Teen Idol Crush

Photo by Merve

“I got a new record at the TG&Y," said Marilyn. Grown-up, that's what she was. She wore a bra.

"Partridge Family, ever heard of him?” Marilyn jumped onto her messy bed with a new poster and kissed life-sized Bobby Sherman right smack on his lips. “Sorry, Bobby, you have to go!" Marilyn peeled Bobby off the wall, folded him, and tucked him in her dresser drawer. A new poster took his place. "I dig David Cassidy!” she declared. “He’s far out!” Marilyn licked her lips and kissed him.

I smiled and nodded, pretending I understood. Truth was, I’d never heard of David Cassidy or the Partridge Family. I didn’t want Marilyn to know I listened to Walt Disney records or that my record player looked like a circus wagon. I felt embarrassed and desperate to fit in.

She turned up her stereo and handed me the record jacket. It looked like a family photo album: deep red leather, fancy gold lettering.

"You need to learn the words to this next song,” Marilyn said. “That way, we can sing it as a duet!"

"I think I love you ... so what am I so afraid of ..." Marilyn danced on her bed and sang into her hairbrush. “... afraid that I’m not sure of, a love there is no cure for... I think I love you ...”

Sometimes, I wondered why Marilyn kept me around. She was older and mature, and I felt lucky to be invited over. So if Marilyn wanted me to sing, then I sang.

Inside the record album, there were pictures of David Cassidy and his family, the Partridges. David Cassidy’s smile, his long brown hair, and his brown eyes made my face feel hot. My palms got sweaty and my heart raced.

Marilyn caught my look and grinned. "You're fine. It's just a teen idol crush. Means you're growing up." She made it sound completely normal, and for a moment, I believed her.

Later, when Marilyn wasn't looking, I tore a picture of David Cassidy out of one of her Tiger Beat magazines and slipped it in my pocket.

I bought my first Tiger Beat magazines with leftover birthday money, or maybe I stole that one. I cut out every picture of David Cassidy and thumb-tacked them to the bulletin board next to my bed. Mom didn't allow tape on the walls. But in Marilyn’s bedroom, there were posters everywhere, even on the ceiling. It was as if she slept in a room full of people.

Every night, I'd close my eyes tight and picture David Cassidy until I saw him in my head. There he was, walking through an airport with the Partridges and their manager, Mr. Kincaid. David's carrying a large, brown leather suitcase. He doesn't know it, but I'm stowed away inside. Once we're in his motel room, he unzips his suitcase. To his surprise, there I am, a runaway, curled up tighter than a pillbug. He picks me up in his arms, I gaze into his brown eyes, and ... I never got past that part. I always fell asleep.

I don’t remember how, but one day, Brother and I had all of the Partridge Family Albums. I played them over and over on my record player until I knew every song by heart. "Point Me in the Direction of Albuquerque," "I Can Feel Your Heartbeat," and "I Think I Love You" were my favorites. Marilyn told me I sounded like a real professional and that it was time for the world to hear my beautiful voice. Destined for fame and fortune, that’s what she said, and I believed her.

A few days later, away from records and posters, Mom gave me a plastic bag of stale bread heels and said, "Could you go feed the birds, please?"

I wandered outside. Next to Elvis’ trailer was the narrow walkway that led to the Happy Acres swimming pool and play area. Both sides were dense with broadleaf ivy twice as tall as I was. Going through there reminded me of Ichabod Crane and The Legend of Sleepy Hollow because I could never get that flaming pumpkin head out of my mind.

Bermuda grass and clover carpeted the play area. A bushy mulberry tree grew in the middle, perfect for climbing and spying into people’s trailer spaces. On the far side, where the plum tree hung over the fence, was a giant swing set. Often, I’d swing and eat plums, spitting pits into the ivy.

The bread heels tasted wonderful, especially the sourdough ones. I tossed the leftovers on the grass, and robins swarmed.

While the birds ate, I looked at the ivy-covered fence behind my trailer row. I could see the top of my single-wide and the shed’s roof. I always wished it were easy to climb over the fence into my backyard because I liked shortcuts, but it wasn’t. The ivy was thick. If a baseball landed there, it was almost impossible to get it back. Once, I found a plastic Easter egg. Inside were some perfectly good jelly beans that had been there for years.

There I was, heart pounding, standing alone on a stage, surrounded by greedy birds.

So, I sang, "Crazy little rag doll, her hair was wild and tossed. And I put my arm around her ..." After a few verses, I held an invisible microphone and sang as if to my teen idol crush. "Point me in the direction of Albuquerque ..." Somehow singing in front of all that ivy made my voice sound spectacular, even better than it did in Marilyn’s bedroom. I knew I’d be famous someday, I felt it.

"What are you doing back there?" Mom shouted over the fence.

“Nothing,” I said.

"You’re supposed to feed the birds, not pester the neighborhood! Lunch is ready."

I ran home for a grilled cheese and carrot sticks. Mom said I couldn’t go outside again until I ate every carrot. So I sat in the kitchen booth for half an hour, gnawing on carrot sticks and dreaming about my musical future on TV.

I taught Partridge Family songs to some kids at Happy Acres. On weekends, we practiced and called ourselves the Partridge Family Singing Club. After roll call and collecting a nickel for dues, we’d line up in front of the ivy, shoulder to shoulder, swaying and singing into invisible microphones.

Then, one Saturday morning, we gave our first concert in the play area. No one showed up despite the flyer I drew with crayons and posted on the washhouse bulletin board.

Lack of an audience didn’t stop us. We sang a dozen Partridge Family songs so loud that people on Robert's Lane could hear.

"... I'll prove it, baby, I'm a man of my word. Oh, oh, oh oh, I can feel heartbeat and you didn't even say a word …"

Even though we only performed one concert, the Partridge Family Singing Club became legendary. Mom said everyone in Happy Acres was talking about us and suggested we should give show business a break to rest our vocal chords. She was probably right; my throat did feel a little scratchy.

“You're lucky no one called the cops!” Brother laughed.