She was a map with no ocean, and I was at sea.
Maryellen Johnson wore her skirt too high for Mrs. Johnson’s liking, but Mrs. Johnson was just jealous of her legs. Every woman was. Smooth as they were tanned, and she was outside working on the farm more than her father’s workers were.
She had style. She was fit. She was gorgeous. And she broke my heart before she even knew it was hers.
I walked past her one day, watching her hips swing back and forth. Call me an ogler — I can’t deny it. She never noticed the trail of wagging tongues behind her, which was fine with us because she would probably sock us all right then and there. I ran straight into Mrs. Johnson, who was turning out of her fifth period English class.
Papers and bifocals flew, and I heard some popping sound.
“Mom,” Maryellen said, running back this way. I had hit the floor hard, and I deserved at least a glimpse of her for my troubles.
Yet she was chiefly concerned about her mom. Man. What a sweet girl. She would look good wrapped in my arms.