Summer of '69(84)

The door opens a bit and Pick pokes his head in. “You okay?” he says. “I heard you crying.”

Jessie can’t possibly admit that she’s weeping over her summer reading. “My brother was sent out on a secret mission,” she says.

Pick comes in, closes the door behind him, and sits on Jessie’s bed, facing her. He’s half an arm’s distance away. Jessie’s mother would explode like a grenade if she knew that Pick and Jessie were in Jessie’s bedroom with the door closed. Jessie would be grounded for another week, at least, but she isn’t about to ask Pick to leave.

“That’s so cool. Maybe he’s an assassin or something. Maybe he’s going to be a hero.”

Jessie wants to inform Pick that Tiger is already a hero; every American soldier fighting in Vietnam is a hero. “Maybe,” she says. “What are you doing home?” It’s eleven thirty in the morning, a time Pick usually goes to the beach.

“It’s kind of a blah day out,” he says. “Plus I wanted to sleep in. I’m going to a party after work tonight. Some of the waitstaff are having a bonfire on the beach.”

“Sounds fun,” Jessie says.

“I wish I could invite you along but it’s my first time being included and I’m not sure it would be cool if I brought a date.”

Date. Despite Jessie’s abject misery, her heart sprouts wings.

“I can’t go anywhere anyway,” Jessie says. “I’m grounded.”

Pick reaches out and wipes away Jessie’s tears and she stays stock-still, feeling warmth where he touched her. “Grounded?” he says. “What’d you do?”

“Nonny found out I lost the necklace,” Jessie says. “I took it without asking.”

“Sticky fingers,” Pick says. “I like it.” Without warning, Pick leans over and kisses Jessie on the lips

Jessie is dumbstruck. The kiss was light, fleeting, sweet. Do it again! Jessie thinks. Do it again!

He must read her mind, because he kisses her again and his mouth stays on her mouth and then his lips part and she feels his tongue. It’s foreign—someone else’s tongue in her mouth—but it’s also electrifying. She feels like someone just plugged her in. Their tongues touch and in another instant, they are necking, just like people in the movies, and Pick shifts closer and puts a hand behind her head and pulls her in.

How long does it last? A couple of minutes, the most sublime, intoxicating minutes of Jessie’s life. Kissing is…well, Jessie now understands it’s the secret to happiness. She never wants to stop. She tries not to think, just surrenders to their tongues and Pick’s soft lips and the way he smells and tastes.

Finally, he pulls away. She’s dizzy.

He grins. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.”

“You have?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Haven’t you?”

She has no answer to this.

Pick stands up. “I’m going to grab lunch at Susie’s Snack Bar,” he says. “Do you want me to bring you something?”

Jessie is still in a daze. “Chicken?” she says.

“The fried chicken?” he says. “Okay, I’ll be back.”

From her window, Jessie watches Pick ride off. He’s so self-assured, the way he swings his hips from side to side on his bike and then stands straight up on the pedals, head held high. There isn’t a boy on the earth as magnetic and irresistible as Pick Crimmins. Jessie is in love with him and she will be in love with him until she dies, and maybe even after that.



Jessie and Pick eat their lunch on the tiny deck and when they finish, Pick clears their trash away. What will happen now? Jessie wonders. What happens is that Pick pulls Jessie inside, away from anyone who might pass by on Plumb Lane, and there is some more necking. This time is even better than the first; Jessie is more relaxed, she knows what she’s doing—or at least she does until Pick lifts the bottom of her shirt.

Jessie swats his hand away. She doesn’t even mean to do this; it’s involuntary, a reflex.

Pick pulls back. “Sorry,” he says. He holds both hands up in surrender. “I’m getting carried away. We’d better stop. I should get ready for work.”

Jessie doesn’t want to stop and she knows that Pick still has hours before he has to leave for the North Shore. But she also isn’t ready for anything more than kissing. She is thrilled that Pick is getting carried away, but it’s scary too. Terrifying.



That afternoon, Jessie writes identical letters to both Leslie and Doris.

How’s your summer going? My summer is fine. I have to take tennis lessons every morning at the Field and Oar Club. My backhand and my serve are coming along, so if I get invited to a weekend party on Hilton Head, I’ll be prepared.



Jessie considers crumpling this up and starting over. Leslie might understand what a weekend party on Hilton Head meant, but it’ll most certainly go right over Doris’s head.

The only “news” I have is that I’m dating someone. His name is Pickford Crimmins but he goes by Pick. He’s sixteen years old, from California, and very cute—blond hair, light blue eyes, and tanner than even George Hamilton! His family is actually living with my family this summer, which is how we met. I would not say we are going steady yet, although we probably will be soon.