that many girls, all of whom promised to love her unconditionally if she would allow them to accompany her.
She had turned down all of them for Jack. She sat near him in several classes at school, and although he’d never so much as said hello to her, she had fallen under his spell. Now she presented him with an invitation which, despite her lack of beauty, he could hardly decline. He did, however, demand a compromise. He would go with her as long as I was allowed to come as well. Lorelei countered with a demand of her own—I would have to be the date of her cousin Betty-Anne, who was coming into town from Baltimore for the event. Negotiating on my behalf, Jack agreed, and with the deal struck, we looked forward to the date.
That Wednesday night we walked to the Pinkertons’ house to meet the girls and be driven by Lorelei’s father to the show. When we arrived, we were met on the porch by a thin, pretty girl with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She smiled, cocked her head, and introduced herself as Betty-Anne. She beamed broadly at Jack, giving me the most cursory of glances. When she went inside to inform Lorelei of our arrival, Jack turned to me.
“Here’s the plan,” he said. “You’re going to be nice to Lorelei, and I’m going to have a little fun with Betty-Anne. Got it?”
By then accustomed to doing whatever Jack said, I nodded without arguing. It was a stupid idea, I knew, but I also knew that once he’d settled upon a plan, Jack was determined to see it through regardless of the consequences it brought him or, more likely, me. Besides, Lorelei seemed like a nice enough girl, where Betty-Anne and her ponytail scared me. I didn’t know what to say to a girl like that.
When the girls came back out, we saw that Betty-Anne had attempted a makeover on her cousin, with dubious results. Lorelei’s hair, normally flat, had been curled into ridiculous ringlets. Her face had been powdered to hide the pimples on her chin, and makeup had been applied with abandon to her lips and eyes. The overall effect was startling, as if she’d had an accident of some kind.
“You look nice,” I told her, knowing instinctively that she was aware of her predicament and needed reassuring.
“Thanks,” said Lorelei. She looked to Jack for his appraisal, but he was already deep in conversation with Betty-Anne. I could tell by Lorelei’s expression that she knew she’d lost already, and was trying to decide how much of a fight to put up.
“It was really great of you to invite us,” I said quickly, attempting to distract her from her humiliation. “This is going to be cool.”
Lorelei looked at me as if for the first time. She smiled, and for a moment she did look pretty, even under the gaudy makeup. She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “It will.”
I wonder sometimes if Lorelei ever thinks about that night and, if so, how she remembers it. I remember a long drive into the city, where we were dropped outside Convention Hall by Mr. Pinkerton, who told us to be back in that exact spot at eight-thirty sharp to meet him. I remember pushing through what felt like the biggest, noisiest crowd in the world. Talking was an impossibility, as the air was filled with the screams of girls, all of whom wanted desperately to marry a Beatle.
And, of course, I remember the music. Although the constant screaming made it difficult to hear the band, there was no mistaking the sounds of “Can’t Buy Me Love,” “A Hard Day’s Night,” and the other songs that had been staples on radio stations all summer long. We sang along, danced as much as we could while pressed together by a sea of bodies, and reveled in the joy of being young. When John Lennon launched into “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” I looked over to see Jack and Betty-Anne doing exactly that. In a burst of expansiveness, I reached for Lorelei’s hand and took it in mine. She wrapped her fingers around mine and kept them there for the remainder of the show and during our exit from the hall. Only when we approached her father’s waiting Wagonaire did she reluctantly withdraw, leaving me to wipe my sweaty palm on the leg of my pants.
Mr. Pinkerton had spent the two hours of the concert at a local watering hole, and was in a grand mood. He even allowed us to open the Wagonaire’s peculiar rear hatch, designed so that tall objects could be transported easily. The fresh air cooled the heat generated by our excitement and the tight confines of the show, and gave Jack an excuse to put his arm around Betty-Anne. Mr. Pinkerton, his vigilance against hanky-panky dulled by half a dozen beers, pretended not to notice.
Lorelei scooted over on the seat and pressed her side meaningfully against mine. Having made the first move by holding her hand, I felt obligated to go on, and so dutifully placed my arm across her shoulders. She leaned her head to one side, so that her hair pressed against my cheek and tickled my nose. For the remainder of the ride, I tried to gently blow it away from my nostrils, all the while fearing that Lorelei would mistake my puffing for further attempts at lovemaking.
It was on the front porch that I had my revelation. While Jack and Betty-Anne snuck a few kisses away from the glare of the porch light, Lorelei sat on the steps beside me, her hands folded neatly on her lap.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she said. “I had a good time.”
“Me, too,” I told her. “Thanks for asking me. I mean for asking Jack.”
I hesitated, afraid I’d said the one thing that would ruin the evening. I hadn’t meant to remind Lorelei that I hadn’t been her intended date, and that the boy she had asked was now busily kissing her traitorous cousin not six feet away from where we sat.
“I’m sorry,” I said, fumbling for words. “I didn’t mean…”
“It’s okay,” Lorelei said. “Really. I had a better time with you anyway.”
“You did?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
She nodded. “Jack is, well, Jack,” she said cryptically. “You’re different. You’re nice.”
“Nice,” I repeated.
“Nice is good,” said Lorelei, sensing that I might be disappointed by her choice of descriptive. “You make me feel like a real person, not some airhead like Betty-Anne.”
“You think she’s an airhead?” I asked her.
Lorelei snorted. “Have you seen my hair?” she said. “Whose idea do you think this was?”
I laughed. “It’s not so bad,” I said. “And you’re pretty nice, too.”
Lorelei paused, then said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“Why are you friends with him?”
“Jack?” I said. “We’ve always been friends. Why?”
“You’re just so different is all,” said Lorelei.
“Maybe that’s why we’re friends,” I suggested.
“Maybe,” Lorelei said, not sounding convinced. “Anyway, I hope you and I can be friends.”
“You mean go out again?” I said hesitantly, having been down this road before.
“No,” she said. “Just friends. No offense, but I think you make a better friend than a boyfriend.”
“Oh,” I said, both surprised and relieved.
Lorelei, apparently taking my response for dejection, put her hand on mine. “Not that it wasn’t fun holding hands and all that,” she said.
“No, it’s okay,” I told her. “Friends is fine. I’d like that.”
She kissed me on the cheek. “I couldn’t go out with you anyway,” she said as she stood up. “I’m saving myself for George.”
“George?” I said. “What about Paul? He’s a lot better looking.”
“I’ll see you in school next week,” said Lorelei as she entered the house, letting the door bang loudly to alert Betty-Anne, who pulled herself away from Jack and reluctantly followed her cousin inside.
“She’s