Coming of Age in Summer Pajamas

This summer I’ve been loving my time with the grandchildren, time with friends and family, time for myself, and, of course, I’ve been hard at work promoting Hidden Among Secrets. I'm also working to complete Book Two, Hidden Among Strangers, a maybe-title, and dabbling with another thriller — shorter and with twisty-twists you won’t see coming. If you’re a "Member" on this site, you’ll a get first glimpse at both. Just click on the Members tab at the top of the page and you’re there.

In the meantime, enjoy an old summertime coming-of-age true story I've finally put to paper from the summer of my 14th year - so long, long ago. A few of my readers may recognize it because they were there.

Growing up, I ran with a wild little tribe of girlfriends. We were all neighbors because when you live in the country, houses even a ten‑minute hike (or a bike ride) apart were considered neighbors. Because we lived in a little outside-of-town patch called Highmount, we proudly dubbed ourselves the “Highmount Hicks.” Every summer with those girls was my coming‑of‑age season — a glorious mix of innocence, mischief, and questionable decision‑making.

As long as my room had a semblance of tidy (clothes stuffed under the mattress, cosmetic lotions and potions hidden beneath bras and bikinis), I was free. With horses and cattle grazing in the pasture, goats tied out and mowing the weeds with their appetites for thorns and ivy, there was no mucking stalls or hauling water troughs. Instead, there was bareback riding through the woods, picnics on the stone wall at the top of the northeast pasture, catching crayfish in the streams and snakes beneath the rocks. We built treehouses, rode bikes, skinny‑dipped in the pond, had sleepovers and pool parties. There were late‑night dances at the community pavilion, basement parties, and games of spin the bottle, post office, and kissing train.

My girlfriends were older, prettier, and far more worldly. Skinny and flat‑chested, at fourteen I tried to keep up with eyeliner, lipstick, and clothes that made me look sixteen instead of twelve. I pretended to understand their stories about boys and French kissing and sex. Thanks to a dare from Jenny, I got my first kiss at twelve, and by fourteen a high‑school senior told me I was the best kisser he’d ever kissed. All those spin‑the‑bottle rounds — even when the bottle pointed at boys with buck teeth and braces — had paid off with dividens.

Sleepovers were a summertime staple and the foundation of my teenage education. We shaved our legs, painted our nails, did our hair, and talked about our periods. Honestly it was straight out of a Judy Bloom novel. Of course, my friends got their periods long before me, but I would often ask to borrow a tampon just to seem cool. The ways we try to fit in are endless. At these sleepovers, there was never any sleep. Stories and rumors abounded. Baseball analogies that had nothing to do with the sport and everything to do with how far a girl would go. We would read passages out of Go Ask Alice like it was contraband. We even played strip poker, and I was stunned not only by some of the girls’ casual confidence, but by the size of their breasts. How had theirs grown and mine hadn't? I had no idea how to jumpstart my puberty. Fortunately, though I wasn't good at poker, I was good a bluffing. So, for the most part, my padded bra stayed securely fastened. On those times when I did lose one hand too many, and my bra, there were no wide eyes and no laughter - definitely the indicator of good friends.

One summer night, the sleepover was at my house. I rarely had friends come inside our beautiful stone farmhouse because my mother was a hoarder, though what she lacked in housekeeping skills, she made up for in all the freedom she allowed me. Being number six of six to a widowed mom has its perks — my siblings had all worn her out. Our farm had several outbuildings — the barn, the chicken house, the springhouse, and a tiny peep house where the previous owners raised baby chicks. I cleaned it out, hung curtains, and laid a throw rug on the floor. It was just big enough for six sleeping bags. My mother wasn’t concerned with us staying up all night or waking the neighbors — there wasn’t a single house close enough to hear the silliness of six teenage girls.

