The Giving Tree

I first kissed a girl when I was 6 years old in first grade. Her name was Guadalupe. She always wore navy skirts, high stockings, shiny flats and beads in her braided hair. I guess that’s where my love for legs and skirts came from. I always tried to sit across from her during story time to look up her skirt. Mrs. Greene had us sit Indian style in a circle. Some girls didn’t know how to cover their goods, others draped the top of their skirt over their privates like a curtain.

Guadalupe was the worst at covering her goods. The boys always got a free show and got riled up, giggling, laughing, disrupting story time. Mrs. Greene finally noticed and had Guadalupe sit in a chair with her thighs pressed together or one on top of the other. I sat across from her while she sat in her chair. We still tried looking up her skirt but all we could see was darkness, like a cave hiding secret treasure. We knew it was there, she knew we were looking, but no one ever spoke of it. We were all just pining for the moment she messed up.

Then one day she did. While Mrs. Greene read The Giving Tree aloud to the class, I kept my focus on Guadalupe’s cave. I had read The Giving Tree three times over. My mom had bought it for me at Goodwill weeks before. After sitting with her thighs pressed together for so long, Guadalupe decided to cross her legs. She spread her thighs and I caught a quick glimpse of pink and white panties just before she threw one leg over the other. When I looked up at her face, she had her eyes on mine. She knew I saw something. I got embarrassed and looked away.

At recess I liked to sit at the top of the playground by the slide, never actually using the slide, but hanging out up there. It was away from all the other kids running around playing tag or climbing on the jungle gym. Guadalupe walked up to where I was and sat down next to me. We didn’t speak for a while. We watched the other kids through the bars at the top.

“You’re Frank, right?” said Guadalupe.

“Yes,” I answered.

“I’m Guadalupe. You can call me Lupe.”

“Hi, Lupe.”

More silence followed. I didn’t know what to say to her. I was incredibly shy, I never spoke to anyone.

“Did you like it?” asked Lupe.

“What?”

“I saw you looking up my skirt. Did you like it?”

I chuckled to hide my nervousness. “Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t really get a good look.”

“Do you want to see?”

“I don’t know… Right here?”

“Sure,” she said. “No one’s watching.”

“Okay.”

Lupe turned to me and lifted the top of her skirt. I sure did like it. They were pink with white accents on the borders, pretty little things. I kept looking, then she covered them with the top of her skirt.

“So?” said Lupe.

“I like them,” I said. “They’re very pretty.”

“Have you ever kissed a girl before?”

I shook my head, “My mom says that’s something grown ups do.”

“Mine too. But last week I saw my sister kissing a boy on the couch. She’s only 12 years old. She got mad at me and hit me and sent me to my room, but I saw them kissing.”

“Maybe it’s not only for grown ups,” I said.

“Do you want to try it?”

“Right here?”

“No one’s watching.”

“All right.”

“Okay, so, just pucker your lips and close your eyes.” I obliged. “I’m going to kiss you now, don’t freak out.”

“Okay,” I said. Then she kissed me. I remember getting a tingly feeling in my body and an electric charge around my mouth. It was only a peck but it was remarkable.

“How was that?” she said.

I nodded my head, “It was good.”

“I saw my sister using her tongue too. Do you want to try that?”

“Sure.”

We kissed again, with tongue this time. It felt weird and sloppy and wet. I didn’t like it but didn’t want to tell her I didn’t like it because then she’d stop kissing me. Lupe grabbed my face, squeezed my cheeks, tussled my hair, like I imagined her sister did. I was kissing a girl. Me. Shy old me. How about that?

Lupe pulled away after a moment and wiped her lips dry with the back of her hand. “You’re pretty good at that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “So are you.”

“Thanks. Okay, bye now!”

Lupe stood up and ran down the steps. I watched her from the top through the bars. I watched those legs stride and that skirt flow with the wind. I had just done what all the other boys wanted to do but couldn’t. I had a girlfriend now that I could kiss with tongue, just like the grown ups did. I could bring her up here to my isolated tower and see her panties as much as I wanted while the other boys desperately looked up her skirt. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

At home I told my mom and siblings about what happened. I had to tell someone. I broke it down in details, the story time, the panties, the French kiss. No one believed me.

The next day at recess, I couldn’t find Lupe. I walked up the stairs to get to my spot at the top of the playground. I arrived and found her sitting there with her hands around Arnold Fleming’s cheeks. Their eyes were closed, she tussled his hair, just like she had mine. I moped back down the steps and sat on a swing utterly crestfallen. I saw Lupe run down a couple minutes later. Then Arnold Fleming ran down with a huge smile on his face, having smacked lips with my girl.