Dye Job 1: Pink, Gold, Berry Blush
I discover the Stairway to Heaven in my freshman dorm room.
Before I can tell you the next tale, I need to tell you this one. Before they dyed my hair jet black. Before everything changed. I need to show you who I was. And yes. I’m blushing behind my pillow as I hug it to my chest, hiding all but my eyes as you open up one of the sweetest storybooks of my life.
Okay, this story is kinda salty, too. But that’s the way I like it.
Do you?
December 31, 1991
Freshly turned 19
Freshman year of college
I’ve come back to my dorm early. My roommate won’t be back until the day before the semester starts. I hadn’t planned on returning until the weekend after New Year’s for the Theater Department’s welcome-back party shortly before classes resume. But plans change. “Hey, so…” I played it cool with my parents, bonking a heel against my big toe. “I just found out that there’s gonna be another New Year’s party in my dorm on the actual holiday.”
That’s not a lie.
It’s simply a party for two, and it’s taking place in my room.
Now I pace the open stretch of dorm floor, heart racing as I wait for the phone to announce his arrival downstairs at the intercom. Since the pair of utilitarian beds and dressers take up the majority of the floor space, my pacing isn’t much more than a few shuffles down, a few shuffles back.
The phone rings. My pulse thrills as I whirl around to hover over it. It’s black, equally utilitarian. I gulp hard, then pick up the receiver to say as casually as my zooming butterflies will allow, “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
My grin goes as wide as it possibly can—and if you know me, then you know. That’s a really wide grin. I buzz him up and head out to the elevator to greet him.
When the door slides open, my breath catches. Oh, he has only grown more gorgeous since the last time I saw him. He hasn’t changed much since he graduated from high school. His silky black hair is a little longer, his frame is a little bulkier—a good look on him. He still wears that devastating smile as well as he wears those jeans, his work boots, and his heavy leather jacket.
Right there in the hallway, he comes straight for me, enfolding me in a tight hug with a kiss on the cheek. I kiss his in return, entranced by the snowflakes that have caught in his hair. Cool with winter’s song, they tickle my eyelashes and nose. He smells like Lake Superior wind and…
Him.
Our arms naturally slide around each other’s waists as we stroll through the empty, hushed halls back to my room. My free hand gravitates inward, wrapping around his bicep. It’s bigger than it was the last time I gripped it. No surprise. He was only fifteen. He’s got over four years on him since then, and they have been nothing but generous.
I steal a glance from the corner of my eye. He does the same, and we share a knowing laugh, then snuggle closer until we reach my room. Upon gesturing him inside, I eyeball him head-to-heel as he leads the way. Yes. Definitely generous. I follow him, shut the door, and lock it.
As he takes off his coat, I can’t help but shake my head in flabbergasted wonder.
Who would’ve thought?
Right here in my dorm room.
Nick Fucking Berenger.
One month earlier
Thanksgiving break
I dreamed about Nick last night.
I haven’t thought about him since the last time I saw him in Mr. Z’s room on the final day of Chemistry my junior year. That was one of the classes our schools paired-and-shared. When he first walked into that room with the three other temporary transplants from our rival school, oh, my teeth had gnashed in consternation—an involuntary and well-practiced response to Nick Berenger’s very existence.
Our eyes locked. I crossed my arms. Leaning back in my chair, I kicked my feet out in front of me and crossed the ankles so that he had to step over them to claim a desk. Just to gall me, he took his sweet, sweet time about it, gaze speared into mine as though navigating my minefield was the most delightful thing ever. Then he slid like an oil-slick into the seat directly beside me, no matter that there were plenty of open spots everywhere else.
My challenge-slitted eyes tracked him the whole way there, making it 100% clear that I would never let him live it down: how unceremoniously he’d dumped me because I wouldn’t put out quickly enough.
He took it, snarl-grinned in reply, and then it was on.
We actually became friends through that semester. I mean, as far as breakups go, his was the cleanest and the most honest I’ve ever experienced. I wasn’t ready for intercourse; a girl out at his dad’s place was; he wanted that, so he dumped me before heading out there for a month.