Just after eleven, when the “truth or dare” game had fizzled out, we took our flashlights and decided to "walk around" Highmount — remember this is the country "neighborhood" where we all lived. My house, with its thirty acres, was at the bottom of the mount — more of a large hill — and some of the girls lived out toward the farming fields while others lived up near the top. To get there, you either went through the pastures and woods behind our home, or you walked the winding roads that led up the hill. So there we were - six girls in summer pajamas walking a country road late, late at night — what could go wrong?

There were no cars on the road this time of night — that is, not until we got halfway up the hill. The first car that pulled over was one of the neighborhood boys.

“Where you all going?” he asked, rolling down his window.

Oh my God, it was Mike. He was the oldest and hottest of his three brothers who lived up the hill and definitely the best kisser. Apparently he had just gotten off work - or a date. I could smell the greasy French fries drifting from his car — the kind they served at Friendly’s, salty and unmistakable. I could just imagine what kissing him tonight might taste like.

“Oh just out for a walk,” one of the girls replied casually. It was probably Lori. She was the coolest of cool and the best at lying. I heard she grew up to be a CIA agent. Typical of Lori but maybe just a rumor.

“Like that?” he asked, looking each of us over with a raised eyebrow.

Despite wearing only a long T‑shirt that almost covered her underwear, Lori just shrugged. Other girls wearing short, girly nightgowns didn’t seem to mind either. Me? I felt almost naked in my skimpy babydoll pjs — but I also felt something caught somewhere between embarrassed and a new sensation — sexy? Only now can I admit that at fourteen, those two words are practically interchangeable.

“We’re having a sleepover at Lyn’s,” Jenny said. Well, that was smart.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see ya later.” And just like that, he drove off. I had no idea what he meant by that, but I would soon find out.

Him driving away was followed by what could only be called "The Sillies." Six girls giggling over being caught by a good‑looking boy while wearing only their pajamas. Still, we continued our midnight walk up the hill. Three minutes later, another car pulled over. It was a cop. Seriously - a cop? In Highmount? What are the odds? After rolling down his window, he didn't have any questions. Just a stern scolding and followed by a threat:

“You girls shouldn’t be out this late, especially dressed like that."

Then he turned to Alice — the prettiest, the most grown‑up of us all. He probably knew her dad, who was a community firefighter.

"Now get on home before I call your folks.”

Well, that’s all it took. We turned promptly around and headed back down the hill to my playhouse, where we behaved ourselves… for nearly an hour.

That’s when the tapping on the window started. Mike, his two brothers, and two more of their friends were all outside.

Yep - see ya later, I thought. They’d walked all the way through the woods down to my house. What were we supposed to do? Of course we let them in. Now all I needed was a bottle. A flashlight would do.

It couldn't have been more than a few minutes when a car pulled into our driveway. Headlights blazing. Horn blaring. We killed the flashlight and peeked out the window.

“Shit,” one of the boys whispered. “It’s our mom.”

At the same time, my mother was storming out of the house to find out who in the hell would be blaring their horn in our driveway in the middle of the night. Strapping her holster around her waist, she pulled the loaded pistol from its leather pocket ready to confront whatever threat had come to our home.

Nothing says “go to bed” like a mom with a firearm, but still, we stared out the window.

After recognizing it was Dolly in the car - in this neighborhood, everyone knows everyone - my mom reholstered the gun and the women began a heated conversation. Though we couldn’t hear a word they said, I can still see my mom turning her head from the car to look directly up the hill at my playhouse. From this distance her face was shadowed in darkness, but I knew she knew who was inside with us and, just as likely, what we had been up to.

That's when they bolted — out the door, straight up the back pasture, toward the woods and then home.

The boys were gone, slipped out before my mom had assured their mom she'd send them home and before she'd made the long walk to the playhouse to light into me. And even though we denied it, she knew they had been there. As always, we were up to no good and she knew it. Spin the bottle was officially over, and we were ordered to lock the door and stay inside until morning.

And that was the night the Highmount Hicks learned two important lessons:

1. Never wander country roads in pajamas. It’s fun until the local police think you’re starting a parade.

   
   

2. And if you do… hope the boys sneaking out to meet you don’t wake their mother — because she will find you almost as fast as the cops.