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father huffed. “Sing something different!”
Then, the most awful thing happened. I couldn’t think of anything to sing. “I . . . I don’t know what to sing ...” I said. I was so embarrassed.
“Oh now, Tommy, don’t be modest,” Joan’s mom said. “Anything’ll do.”
But all that came into my head that moment was “Hey, Good-Lookin’,” and I knew that wasn’t the right song to sing. But every other song I ever learned escaped me. So finally I started singing . . .
“Hey, good lookin’
What you got cookin’?
How’s about cookin’ something up for
me?”
When I’d finished Joan’s mom applauded along with Joan. So did Margaret and Bob. Everyone else thanked me. But Joan’s father had a sullen expression.
I wanted to tell him that singing meant more to me than anything else in the world, but I kept quiet. Then Joan piped up, “Dad, Tommy hopes to be a singer!”
“Huh,” her dad said. “You can never make a living that way. Some good business courses in school. . . .”
“Now, now, Andy,” Joan’s mom said. “After all, everyone can’t be like you. You enjoy being a businessman. But Tommy has other plans.”
When older folks have their minds set on something, it seems you can’t change them. So I didn’t say anything. I just waited a little while longer and then told Joan I had to get back home.
“You want to walk to the corner?” I asked her.
“Sure.” She smiled so sweetly I think she understood.
I said goodbye to everyone. Although the whole dinner business lasted only a couple of hours, it seemed more like a week. Was I relieved when I stepped out on the front porch and breathed fresh air!
Joan and I walked to the corner. The trees were in bloom, and there was a wonderful smell of spring in the air. Joan waited with me while I caught the bus. I thanked her for everything. She said she felt terrible about her father. He was so hard on me. But that’s the way he sometimes was with company. He didn’t mean it.
When the bus came, I told Joan I’d see her in school. I saw Joan again, but after that things never went right for us. I remember feeling funny every time I called her on the phone. I was always afraid I’d get her mother on the line and I sure felt like an idiot remembering the fool I’d made of myself. Joan felt funny too. I could tell.
Whenever I think about that day I get mad. Because now I know love isn’t all simple — it needs planning like everything else. Maybe that’s why I’m telling you all this, because maybe . . . maybe if we’d put some thought into that dinner instead of rushing headlong into it like two kids, it would have all been very different.
We didn’t lose a great romance but it would have taken only a little thought to make it all go right. I wish we’d planned it — the things we would say, the things we would do. Maybe if Joan and I had talked sensibly to her folks about our school play; maybe if I’d gone there prepared to sing a song instead of being fidgety like a two-year-old; maybe if Joan had just told me a little more about her folks or I’d asked her a little more about them — maybe.
But I know. All the maybes in the world don’t always make a right. But sometimes, at least I like to think so, maybe they can help, maybe. The End
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