It was as simple as that.
Ya gotta hand it to a guy, being that straight-up instead of sneaking around, lying and cheating so he could have his cake and eat it when he returned. I could trust in that.
So our post-breakup friction sweetened into a casual camaraderie that was completely and utterly full of it. Our primary bonding mechanism: a tetrahedral molecule a lot like CH4. (One big ole wad of Competition, surrounded by four zappy electrons of giving each other Hell.)
Since I had a boyfriend, we never lit a match to it. But it was always there. Odorless and silent, forever rife with the potential to level the school grounds in the blast radius, if we’d ever let ourselves slam back together, now with some more years under our belts.
On the last day of Chemistry, I was sad to see him leave. Since he was a senior that year, I figured I would never see him again.
But then I had that dream last night.
Actually, it wasn’t a dream, so much as the memory of the night we met. Suzy had given me that makeover before bringing me to a dance at our sister-school during the last days of eighth grade. Nick was in ninth.
Well, now Dad is downstairs in his taxidermy shop, and Mom is in her craft room, so I look up Nick’s old number in the phone book and give it a try. Even if he moved away after high school, it’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving, so maybe he’ll be back visiting his parents, too.
He is.
He’s the one who answers, and I’m tickled pink to shock him with this unprecedented poke of one finger.
“It was the most detailed dream,” I say, once I’ve explained the prompting for this phone call. “Do you remember that short-sleeved red button-up you were wearing? It had tiny green palm trees on it.”
“Oh, my God! You remember that shirt?”
“I didn’t until the dream. You wore jeans and those brown boots.”
“Yeah!”
“And I was wearing Suzy’s white button-up. It had those little blue and pink squiggles on it, and she loaned me her white flats. I can still see the little bit of scuffing they had on the toes because she wore them all the time.”
“You were in a jean skirt that night.”
“I was. And my cheerleading socks with the little white ruffles on them.”
“Oh, my God.” His voice has gone soft with amazement. “I remember that.” After a second, he adds, “That skirt had pockets on the ass.”
I flash most of my teeth at the ceiling. “Yes...” Uncrossing my ankle from the opposite knee, I recross the other way and twine my finger back through the coils of the phone cord. I haven’t laid on my parent’s living room floor like this, flirting with a cute guy in years.
The size of Nick’s leer must rival mine as he says, “I put my hands in those pockets during the last dance of the night.”
“Yes, you did.”
“What did we dance to again? Do you remember?”
“Oh, yes. It’s been ringing in my ears since I woke up.” I let him marinate in it for a second before I remind him. “Stairway.”
“Oh, my God! Yes! They always used to save that for last.”
“Yup.”
And wisely so. Any good DJ knew what horny teenagers would be all about at the end of the night. Ah, that last chance to get up the guts and ask, or dare to make that move, or—in the case of Nick Berenger—to thrust his tongue down my throat just as that heady, driving beat kicked in. For the next two minutes, we made out like it would be the only chance we would ever get.
“Oh, my God,” he muses yet again. “I haven’t thought about any of that in years.”
“Me neither. Do you remember all the Hawaiian decorations?”
“Heh, yeah.”
“They had silver streamers and all those helium balloons. Orange and green and white and—”
“And pink,” he says almost in time with me. “Yeah. Wow.” His laughter speaks of an astounded shake of the head—pretty much how I had felt upon awakening this morning with such minute details still swirling in my mind.
Our reminiscing about that night leads to other reminiscences. Memories that I have to recall in semi-code, because my mom has the craft room door open. I mean, let’s face it. Most of the hours I spent with Nick were occupied with things my parents would be irate to learn went on in their pool. More so, right down the hallway in my junior high bedroom. Kisses, tongues, touches to intimate places, and that last blissful afternoon with its shocking revelation: when his kiss and tongue had replaced touch.
For the next few hours, we burn up the phone line with bridging the years. For the next few weeks, we speak on the phone semi-frequently. Our conversations crackle with ever-mounting desire.
