Rabbit Fur Coat


There was a boy, a boy, a boy, and I had never been kissed.


This is a love story. I promise you a happy ending.


There was a boy named Fred and he was the very, very cutest boy in the whole seventh grade. We, the mighty girls of the seventh grade, all discussed it at length and agreed. He was the cutest. And Oh! I loved that boy in my fresh pink heart.


In seventh grade, it was important to wear Candie?s shoes and Bonnie Belle fruit flavored lip-gloss. It was vital to have every line from the movie The Breakfast Club down pat and to choose which member of Duran Duran would father your children. I had all those things. I had everything. Almost.


In all of life, I wanted only two things: for Fred to kiss me smack on my lips and to own a rabbit fur coat. A solid gray rabbit fur coat. I wanted to wear a sassy, gray rabbit fur coat around with my Levi's, and then for Fred to grab me by that coat and kiss me on the mouth.


My birthday came, making me officially a woefully underkissed teenager. And I did not get a gray rabbit fur coat. Instead I got a horrifyingly ugly rabbit fur coat made up of many patches of rabbit all dyed different colors. It looked like it had been sewn from the sad skins of 500 murdered hamsters. My family wasn't wealthy, and the patchy coats were much cheaper. For my parents to get me even this amazingly ugly coat--they must have scrimped forever. So I smiled and pretended I liked it and wept secretly and shallowly in my room.


It was fall and the carnival came to town. I was ready, duded up in my skinny Levi's all tight with a little pink crop top. I was thinking "I am the cutest thing alive!" I spun around hugging myself and was ready to run with my girlfriends off to the carnival. He would be there. Fred. And I was almost out the door when my mother stopped me, saying, "It is chilly. Don't you want to wear your rabbit fur coat?"


No I did not. But I smiled at her, thinking, "They scrimped! They scrimped!" and put the wretched horror on and left. I wasn't the cutest thing anymore. I was an ugly girl in a sack of dead hamsters and would Fred ever love me? No! Would anyone? No! How could they?


I drifted ragged and sorry to carnival. But then we ran into Fred. And I had on strawberry lip-gloss, and Fred asked if it was strawberry as I glopped it on gooey. When I said yes, Fred asked if he could kiss it, my strawberry lip-gloss. We went sneaking away from carnival, outside the bright lights of the midway, away to a green hill. My suddenly beautiful coat was removed from suddenly beautiful me, and he put it on the ground. I lay down on the coat, and he lay down on me on the coat. And then he kissed me. My very first kiss.


His lips touched mine, barely touching, and then he jammed his tongue in my mouth. Straight and stiff as a nail that tongue was, and he jammed it so far back that he hit my gag reflex, and I threw up on Fred, on the grass, on the coat, on my Levi's, on the world.


The coat was utterly ruined forever.


I told you the story had a happy ending.