Names are changed to protect the guilty.

            My first kiss was planted on me by a seventeen-year-old guy in a gorilla suit.

My junior year, our drama club decided to perform Murders in the Rue Morgue.  Mrs. Sardi, the director, gave me the part of a little old lady who is attacked by a simian creature, carried across stage, then thrown out an open window.

That meant I’d be on stage three minutes and would be dead for a good chunk of the time.  I’d been hoping for a non-corpse role. I felt disappointed. 

            Perhaps to comfort me, Mrs. Sardi chose Dave to be the gorilla.  Dave sported big muscles and charmed girls with his pretty blue eyes and curly black hair.  I, a lowly junior, was to be carried across stage by the senior class idol.  

We never did practice the “attack and carry” part. Rehearsal after rehearsal, we went through the motions without touching each other. Dave just smiled and winked. Also, despite repeated requests by Mrs. Sardi, Dave never located the stage blood needed for the scene. I never protested our lack of adequate preparation.  My heart fluttered just to see that cute boy smiling and winking in my direction.

            The afternoon of our opening show, I felt on edge because Dave had managed to completely avoid rehearsing the attack scene.  In addition, this first performance would in front of a school assembly.  I had no trouble facing a crowd of doting parents; but facing a crowd of your rowdy peers is another story.

            Regardless, that afternoon, our play cruised along just fine.  At the last scene, I hobbled onto stage.  That being my one moment in the spotlight, I hobbled with great gusto. 

            Dave attacked me sooner and more robustly than I expected. I gave monkey boy a run for his money. Forgetting that I was supposed to be old and frail, I fought back with a vigor that that stunned him.

Finally, Dave hissed, “You gotta die!”

Oh, that’s right. We were acting in a play! 

At once, I gave up the ghost and collapsed at his feet.

Maybe the passion of the moment overcame Dave.  Or maybe it was his idea of the perfect revenge for a scene gone awry.  Instead of following the script, Dave leaned over and kissed me.

Kissed by the school hunk!  Now, if Dave had kissed me in September, before the rehearsal fiascoes, I would have swooned with delight.  This felt different. 

Although I was supposed to be dead, I socked Dave square in the jaw, knocking his gorilla mask askew.  Now, at best, only one of his eyes could peek through.

            Perhaps in payment for the punch, Dave squirted me with stage blood which he apparently had found at the last minute and of course, hadn’t bothered to tell anyone. He used a tube big enough to portray the battle of Gettysburg.

Sensing that the play had wandered into uncharted territory, our classmates cheered with approval.  With a low growl, Dave hoisted me into his arms (not the thrill I was expecting) and staggered to the back of the stage where he believed the window was located. Dave’s memory did not serve him well. 

On his first attempt, Dave missed the opening entirely.  He rammed me into the wall of the set, causing the window to drop shut.

            He felt around with one paw and located the bottom of the sill.  Then Dave threw me with great abandon toward what he assumed was an open window.

            My body slammed against the glass (yes, real glass, not Plexiglas).  The wall teetered, then toppled back.  I went with it, landing on top of the shattered window.

            When the dust settled, I lay, covered with fake blood, in a pile of wood and broken glass. I looked bad, but wasn’t hurt. Thunderous applause roared through the auditorium.  Apparently, violence held great appeal for the barbarian hordes.  

Senior year, I became co-editor of the school newspaper. I dated the sports editor, a quiet boy who did not play sports, nor did he sport big muscles. This pleasant fellow took me out to plays in real theaters around the state, after which we’d have deep discussions about Solving the Problems of the World. This guy had no hope of being voted Prom King, nor would he ever earn a varsity letter. Most importantly, though, he’d never consider tossing me out a window, which made him perfect enough for me.