Naïveté of the Nerd

The week was passing very slowly. Sitting in 7th grade French class, trying to listen to Mrs. Beauvois drone on about the plus perfect tense was unbearable. Didn’t she realize that in less than two days, I was going to my first “real” party, one with alcohol, and girls, even girls with reportedly loose morals. Not much else passes through the mind of a 13 year old boy other than fantasies about girls and maybe the odd re-enactment of a favorite Battllestar Galactica episode.

Sue Miller was going to be at the party, a girl that I had known since the 4th grade. We did not travel in the same social circles; I tended to drift with the Brains while she was making a name for herself with the Stoners. Her father was a sheriff in town which probably contributed to her more overt acts of rebellion. One such act was the openly gratuitous public display of affection on an outdoor lunch table with a young lad by the name of Bart Conner. Bart was the big catch for the ladies in Junior High. He had the looks of Travolta and money from a job at the local tux rental shop. He looked much older than his 14 years allowing him to actually drive to school. He was the only Junior Higher that I knew able to brag about losing his virginity in the back seat of his own car. Bart and Sue were a hot item the first few months of 7th grade. For some reason unbeknownst to me, Sue talked to me when she was not busy getting busy with Bart. Needless to say, I had a bit of a crush on Sue.

I snapped back to the present when Mrs. Beauvois called on me to conjugate the verb “to have” in French. I could not think how to conjugate a verb at that moment, but I was able to think about what I might “have” at the party Friday night. First I would have a beer. I had tasted my father’s beer once or twice, not overly impressed, but I l had learned that my father drank light American beer. His beer preference was understandable with his chosen occupation being a truck driver. I think when you drive a big rig truck, you have to sign a contract stating you will only drive American cars, watch only American football not any of that European soccer stuff, and drink American beer. Canadian beer was ok if the local 7-11 was out of stock of Miller, Bud, and Michelob. At the party, I had been told they would have European and Mexican beer, maybe even some high end American beer called Henry Weinharts. According to my brainiac friends, Henry’s, Lowenbrau, and Corona were the best beers to drink. The reason these beers were the best was not due to the taste or the natural spring water or the mashing of the malt and barley by virgin Dutch girls, it was due to the high alcohol content compared to American light beers. Even though many of us had never had an entire beer before, we wanted to drink beer with the maximum alcohol content per 12 ounces.

As Mrs. Beauvois admonished me for failing to conjugate, a crime just short of a felony in her class, I began to think about the second thing I would do at the party. I had heard that we were going to play spin the bottle, a game our parents used to play, but we were not going to let that stop us. We planned to add some modern twists to the game. When the bottle landed on a member of the opposite sex, the spinner could choose to simply kiss the spinnee or spend three minutes in the closet with them. I knew both which choice I would make and who I wanted to get into the closet. All I had to do was survive 10 more minutes of French class, then I was only two days away from randy Sue Miller.

The next two days passed uneventful for me. I faced the usual trials and tribulations of pre-teen life. I ate cafeteria food worse than airline food, participated in PE by being a human backstop for the 8th graders playing baseball, and watched one of my class mates remove his pinky finger on the band saw in shop class. The food did not kill me although I still have difficulty around tater tots, I learned how to duck after repeatedly being hit by a speeding baseball, and to this day get a little queasy when I see a birdhouse.

The party was scheduled to begin at 8PM. I wondered what the best time to arrive should be. Should I arrive early, in order to see and be seen all the guests that arrive or should I arrive late to make a grand entrance uncluttered by others’ arrivals. I think my habit of arriving exactly at the event start time was forged that day so long ago in 7th grade. I arrived smack dab in the middle of a milling, jostling, boisterous crowd. In effect, I was not noticed nor was it possible to gauge who was already at the party.

I soon discovered a delicious treat called a Slimy Slammer, green lime Jell-O made with Vodka. Who needs to drink beer to create the perfect party buzz, just a few of those innocent little green squares and I was ready to do the Limbo stripped down to my Scooby Doo undies. Thankfully I kept my clothes on and what little dignity I had acquired by the age of 13 intact. I found myself in the back yard joining the anticipated Spin the Bottle sporting event. I was seated opposite Miss Sue Miller who had come stag to the party, sans Bart. She gave me a big warm smile and blew me what I interpreted was a good luck kiss. My turn arrived after a few minutes and I spun the bottle using all the wrist English I could muster to persuade that bottle to stop pointing in Sue’s direction. The bottle had other ideas, though, it stopped on Deanna Tally, a cute cheerleader type that I would eventually date in high school. I resigned myself that I would not have my 3 minutes in the closet with Sue and puckered up for Deanna. The kiss wasn’t that bad, a fact I stored away for future reference.

Sue’s turn soon arrived and she spun the bottle. It whirled and whirled, grinding to a halt in front yours truly. I could not imagine Sue would want to spend 3 minutes anywhere with me, so I prepared myself for what I thought would be the only kiss I would ever get from her. Then she shocked me and everyone there by grabbing my hand and leading me off to the closet. Once there she gave me this “OK, this is the part where you put the moves on me”, but I just stood there. I had no idea what to do. All the fantasies, all the simulations, all the preparation for this moment were suddenly lost. Sue looked at my stumped expression, and then started laughing. Oh, did my fragile male ego take a direct hit when that happened. I stammered a hurt “What?” to which she replied “Oh, Jeff, you are so naïve!”. She then planted a big wet kiss on me, tongue and all. I was not prepared for the tongue, but I think I adapted admirably after the crushing my ego had just taken. Thinking back, something restrained me from trying for second base with Sue, maybe it was forethought that we would become lifelong friends or maybe it was something more primal like fear. Her father was a sheriff and had this fascination with terrorizing all of Sue’s male friends. Either way, I held back, enjoyed the kiss, and walked out of the closet with my head held high trying not to reveal any clues to my peers of the events in the closet

I think Sue’s utterance of that word, naïve, has helped shape my persona. I know I have strove to avoid ever again being labeled naïve. I have always tried to be in the know, to be educated about the world around me, and to rarely be caught off guard. Not to say being naïve is bad, it lends itself to innocence and genuineness, admiral traits for everyone. The key is to which areas of life we are perceived as being naïve. I think I have overcome the naïveté associated with French kissing, but I still have a problem with the aftereffects of Slimy Slammers.