My cousin told me a story about her parents. They met in kindergarten in New Jersey.
My Uncle spotted a blonde girl sitting in the next row, two seats ahead. As my cousin told me about this, I imagined the girl’s hair in braids, sitting up stiffly in her chair. This was because when she was old, she consistently maintained perfect posture.
My Uncle Dudley—yes, that was his name—was just begging for a whack on the hand for slouching, with his brunette hair a chaotic mess of a bowl cut. When the teacher’s ruler responded to his supposed insolence and swung down with a Catholic thwack, the girl turned to Dudley with tears in her eyes.
Later that day, Uncle Dudley approached her, blurting out, “Someday, I will marry you.”
After the end of the school year, the girl moved to New Jersey.
According to Aunt Vivian and Uncle Dudley, the following years passed long and complexly.
Those times were rough on Dudley’s family. They moved eight times in nine years, partly because it was often impossible to keep up with the rent on income from the gas station my grandfather ran in Hackensack, New Jersey, during the Great Depression.
In the summer before junior year, the family moved once again. Again, a new high school.
On the first day, Dudley and Vivian (who turned out to be the blonde girl from kindergarten) ran into each other in the hallway leading to the school entrance.
Three years later, carrying their ragged and stained engagement portrait in his pocket, Dudley was fighting off banzai charges in the punchbowl of Bougainville.
***
October is the first storm from the Canadian north, leaves falling like ripples at low tide, high school football under the Friday night arc lights as competing marching bands blare, blast, and drum staccato from the stands. But what really sticks as your memory travels from teenage morning until the night of old age is the first girl you fell in love with. She is more than just the first—the person you knew from the first gaze was the One.
Kim Wickham is known for wearing eccentric outfits at her cashier job at the Winns on West 34th Street. This particular day, she dressed as an Apache dancer: black beret, red striped cotton pullover, and a mid-length black A-line skirt.
Kim is considered a weirdo, even by the freaks at school.
Earlier in the day, on the way to third period English, Kim was called out in the hallway as being a cute culty Christian.
“Actually,” Kim responded, “I’m a witch.” Then, went into the classroom, third seat, the last row. Next to me.
I think she was a rebel against the rebels, which I found appealing. Leaning against the counter, I told her that.
“Makes sense to me,” Kim said while rolling complicated multi-patterned fabric.
“There was something I read about fashion expressing individuality,” she said. “If outward appearances matter, make the most without turning it into a uniform.”
She paused with an enigmatic smile, adding. “But it is true. I am a witch. However, not just yet, really. I’m learning, though.”
“I’ll tell you more later.”
***
I learned a lot from Kim. In the following week, monarch butterflies followed her before they migrated. Occasionally, she would hold out her left hand, and a butterfly would settle on her finger.
We took walks through the neighborhood. Both of us had single mothers and barely knew our fathers. We looked forward to next quarter and taking Drivers Ed. We desperately wanted to learn to drive and be free to leave when we could and go farther without taking the Northcross Mall bus.
Sometimes, Kim wore an ankh around her neck. Other times, a pentagram. A teacher demanded she take it off. Instead, Kim pushed it under her black turtleneck.
I asked her if this made her mad.
“I am mad, but things have a way of working themselves out.”
The teacher was gone the next quarter. She failed an English competency exam and
was immediately dismissed.
I tell her. Kim responds with a look denoting this was how things work themselves out.
***
During the winter, Kim taught me Tarot, keeping it simple by reading a three-card spread. Explained how to build my intuition and work on developing my subconscious. We discussed dreams and their meaning. She told me about the vital nature archetypes and gave me books to read that often were hard to understand, but she made a point to ask questions.
Kim does spells but remains secretive. I’ll save that for the future, she said.
She showed me her simple bedroom altar: two candles in sleek candlesticks on a black cloth. Sewn on the fabric was an interlaced unicursal hexagram with a small flower at its center. I already knew about Aleister Crowley and Thelema. I had just finished reading The Book of the Law.
Afterward, she handed me another book by him. Moonchild.
***
After Spring quarter dismissal, Kim and I climbed the cliff and ran across the Expressway. I followed behind her, entranced by the flow of her long peasant skirt and the skip-hop sounds of well-worn leather sandals.
Outside Spellmans, we bummed a ride from a junior we knew well enough to take us to the public library.
Instead of going in, we walked to the park across the street and stretched out on the grass near the gazebo.
Staring into the sky, I sensed that the park was shaped like a punchbowl—the same as Bougainville.
Kim climbed over me and intertwined her fingers with mine. “Okay, I trust you now. We share a creative alchemy.”
She leaned in closer.
I stared into her wolfish eyes, my gaze tracing the lines of her chin, lips, the arch of her eyebrows, and the braids against the sides of my face.
I thought about Uncle Dudley in kindergarten.
“Solstice is next month,” Kim said.
Her grip tightened. “Then.”
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