Church Story, Part 3

You may wish to read Part 1 and Part 2 first.

I stared at the phone, and the phone number on the note in my hand. I memorized the pattern of how my fingers would dance across the numbers. At first I was worried--was that a 3 or an 8? Should I call before dinner? After lunch? What does she do during the day?

My neurosis of trying to call her was crippling my ability to actually call her.

Finally, I picked up the phone...and got the answering machine.

"Hi, uh..." I began, and blathered on about who this was, my number, she should call me back, etc.

Just to make sure I had the right number, and to ensure I didn't catch them just as they were pulling up to the house, I called a few more times, heard the answering machine pickup, and then hangup.

She called me later that night and I beamed down the hall and dove onto my bed.

We began as most new acquaintances do, awkward and slow-moving, except as a teenager this is amplified. I tried to get a sense of who this girl was, and all I could hear was how Alex was mean to her, how they had problems, how they were going to break up...

Going to break up? What the hell does that mean? Why am I talking to this girl again? I thought she and Alex were on the rocks, and 'seperated' (insomuch as teenager romances can be seperated).

"Are you still going with Alex?" I asked. To "go with" someone is the closest a teenager will come to the dreaded D word...for the first few years.

"No," she said, dejected. I tried to cheer her up, this time sans Popeye impressions. It seemed to work...at little.

When we would see each other in church, my heart would skip a beat and I would smile and wave. We got no more than a "hi, bye" relationship there, but on the phone she would open up a little more.

...When she would answer, that is. They seemed to be House That Wasn't At Home, as all I got was ringing most of the time.

I hated to call during dinner, so I would try around 8:45 to slip under the cut-off.

The problem was this: In 1994, Caller ID was the hip new thing. At my house, we had just purchased an answering machine (with a little cassette tape--remember those?) and we thought it was a miracle of innovation.

So when I would try to call Jennifer, and her answering machine would pick up, I would call a few more times after leaving a message just in case they arrived as I was leaving it...or something.

One evening, after making my fourth call or so, someone picked up.

"Hello? Who is this?" It was Jennifer's mother. She wasn't happy.

"Uh...Evan?"

"Evan, you have called here..." she fumbles with something... "twenty-three times today. Do you know that?"

It's right about then I realize that Jennifer's family is probably equipped with Caller ID, and all of those times I would call--sometimes I would call a few more times just in case they showed up...at some point...in the afternoon--had been logged on their little box.

I was officially a teenage stalker. Oh crap. I was doomed.

"Jennifer is a very busy girl and when she is ready to talk she will call you."

"Okay," I said, a mere whisper in a hurricane of shame.

Her mother didn't know what to say, but I could hear her breathing heavily through her nostrils.

"I'm...I'm sorry."

"Okay," she said, and hung up.

But it wasn't over quite yet. The Easter show was coming up in a few days, and the events involving Jennifer and that experience would never be forgotten.

Read the Finale.

Under your skin feels like home
Electric shocks on aching bones