Shortly after returning to my hometown for Christmas break, we’ve decided. I am not going to spend New Year’s Eve with my parents at the neighbors’ traditional shindig we’ve attended for years.
I’m inviting Nick Berenger into my dorm room because I have one very important question to ask him.
Nick has brought a pack of wine coolers for our New Year’s festivities. Berry-flavored ones. Although I’ve only drunk alcohol once in my life a couple months ago (a tiny taste of Mogen David at Christmastime doesn’t count), I am pleased with the offering. After I take his coat and lay it aside, I lead him to the only comfy seat in the place.
My bed.
Once he’s got his boots off, we make ourselves comfortable under the bell-shaped, blue twinkle lights I’ve strung along the ledge overhead.
His fingers reach up to toy with a few of my curls. “This is nice,” he murmurs. “I like long hair. It looks good on you.”
I brush my nose against his fingers and smooch them. “Thanks.” The last time he saw me, I had the bouncy, shoulder-length Top Gun Charlie-do with extra-enormous bangs teased and sprayed into a cascade alongside my face.
Now my hair is longer than it’s ever been—to the middle of my back. The bleaching effects of my perm, compounded by all the years I’ve spent spraying lemon juice on it before lounging in the pool has adorned my natural brown hues with gold. It took until about tenth grade, but for the first time in my life, I’ve finally stopped hating my hair.
I’m glad Nick enjoys it as much as I do.
After he opens the drinks, we clink coolers. “Happy New Year,” I say.
“Very happy,” he returns.
I can’t help but agree as we sip and chat, catching up on the past four years since the last time we were alone. It doesn’t take long before both the wine cooler and Nick’s big brown eyes produce the desired effect.
The buzz tonight is totally different from the rum that smeared me all down the cushions of a couch during my first time drinking. This kind of headiness is as sweet and light as the flavor, and we fall into a zinging conversation full of innuendo. All that potential energy that had once crackled between us builds to a palpable charge. Now that we’re finally single at the same time again, our fuel is less like a seeping, invisible vapor that we try to ignore. It’s more like two tanks of rocket propellant.
The pre-launch sequence begins. Hands brush knees and forearms. Looks circle, linger, and dance. Our laughter mingles above the mixed tape I’ve put on. It’s a collection of gushy songs I picked out just for this night.
When Madonna comes on and I start crooning along with her, he curls up with his body around my knee, eyes fixed upon my face, fingertips softly caressing my leg.
The song ends. “Wow,” he says in the hush. “I thought you were great as Cinderella, but I hadn’t remembered that you could sing like that.”
My gaze reflexively drops to the last of my wine cooler. “Well, Cinderella was composed for somebody far more soprano than I am. What you just heard—that’s my actual range. Plus…you know…I’m just slightly more inspired tonight than I was on that stage.”
“Ohh…oh, slightly.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Yeah, well, so am I.” When he shifts, stretching out his legs a little, I see that he is, as always, telling me the straight-up truth.
I have no doubt that my cheeks match the berry blush of my drink. I polish it off and fiddle with the bottle.
He sits up and takes it from my hands, setting it and his own empty bottle on the low table between my twin bed and that of my roommate. When he settles back down, he’s even closer. The heat in his expression is unmistakeable in its intention.
When I meet him head-on, I’m sure mine is as well.
Our lips gradually alight, test, press, then meld completely together. Our bodies follow in a downward spiral until we’re intertwined from lip to hip across the mattress. Our legs lock like serpents in a slow, steady coil, winding tighter and tighter.
This is not the rekindling of what our relationship could have been all those years ago. As his hand laces up into my hair and clenches, drawing me more deeply into his kiss, I am utterly aware that this is probably not the rekindling of any relationship at all beyond a temporary twist to our casual friendship.
And it’s perfect.
I am not the girl I was in high school. I am certainly not the one he dated for a month just after that hellacious eighth grade year when they branded me School Slut even though I didn’t even know how to get a guy off with my hand yet.
