I loved this little girl like an angel should. It was often a drag for me to live up to my name, Angelica, which means little Angel but with Katie it was easy to feel protective and caring.
I sometimes took care of her, the out of wedlock daughter of my sinful cousin, fallen from grace of our family. In my white vest and matching pants, a thin golden necklace with a small cross pendent around my neck and the kid on my hand, I was more floating than walking in my white vinyl booties. In the glow of my halo I was also hoping to be seen, maybe even discovered; my photos plastered the local photography studio on said main street, owned by a woman who liked me and had even created my modeling set card for free.
I checked up on my spotless self in every shiny surface of our small town main street’s promenade.
“Look Katie, aren’t we pretty?”
Katie wore a short white dress and fit perfectly to my suit and its good girl cleanliness. I put a lot of effort into luring onlookers away from my shortcomings like the Romanesque nose my mother often teased me about. I made up for them with my vivid sense of style which I had inherited from grandma Maria, an elegant Catholic lady with long white hair who I adored. She let me comb her beautiful wavy mane and revel in the magic of her vintage velvets and silks, her lace gowns and fur coats. Her musty smelling crocodile leather handbag held love letters, postcards and photographs from her past; she was my romantic royalty and her unconditional love for me kept me sane in my strict household.
I saw the convertible mirrored in the shiny window display; such rebelliously attractive red.
“Hi pretty lady,” one them called out,” is this your daughter?”
I smirked, shaking my head. “No.”
“These men are silly,” I informed Katie, “they can’t see that I’m sixteen.”
Luckily. They looked like students from the nearby University and being accepted by them was a way to achieve fame and fortune or at least an invite to a party. When they stopped at the traffic light my heart pounded. Was this my opportunity to step out of the Catholic school girl and into the rebel vibe of 68’ protests and celebrations I had been asked to ignore? When I had danced with Mick Jagger in front of our black and white TV my dad called me spastic and him a monkey.
“Turn this weirdo off”.
I did, but freedom was in the air and I couldn’t help breathing it. It wasn’t my fault, dad, it was right there!! The two young men in the sexy car were right there. They looked like the morning after a fête, unshaven, messed up hair and dark sunglasses.
“You look gorgeous,” the driver said.
“So angelic.” The other guy chimed it.
I liked the driver; he sat taller and more elegant in his stylish red shirt matching the car. My dad didn’t have a driver’s license and we were traveling everywhere on bicycles, trams or trains. A convertible spoke of luxury, fun and freedom; they got an easy 10 for that. When I was on my own I usually brought my notebook with me on my walks; I listed how many whistles and compliments I got and taxed my admirers on a scale from 1–10 for looks, style and originality. The hot driver got a 10 plus, the other a 7 minus.
Green light. The duo waved and drove off.
The 7 minus waited for me at a street corner a couple blocks further, inviting me to meet him there next Sunday.
“Maybe,” I said.
My mom had banned me from dating teenage boys. My heartbreak caused by her mandate to “never see this silly drummer boy” ever again was still fresh; I had such a crush on him. He was 18 and sang “Wild Thing” to me when we were dancing to the Troggs in a barn, where I tasted my first coke and my first very shy kiss.
Mom loved the idea of the student guy.
“How charming,” she said, ‘he is seven years older, the same age difference as your parents and he has the same first name as your dad! It is meant to be. He will be wealthy and make a proper woman out of you.”
I walked to the street corner a week later. I was relieved and annoyed that he wasn’t there and had just turned back, when he held 5 red roses into my face. Okay, mom. I let him serve my vanity, my body and my curiosity. I did not love him, I did not fancy him. I even cried when he shaved his beard off because I found him so ugly. But I was stuck with him. The Damocles sword of not even pleasant intercourse had hit me after a year of guarding my virginity. My religious upbringing said that I had to marry the first man I had sex with; 7 minus became my chastity belt.
Good-bye, 10+ handsome piano player. The dream to ever catch his friend’s attention was dead; I had to get engaged to my boyfriend instead. It felt like a funeral.
