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To say I idolized Ella would have been an overstatement, but not by much. She was better than me – she worked harder at almost everything. Playing solo cello, eyes closed, swaying with the bowing, she was angelic. The 1960s were a time when the cello came into prominence as a solo instrument, and whether I watched Ella playing hers or held mine between my legs and bowed it, the vibrations coursed through my whole body, focusing between my legs.In February, with a busload of other Berkeley students, we traveled to a youth music competition in Santa Cruz, seventy-five miles away. There, part of a gifted mob of young musicians from all over central California, we were shocked to find so many others whose skills and discipline equaled ours. Nevertheless, Ella and I placed high in the cello solo division, the judges citing us both for “unmistakable passion,” Ella’s “worthy of the composer.”Exhausted on the way back, Ella and I commandeered the bus’s back bench, and she lay her head in my lap and fell asleep. Coming into Los Gatos, a delicate voice emerged from the gloom, “May I sit with you?” I recognized her from orchestra: Alice, a petite Asian flautist. Shy, always mannishly dressed: suit coat, ankle-length skirts or voluminous pants. My hands on her waist, I helped her scootch in on the side away bonanza demo from Ella. I found an unimaginably small body. Settled, she whispered in my ear, “I watch you two. You’re lovers.” Not a question; a flat declarative. I didn’t know what to say.“Yes,” whispered Ella, who had apparently been playing possum. I looked down at her in surprise. “I have been watching you play, too,” Ella whispered on, “since sixth grade. You’re prettier than you look.”“Hunh? Oh, you mean the way I dress? That’s for my father. He’s very strict. You guys won, right?”This one I could handle: “Yes, Ella took first. I thought she played perfectly.”“I’m Alice,” said Alice, then laughed, “I guess you knew that. . .” then softly, “I took first, too.”Never good at sleeping on buses, I stayed awake, but Alice nodded off, cuddling close to me, and soon was sleeping with her head tucked against my breast. Arriving at Berkeley High, both awoke. “Could I hang with you guys after school sometime?” Alice asked plaintively before she left. “Maybe we could make some music?”Once she was gone, Ella offered, “I could make some music with her. She’s cuter’n a speckled pup.”“Shy, too. More there than we see. What do you make of her spotting us as lovers? Pretty forward, hunh?”“She’s perspicacious.” We had been studying bonanza oyna big words for our SATs, and some of them were just too yummy to forget. “If she’s discreet too, no worries. Let’s invite her for tea?”– o –Grace’s journal, February 17th, 1967Coming home from Santa Cruz this cute flute player, Alice, told us she knew that E and I are really close. We think she meant more than she said. She told us she’d like to meet up with us, so Ella made a little invitation, delivered it privately, and after school Friday we walked to Ella’s house together, carrying our instruments. “Maybe we should have chosen flute?” I said. Cellos are so unwieldy and fragile.“I thought about cello,” Alice said, “but considering the bus and the long walk home, I decided: piccolo.” She looked at us sharply, to see if we would like her joke. We both hooted, and felt a little closer. Alice is very shy, but bold and funny, too. Very interesting.At tea, she told us she’s her family’s baby, very protected by her much older brothers and sister. For her eighteenth birthday in November, Alice attended a talk given by my Mom (on her usual subject) at the Berkeley Women’s Civic Club. She confessed, “Since then, I’ve been so horny, but that would never do in my family. Father insists that boys are off https://sweetbonanzakasim.com limits until I’m 21, or move out. He says ‘I was a boy, and I know what boys want. Stick to your studies.’” With coaching from our families we reached the same conclusion, so we laughed and agreed about ‘boys,’ but looking at each other, Ella and I realized we didn’t know about ‘horny.’ We always had each other. We invited Alice to join us for a slumber party at my house Saturday night. We’re curious.February 19th, 1967Late Sunday, Mom not home yet. Alone with my thoughts, my pussy humming a happy tune.I want to remember it all, so I’ll start at the beginning. Before we met Alice, E and I discussed ‘strategy,’ agreeing to ‘cool the sex’ and, ‘if anything happened,’ keep to the purely sensual. ‘We’ll make an evening for the senses, okay?’ meaning we’d shop and cook together, and maybe listen or play a little music, and then . . . well, who knew?Alice met us on upper Shattuck where the fancy food stores are. Mom had dropped a $100 bill on me by way of apology for once again leaving me alone for a weekend, and we wallowed in luxury: artichokes, out-of-season raspberries and tomatoes, three kinds of lettuce, truffle oil, champagne vinegar – things we’d heard about but of course never tasted. We danced around the kitchen like little housewives, doing our best to delight each other, Alice weaving between us effortlessly. Lots of appreciation and ‘accidental’ touching. By the time we were eating, we were in a blissed state, basking in the freedom of three teens unburdened by adults.
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