A Sunday Love Story (part 4): Breakups, Makeups, and Mug Shots

Are you up to speed in our little tale of love and intrigue? If not, you might want to stop here first:

Part 1: Red Ruffles and Rat Tails
Part 2: Band Plumes and Compact Discs
Part 3: Corsages and Ladybugs

So I was Molly Ringwald, though a slightly less gorgeous and non-red-headed version, with my perfect teenage happy ending. The boy of my dreams, though not quite Jon Cusak, was officially my boyfriend. We held hands in the halls, oblivious to the rest of the world. During breaks and at lunch, he would stand behind me, wrap his arms around my waist, and rest his chin on the top of my head. We had our first kiss after a church dance. My introduction into the world of high school was every bit as good as it had looked in the books and the movies.

Except when it wasn't.

It only took a few months for reality to set in. In the weeks leading up to my fifteenth birthday, I remember feeling a vague sense of restlessness as the newness wore off. It bothered me that he still pegged his jeans, and it bothered him that I wore a torn denim jacket with political buttons on it every day. We started to bicker about small things.

Chris and I were about to face the problem that would stare us in the eyes our entire courtship: we had met too young, but as much as we wanted to, there was no stopping the attraction that drew us together. We spent every waking minute together--or as much time as our parents allowed us. Because of our Mormon culture, we weren't officially allowed to date, so being together required chaperons. We spent time after school with friends who had to put up with us not being able to keep our hands off each other and being generally uninterested in what the larger group was doing. Our attraction to each other grew intense very quickly, and it didn't take long before it started to scare the hell out of me. There was another boy who was mildly pursuing me during this time, and I found myself attracted to him, too. This was high school, after all. I should date as many boys as I could, right?

I remember that I broke things off with Chris, but I had to ask him the details earlier tonight. He was folding laundry at the foot of our bed while he told me that I'd given him a note (a note!) as he was on his way to P.E. (Yes, the proverbial note in gym class--we were that cliched.)

"No way. I wouldn't have broken up with you in a note. That's cruel."

Chris set a pair of perfectly folded socks on the bed. "You did. It said, 'I think we should just be friends.'"

I stared at him, unbelieving. "What kind of person does that?"

"A fourteen year old child, I guess."

Yes. Right. That does explain things a bit, doesn't it?

But our young romance wasn't all cliched. When we agreed to remain friends, we meant it. We spent every bit as much time together, if not more, than we had before we broke up. I couldn't stand the thought of not being with him, but I wanted to be able to feel the thrill of this other boy's pursuit at the same time. This was a lesson that neither of us ever quite learned: it is impossible to truly develop a relationship with another person when you still spend 90% of your time with your ex. Within a month, we were officially back together. If you read this paragraph, say, six or seven times, you would have the first four years of our relationship down pat.

We'd been reunited for two weeks when we were invited to the 16th birthday party of one of our dearest friends. The boys were to stay until just before midnight curfew, but the girls were all spending the night at her house. One of the other girls, T., was going through some rough things with her family, and by ten o'clock she decided she couldn't handle being at the party any longer. She wanted to talk, and she wanted to be away from the happy atmosphere. Chris drove the three of us down to George Rogers Park, where we sat in the car overlooking the Willamette River and talked about how insanely unpredictable life was. We cried together. We were sad for T.'s troubles. We didn't think about how late it was because T. and I had the perfect alibi: we were at a slumber party.

It was close to 3:00 in the morning when we pulled up to T.'s house with her overnight bag, and there were police cars in the driveway. Being young and stupid, it hadn't occurred to us that our parents would worry, that our friend's mother would call our mothers to tell them we weren't at the slumber party, that Chris' parents would notice that he wasn't home by curfew. All of our parents had been sitting with the police officers for two hours, worrying themselves sick over where we were and whether we were okay.

We were in a whole heap of trouble.

I seem to recall being grounded for two weeks. Chris lost the freedom of his basement bedroom and had to move into the room across from his parents upstairs. I don't know what happened to T. But I remember the sense of outrage we all felt. We were doing nothing wrong! We were helping a friend! We were contemplating the shitty nature of life, philosophising in only the way the young can! If we were to be treated like felons, we should have at least been really up to no good, making out like crazy overlooking that river.

That night, after the police left and my parents escorted me home, my dad pulled Chris' dad aside. "Do you mind if I put the fear of God into your son?" As it turned out, my future father-in-law didn't mind at all.

The scene: Sunday morning, the hallway outside the chapel where Chris and I first laid eyes on each other a year before. After the service, my father (6'2", two hundred pounds) pulled Chris aside by the elbow. "I trusted you with my daughter," he said, "and you broke my trust." Chris was shaking and tried to apologize but my father stopped him. "Do you understand the danger you put her in? Why should I let her get in the car with you ever again?" The sense of guilt Chris felt was overwhelming, almost as overwhelming as the sense of anger I felt when he told me what my father had done. I thought it was sexist and belittling; was I not responsible for my own actions? Why should Chris hold the greater share of the blame just because he was the guy?

I didn't speak to my dad for two weeks, and it was a good two years before Chris felt completely comfortable around him again. Of course, by the time we were old enough to consider marriage, I was fairly certain that if I didn't marry Chris, my dad would probably disown me.

And we were never late for curfew again.