There was no “I love you forever”, falling on his knees, nothing, just a ring that appeared to seal that I was officially his now. I kept the engagement a secret; I was still in my all girl high school and none of my classmates had long-term boyfriends, not to talk about being engaged. I was ashamed and tickled at the same time. The ring proved my value, I had no girl friends but I had a guy who wanted to marry me. I wore it sometimes for them to wonder. Nobody cared about my attempt to be a rebel with a ring; this bizarre “secret” made me, the weird math loving smart ass, even weirder; in a time of communes and free love I got engaged.
It was a rebellion in the wrong direction; I was going backwards.
Very backwards.
I overheard my fiancé telling my mother that he was okay with me finishing high school. But that would be it. That would qualify me sufficiently “to entertain his business guests in the future.”
The ring on my finger seemed to entitle him to be sexually entertained, which I resisted. This wasn’t my duty, was it? One day I saw him masturbating in a bathroom. I had no idea men did that. I felt nausea for days.
I asked my father for help. “How do I stop him pushing me?”
“Men are like that,” my father said.
I was alone in this. The more pressure I felt, the thinner the web of my parents’ morals became; reality changed its colors. My fiance’s convertible, the trips to Italy and skiing in Switzerland’s St Moritz lost their appeal.
“I want to be wild like the hippies and flower power girls with their amazing clothes and crazy cool hair and I want to go to college,” I burst out in a bar.
He patted my hand and chuckled.
“Little angel, “ he said in a soft and calming voice, ”you are much too good for that.”
I was too good for all the good stuff?
I stared at him. I did not want to be his little angel.
Ha, ha, ha,” I said with a grim grin.
His bewildered face reminded me of the cow’s tongue in cream sauce I had to politely accept not to insult his uncle who had cooked an expensive meal. It was time to summon my powers to spit out the man who was “given” to me, screw holy condemnation.
“I am a good Catholic girl,” I thought sarcastically, “I will admit to my sins and after ten paternosters I will be pure again.” There was something about this black leather dress with its long fringes that made me feel fierce.
“My mother told me that you see our future in a nice house with three bedrooms,” I said, smiling so fake that I nearly burst into a giggle.
Happy that I changed my tone he answered, “Yes, maybe even four? And you will have your own car,” he added with a generous smirk, relieved that a possible fight had been circumvented.
“So that I can drive our kids to school,” I commented.
He explained that I could also drive to the mall, that he would give me an allowance for outfits.
“Nice,” I said. He added that I would be welcome to chose as long as my style was appropriate and, just so that I knew, black leather dresses weren’t. “Do you still think that my high school degree is enough to help our kids with homework and serve your guests? Would I be smart enough for your doctors and engineers?”
“Of course,” he answered, eager to be accommodating, “that’s enough. If you don’t know an answer, you smile and swing your sexy hips. College these days just screws with women’s brains.”
I smiled back at the hunk leaning on the polished metal bar top, who raised his glass to me.
The finance turned to the man and back to me. His green eyes got a shade darker and his clown-like lips looked even uglier when he was angry.
“You are engaged. Flirting with other men makes you a whore.”
Katie’s mom had killed herself because my family had called her a whore. I got up.
“Where are you going?”
I threw a kiss at my handsome admirer and walked towards the entrance door. The fiancé rushed after me grabbing my arm. I pushed his hand off.
“Don’t touch me or I make a scene.”
He looked panicky now as guys from his doctorate class hung out at the end of the bar. He let go.
Opening the heavy exit door I added, “Don’t follow me.”
It was raining but I didn’t care. I would walk home. He ran after me grabbing my arm again trying to push me towards his car.
“I am driving you home,” he demanded.
“No.”
I pulled the engagement ring from my finger and tossed it into a puddle.
“You are not driving me anywhere ever again. I hate everything about you.”
“You will always be bound to the first man you had sex with,” he yelled after me. “You will never forget me.”
Now I ran, cursed by his holy rage, mud splashing onto my white disco boots. At the corner I looked back, he was not following me. He was digging in the puddle to find his investment.
I had exercised my right to say No and was not hit by heavenly punishment. Thank you, Magdalena.
Off with these boots. Face into the rain. Swirl like a Dervish. Laugh. Cry. Feel your wings grow.
Two weeks later I signed up for college. Two months later I moved into my own apartment, ten minutes away from my parents yet it felt like light years away.
It had taken my black leather dress two days to dry while my angel wings morphed into those of a fierce rebel raven.
I would never get married and I would never wear white again.
(Until now. I’ll tell you why next time.)