounds good,” I said. 

We walked with your group to the Dairy Queen next door.  Did they really get ice cream after every meeting before that week?  Or did you and Robin set that up? 

You insisted on buying, so I skipped my favorite Dairy Queen dessert — a Heath bar blizzard — and opted for a simple soft serve cone.  We sat on the low brick wall, sharing ice cream, laughing with your friends, until one of us became anxious about the time. 

It was a half-hour drive back to my house.  We said an early goodbye; you held my hand on the way back to your car.  You … opened the door for me.  It was unexpected.

All the way home, a train paced our car.  You tried to beat the train, but the gates had closed.  We sat there, interminably, suddenly at a loss for words. 

At my door, you kissed me lightly.  I leaned in for more, and then the light turned on.  Caught.  Once inside, I heard my mom call from the family room, “Did you have a good time?” 

Yes, yes. 

You called me the next day, asked me what I was doing on Friday. 

“I don’t know,” I responded, incapable of subterfuge.  “What am I doing on Friday?”