Summer of '69(123)

Dear Pick,

This past Saturday I was invited to the wedding of my school guidance counselor and the boys’ gym teacher. Miss Flowers looked elegant in her white dress and veil. She was crying a little as she walked down the aisle. At first, I thought she was sad because Miss Flowers was meant to be married last year to a man named Rex Rothman, who was killed during the Tet Offensive. But then I realized her tears were tears of hope and of gratitude because she had been given a second chance at love with Mr. Barstow.



The second astonishing thing that happened was that Jessie found a new boyfriend, Andy Pearlstein. He was in Jessie’s English class. During roll call, their teacher, Miss Malantantas, had mispronounced Jessie’s last name as “Levin,” rhyming it with “the pin,” and Jessie had surprised herself by speaking up and saying, “It’s Levin, rhymes with ‘heaven.’”

“Levin, rhymes with ‘heaven,’” Miss Malantantas said. “Thank you, I love that.”

Andy, who sat three seats up and one row to the left, turned around and winked at Jessie.

Later that week, when they were discussing their summer reading, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, Andy had raised his hand and said, “I think it stinks that she dies in the end. The book would have been way better if she had lived.”

Shane Harris then argued that the point of the book was that Anne had died. If she had lived, Shane said, no one would care about this diary.

“You’re only saying that because you’re not Jewish,” Andy said.

Jessie’s hand flew to her Tree of Life necklace, and Miss Malantantas jumped in to redirect the discussion.

After class, Jessie sought out Andy. He was a few inches taller than her; he must have been one of the boys who sprouted up over the summer. Jessie looked up at him and said, “I agree with you. I think it stinks that Anne died. I actually cried.”

“You did?” Andy said. He seemed on the verge of confessing that he had shed a tear too—but there wasn’t a seventh-grade boy in the world who would admit to that.

That weekend, Pammy Pope called to see if Jessie wanted to play tennis at the Chestnut Hill reservoir. (Pammy Pope had overheard Jessie telling Doris about Miss Flowers’s wedding in the girls’ locker room, and this gave Jessie a social boost she hadn’t predicted.) Jessie put on her whites and her visor and stuck her autographed Jack Kramer racket in her basket and biked to the park to meet Pammy. She saw Andy and a couple of other boys from school kicking a soccer ball. He jogged right over to Jessie and asked what she was doing and she said, “I’m playing tennis with Pammy Pope.” It wasn’t as glamorous as saying she was a fourth in a mixed-doubles match at a house party on Hilton Head, but it had had the same effect on Andy. He looked impressed and said, “I’ll wait for you, and when you’re done, let’s bike to Brigham’s for ice cream.”

He was asking her on a date.

Jessie shrugged. “Okay.”

Pammy showed up and they agreed to play one set and Jessie won, six games to two. Pammy invited Jessie to sleep over—she said she had just gotten the new Beatles album, Abbey Road, if Jessie wanted to listen to it—and Jessie said, “Let’s do it next weekend. I have plans tonight.” This was the exact right response because Pammy said, “Okay, let’s definitely do it next weekend.” She biked off and Andy loped over, soccer ball under his arm, his dark bangs sweaty at the hairline, which made him look kind of cute.

“Who won?” Andy asked.

Jessie zipped up her racket case. “We weren’t really keeping score. Pammy is a good player.”

“Really?” Andy said. “Because it looked like you were creaming her.”

“Oh,” Jessie said. “Were you watching?”

Like Miss Flowers, I’ve gotten my own second chance at love.



Jessie crosses this out. She doesn’t want Pick to know he was her first chance at love; he’ll become conceited.

I have a new boyfriend. His name is Andy. He plays soccer and likes the Beatles. He took me to see Goodbye, Mr. Chips, and next weekend his parents are taking us to the Boston College football game against the Naval Academy and we’re having a tailgate picnic. I miss you too. Write soon.

Your friend, Jessie



David slows down when the road curves to the left and Jessie sees a dilapidated barn with its roof caving in.

“This is Red Barn Road,” Kate says. “And that’s the barn.”

Is this the surprise? Jessie wonders. Because if so, it stinks.

“Do I keep going?” David asks. He sounds wary. What are they doing out here?

“Up ahead,” Kate says. “Pull into that driveway.”

David turns to her. “Katie Nichols, what have you done?”

“Welcome home,” Kate says.

There’s one other house up ahead. It’s huge—bigger than All’s Fair and Little Fair put together, bigger than their house in Brookline, bigger than Exalta’s house on Mt. Vernon Street.

“Holy moly!” Kirby yells. “Did you buy this? Is this ours?”

“We did,” Kate says. “It’s ours.”

Kirby pushes Jessie out the door. “Go, go!”

Jessie climbs out and stands in front of the house, taking it in. She starts another letter in her head, this time to Tiger.