🎶 Don’t drink, don’t smoke…what do ya do? 🎶
I’ll show ya what I do.
Because it’s time. The weight of NOW thuds in my guts like a big ole mallet landing on a timpani drum.
I know Nick. I trust him. I know exactly what I want out of him, and I know what he wants out of me, and that makes everything relaxed and profoundly sweet. Which makes it super hot, as well.
“Nicky?” I whisper into his ear.
He nudges closer at the sound of that old nickname on my tongue. “Mmm…yeah?”
“Did you bring condoms?”
He chuckles, squeezing me tighter. “Of course, honey.”
I decidedly pull away from him. He blinks hard, surprised at that reaction, but I stretch myself out along the bed and prop my head up, leaning on an elbow. “Good.” My tone is another tetrahedral: one part purr, four parts growl. It gives voice to everything that has been smoldering in my body for far too long. “Because I want you to teach me.”
His head draws back as he wrinkles his nose. “Teach you?”
“Yes, Mister ‘I’ve-been-having sex-for-ages-with-older-girls.’”
He swats my arm. “They haven’t all been older.”
“Well, you have way more experience with this than I do, so I want you to teach me. Because I can practically count the number of times I’ve done this on one hand, and none of those were terribly…” My head teeters and totters as I hunt for the right word. “Successful.”
“What do you mean—” He runs numbers in his head. “On one hand?”
“Fine. One hand, one finger, and a thumbnail.”
He chortles at my specificity.
“So, then?” I spear him with another look. “Will you?”
“Oh, sweetheart!” He draws me back into his arms and kisses the top of my head. “You’re so funny. And so adorable. You’re serious? You really haven’t…?”
“I’ve fooled around plenty. But all the way?” I shake my head. “Barely. I just…wasn’t ready. Now I am. And I want it to be you.”
“Wow. Everybody always assumed that you and Carl were fuck-bunnies.”
“Nope. In all the years we were together, we only did it five times. And we’d never done it with anybody else…never did it often enough to really…you know. Figure it out.”
“Humph. What about Byrd Brains?” He rolls his eyes at the mention of my last boyfriend.
Those two guys had never gotten along, which now only increases my esteem for Nick. Holding up a lonely finger, I state, “Shane and I did it once. Very quickly. And another…um…” My lips smash in disgust as I eye my thumbnail. “Half. Sort of. Very badly.”
It was only a half because Shane Byrd had put me on top of him out there in the romantic fall woods on his plaid blanket. I’d never been up there before; he’d never had anybody up there. I’d finally thought I was ready to learn what the hubbaloo about this intercourse thing was all about. To my delight, that position had really been something—yippee-ki-yay—until he tried to move with me, wrecked my rhythm, and got his dick smunched. I had extreme compassion for him about that, but to be thrown off him, blamed for it all, chewed out, sworn at, called horrible things…
I hadn’t had sex with anybody since.
Nick sniggers. “Damn.”
“So?” When I meet his eyes again, my mouth shifts into that old challenging smirk we used to hurl at each other in Chemistry like throwing down the gauntlet. This time, my question is all potential combustion. “Will you teach me or not?”
His hand latches into my hair again. His body rolls onto mine and his cheek presses close. Against my face, the shift of his expression into his big, shit-eating grin is unmistakable. He answers with his own growl-purr in my ear. “What do you think?”
Both my hands cinch into his hair just as tightly. “Oh, I think you’re about to wish me a very merry Christmas, and a ball-dropping New Year.”
The low noise he makes is like striking a match, and then it’s on.
Over the course of the evening and well into the first hours of the new year, I learn that Good Saint Nicky’s stairway does, indeed, lead to heaven. Generous and thorough instructor that he is, he launches me straight to the top of it.
Takes me all the way down the other one, too.
Several times.
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DYE JOB 2: PAINT IT BLACK - When everything changed.
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**Let it be known that I have never dated or even met anybody named Nick Berenger, Carl Kendrick, or Shane Byrd, so that makes this a work of fiction.
Based on episodes of my life that are not.
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