Susan Birchenall Gates
Los Altos, California

Sweet 16

10 teenage girls circled the table. 

It was my birthday, June, the start of summer. Mom always made it special, and this year was no different. Except I was turning 16. A big deal as far as we were concerned. 16! We could drive. We could officially date. We would be juniors next year. 

We thought we were “pretty neat.” Long straight sun-bleached hair. Yardley eyeliner and Slicker lip gloss. California tans and miniskirts to show them off. 

Our swimsuits were now dry. Ribbons lay in a pile amid torn wrapping paper. Perfunctory song sung. Candle smoke cleared. Lunch and cake filled our tummies. 

We licked our forks and giggled. There may have been a little gossip about the older boys we were crushing on. 

“Happy Together” by The Turtles played on the radio. 

From the living room we could see three cars pull up. Was it 4:00pm already? Why are parents always on time? Party over. Time to go home. 

My more responsible friends who had cars, gathered their things and the friends they brought. I walked them out. 

Just then another car drove up. It was a green and white ’55 Chevy Bel Air filled with boys. Well… 3 boys. Somehow, they knew that ten bitchin’ chicks were partying on Rosewood Court. 

7 teenage girls circled the “cherry” Chevy. 

Seeing that the party was over, the driver said, “Hey, let’s go to Santa Cruz.” It was only 45 minutes from Los Altos. 

Four of us looked at each other, grinned, and said, “OK.” In those days, it didn’t take much convincing to do anything fun. 

I ran in the house, grabbed my purse and lip gloss. I called, “Mom, we’re going to Santa Cruz, we’ll be back later.” Hey, I was 16 now and practically an adult. With a “be careful,” she let me go. (I, too, was one of the more responsible). 

As we all piled in the car, the cutest boy with the dreamy eyes and darling dimples, insisted I sit next to him. In the back seat. 

Oh God, he was funny. He was smart, quick, witty and silly. I was captivated. The drive “over the hill” on Hwy 17, passing Santa’s Village and the Cloud Nine restaurant was a blur. 

Santa Cruz Boardwalk – just being there was exhilarating. Colorful beachwear, prizes, and food. The smell of saltwater taffy. Loud upbeat music meshed with ringing bells, screams coming from the roller coaster and excited children’s voices begging to ride “just one more time.” I remember sharing fluffy pink cotton candy, licking the sticky off each other’s fingers, the warmth of the sun, the soft breeze, the fresh ocean air, and… butterflies in my stomach. 

I’d known him from school. He was the coolest guy in our class. But, c’mon, he was my age. We had standards. Well, I did anyway. Only upper classmen please. Nevertheless, there I was laughing, flirting, wanting more. Standards be damned. 

It was late and getting dark before we headed home. The driver and two girlfriends in the front pushed buttons on the radio ensuring the top 10 played on a continuous loop. Singing along to “Light my Fire” by the Doors and Aretha Franklin’s “Respect” we were happy and ebullient. 

Then the Rascals sang “Groovin” and the V-8 purred along the winding roads. It was hypnotic. 

Halfway home in the back seat, he kissed me. Frankie Valli sang “I Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” and I felt a rush, a blush. Something magical was happening. I folded into him – one leg draped over his as though we were meant to be one. 

By the time we returned to Rosewood Court, I was possessed by a bewildering power. What was it? It was consuming, intense, and building with each day. 

I know now it was “first love.”

For years the boy with the dreamy eyes and the darling dimples held my heart. I knew we would never marry.

But I thought we would never end.

In some ways, we never did.