Free Forever by Judy Blume Page A

really . . .”
    â€œOf course . . .” She reached out and touched my face.
     “Well . . . have a good day.”
    We looked at each other for a minute and then I did something I
     haven’t done in a while. I leaned over and kissed my mother.

    â€œI absolutely can’t believe it,” Erica said, after I
     told her about my weekend. “You’re still a virgin!”
    â€œI’m not saying one way or the other.”
    â€œBut I can tell.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œI just can . . . I’d know in a second if you
     weren’t.”
    We were in the cafeteria, at our usual table and Erica was eating a
     hotdog, the lunch special of the day. I am probably the one living American who
     doesn’t like hotdogs so I had a cheese sandwich on my tray—that and a
     package of Oreos. “Look,” I said, “what I do with Michael is private .
     . . it’s not something I want to talk about . . .”
    Erica gave me a hurt look. “Sure . . . okay . .
     .”
    â€œTry to understand, Erica . . .”
    â€œI do . . . I do . . .”
    â€œWhen you’re in love you want to keep it to yourself . . .
     that’s all I’m saying.”
    â€œSo you really do love him?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd he loves you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHe actually came right out and told you?”
    â€œUh huh.”
    â€œGod . . . that’s romantic!”
    â€œI thought you don’t believe in romance.”
    â€œI don’t,” Erica said, slurping up the end of her
     milk.
    We carried our trays to the side table. “Don’t you want to
     know about me and Artie?” Erica asked.
    â€œWell, sure . . . but I don’t want to
     pry.”
    â€œWe played strip poker on Saturday night.”
    â€œYou didn’t!”
    Erica laughed. “Right down to our birthday suits.”
    â€œSuppose your parents had walked in?”
    â€œThey respect my privacy.”
    â€œSo do mine . . . but still . . .”
    â€œAnyway, we didn’t do a thing but touch. I’m beginning
     to feel like a therapist.”
    â€œYou could be doing him more harm than good.”
    â€œI’ve thought about that . . . but he’s
     very open about his problem. He’s not gay . . . we’ve
     determined that. He’s just impotent. I’ve been reading up on it and
     I’m almost sure I can help him.”
    â€œBut Erica . . . if you want to
     get laid so badly why don’t you find somebody else?”
    â€œI could get laid tomorrow,” she said, “but that’s
     not the point anymore. I want to make it with Artie.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I think I can help him, for one thing, and because . . .
     well, just because.”
    â€œI don’t know . . . it still sounds to me like
     you’d both be better off if you’d just forget it.”
    â€œNo chance . . . we really like each
     other . . . even though it’s nothing like you and
     Michael . . . not everybody can be so lucky . . .”

11
    Usually March is a slow month. There aren’t any school holidays,
     the weather is still cold and dreary, the teachers get after you to work harder, and I
     can’t believe that it will ever be spring.
    This March was different. I felt on top of the world. Michael and I saw
     each other whenever we could. We went skiing at Great Gorge, twice, and one Sunday we
     went to Madison Square Garden to a Rangers’ game with Erica and Artie. The Rangers
     lost and Artie took it very hard, as if he’d been personally responsible or
     something. I tried to cheer him up on our way out of the Garden. “Win some . . .
     lose some . . .” I said.
    Artie shook his