We are in love. Our days are shaped by when we can be alone. I wake up an hour earlier every morning, so I can go with him to the on-site bakery where he picks up the daily delivery of rolls and breads. I wait in the car, and he brings me a warm roll. We spend every moment we’re not working together. Sometimes in the morning or after work, he drags me around the track. He teases me that I’m too broad in some places though he hands never seem to object to my body’s fullness. There is not an ounce of fat on him anywhere. Even the line of his jaw is hard, angular. Sometimes when he kisses me, I feel its sharpness with a small thrill. Everything about him excites me, even our endless quarrels. I know he’s unused to a girl like me.
He tells me that I’m impossible, that I’m too eager to invite controversy. One night when he discovers that I’ve decided to go skinny-dipping in the lake against his fervent pleas not to, he comes to rescue me from eyes that are not his. Wrapping a towel around me, he lifts my wet hair up and begins to rub me dry.
“How could someone who looks like such an angel be such a pain in the ass?” he says.
I’m silent, shivering, and grateful to be saved from my impulsiveness though I would never admit this, not to 
anyone.
“Still cold?” he says.
I nod, suddenly shy. He senses this and wraps the towel tighter around me, pulls me close.
“How come you never listen?” he says. “I just want to take care of you.”
I think how easy it would be to yield to his wishes, to be compliant, but I can’t. I have to obey my parents, my traditions, and my responsibilities. Nowhere does it say that I have to listen to a boy. I know he’s used to girls who listen. I saw the shiksa babysitter with him that night. She was a listener. I saw how she hung on every word he said. I know she thought Frankie would be hers for the summer. She’s a Jersey girl. The girls from Frankie’s hometown have eyes thick with mascara and paint their lips whatever color is the fashion of the moment. I smear a dab of Vaseline on my lips to make them shine. I wonder why Frankie chose me over her. My idea of dressing up is a Mexican peasant blouse and clean jeans. I don’t own a pair of heels. And I’m too outspoken, too nervy for a boy like him. He says I read too much; I say he doesn’t read at all. But, still, we find it hard to be apart for very long.
Frankie releases his hold on me and picks up my clothes. I take them and dart t behind a tree, pulling on my underwear and then my shorts and tee shirt even though I’m still wet.
“No shoes?” he says.
When I shake my head, he offers to carry me back. I laugh, but I know he would do it. I want to tell him that the babysitter shoots darts at me with her eyes whenever our paths cross. I want to see his jaw tighten and the flame in his eyes at the thought that anyone might harm me. But I don’t tell him because I don’t have to.
“Let’s go,” I say.
“Bossy, too,” he says.
I know he isn’t mad, I don’t think he’s ever been really mad at me.
We have the luxury of privacy that none of our peers can enjoy. His room is a sanctuary, and we spend hours there, often arguing because I won’t surrender my virginity to him. He finds this especially hard to understand because it’s so evident that I want to. I know he thinks it’s because he isn’t Jewish, but that isn’t the reason. I’m just not ready.
Still, I love nothing more than to stretch out alongside him and run my hands along his strong, hairless forearms while we talk about everything. He calls me “my girl,” and whispers “Baby” into my hair. I let him kiss my neck for too long even though I anticipate the consequences. But somewhere inside myself I sense that he is marking me, making me his the only way he can. I let him because I already know that we will never be possible. Everything about him is foreign to me except the ease with which I love him.
