If he played it correctly, then he would not have to worry about her ever revealing Mandy's existence. The wide smile with which he greeted Kyle a few minutes later was not due entirely to the anticipation of another date with the older youth. Kyle had borrowed Phil's red convertible. The top had a couple of rips in its cream material, but the evening was warm, and they left it down. As they drove along, the wind in their hair (Brian checking every couple of minutes to make sure that his wig wouldn't decide it liked being in the wind and blow away), they chatted about various things, from school to the play they were going to see, from television programs to a big football game that the school's team had against a local rival in a few weeks time; nothing of earth-shattering importance or deep philosophical meaning, just ideal chatter. By the time they reached the Exhibition Center where Twelfth Night was being performed, Brian had grown relaxed enough in his role to pay attention. She melted into him, kissing him back eagerly, their tongues sliding past each other. Even if he wasn’t the world’s greatest kisser, she had always been a sucker for being pinned between a wall and a bad boy. Ever since Bobby McPherson had pushed her up against the back of her parents’ garage when she was 15, she had a deep abiding, guilty pleasure for how much this position turned her on.As a teenager, however, the enthusiasm of her response had genuinely embarrassed her. In confessional that Sunday, she had foolishly stammered out what had happened, which resulted in a very humiliating lecture from Father Murphy. Over the next week, her shame had slowly morphed into anger. The next Sunday, she had refused to go to church.Her mother had yelled at her and prayed for her soul, but her father had just shrugged his shoulders. “Marge, let the kid find her own way.” There were times when she was grateful for being the third of four children. Her older sister and brother would never have.
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