The Possibilities of Amy has turned out to be popular with both the YA audience as well as adults. The story was inspired by a man I met at a high school reunion who was brave enough to reveal the truth – and the secrets – of those angst-filled years.
Here’s a brief synopsis:
Amy is the ultimate trophy girl—gorgeous face, killer body and a vivacious personality. But there’s something else about her, something that makes her even more special. Amy’s new. A transfer student from out of state, she’s starting her senior year without knowing a soul. And that means she’s up for grabs, available.
Infatuated from the moment he sees her, David is determined to meet Amy, and if the fates are willing, to spend the rest of his life with her. But his shyness prevents him from approaching her—until his friends devise a contest to determine who can be the first to prove their manhood by seducing her.
I had not met her, yet she consumed my every waking thought. Sometimes, sitting alone in my room, I wondered if she had any inkling of how much my life revolved around her. Every night I prayed for the chance to tell her.
The first time I saw Amy, she was leaning against the green-board, waiting for Senior English to begin. She was a transfer student—arriving three weeks after the start of the school year—requiring her to stand on ceremonious display as she waited for the teacher to provide a seat assignment.
I had never seen anything like her.
Standing about five foot five, she had thick blond hair that feathered over her shoulders to the middle of her back. Her face displayed the kind of beauty I had previously seen only in fashion magazines—shiny, little-girl bangs set over large, vivid blue eyes that flashed in sync to brilliant white teeth. Her skin was flawless, her legs and arms a warm shade of chestnut spice, the tan appearing to come from underneath, as if God Himself had warned the sun to color, but not burn.
And then there was that incredible seventeen-year-old body. A tiny mole dotted her chest just below the collarbone and, like a friendly road sign, it directed the eyes lower, to large, rounded breasts—not hung like coconuts, but each one presented in flawless contour, each one crying for attention. Even her clothes could not conceal the spectacular perfection of it all, the seam of her fitted dress revealing the half-moon valley of her waist and the perfect ripe curve of her ass.
I fell in love with that body. So did every male in the senior class.
And while I could sense many of the girls were already questioning her right to invade their pre-established numbers, I was also aware of more than a few who were considering the possibilities.
The possibilities of Amy.
From that day on—the day of Amy’s arrival into my life—I looked forward to English class the way a child looks forward to Christmas and birthdays.
After school, in the solitude of my own thoughts, I spent hours devising intricate fantasies to bring us together—euphoric daydreams that invariably plunged my beloved Amy into some horrible, frenzied conflict. Alone and terrified, she faced the ghastly predicaments of an unwilling captive, languishing without hope, until my just-in-time arrival predictably resolved every problem and vanquished every foe. My reveries always ended with Amy’s confirmation of her undying and eternal devotion, leaving us forever in love and deliriously happy.
At night, however, my delusions grew into obsessions. Envisioning her beside me, I would move close to her conjured form, craving a taste of her. As my hand gently skimmed the surface of the pillow, I would touch her hair, the lobes of her ears, and the smooth soft skin of her neck. Too stimulated to sleep, I would lay there for hours, my rigid penis pressed against the mattress until my hand would eventually take over, confirming Amy’s surrender as she granted me every carnal pleasure.
I desperately searched for her phone number. Just to have it, to be able to recite it from memory. Even after the operator told me it was unlisted, I still repeatedly scanned the phone book, as if expecting it to magically appear from my sheer need to find it.
I ached to know where she lived. So I could drive by. And if courage and timing were right, wave at her as I saw her coming or going.
But I had nothing—nothing but fifty minutes a day, when she was close enough to see, but too far away to start a conversation. And so I sat at my desk like a devout parishioner attending church, worshipping her.
Like a shy and foolish schoolboy, I had waited for circumstances to bring us together. The last two Thursday nights I made sure I had a clean shirt and jeans, just in case Friday found us face-to-face, friendly and talking, getting along in a way that seemed so natural, so right, that she would want to go out for a pizza and a movie. But the opportunity for flirtatious banter had never materialized, leaving my hopes of our exchanging a kiss with the lingering aroma of melted cheese and pepperoni on our breaths an unfulfilled dream.
As my frustration grew in proportion to my unrequited desire, I began to pray for divine intervention, a miraculous reshuffling of the seating chart that would position Amy directly in front of me.
It would change my world—to be near enough to reach out and touch her.
But after two weeks of pleading my case to the Almighty, it was obvious that God was not predisposed to our meeting. If Amy was going to become part of my life, I was going to have to take the initiative and somehow find the courage to say hello.
Every morning I practiced for the possibility. Standing in front of the mirror, I quietly recited the same words, over and over: “Today is the day. Today I will walk up to her and introduce myself. Today I will let her know in a most clever and confident way that I find her attractive. And then I will off-handedly mention that we should go out, suggesting this weekend would be perfect.”
My rehearsals inevitably left me in a clammy sweat and my stomach tied in knots. But it didn’t matter. I was willing to endure it all—whatever it took. Because there was something else about Amy, something that made her even more special.
Amy was new.
It meant we could start from scratch. There would be no awkward common history or mutually-shared embarrassing experiences to taint our beginnings. She wouldn’t be able to remember me losing my swim trunks at the sixth-grade pool party. She was free of the mental trauma I would have certainly inflicted by spilling Coke on her pink taffeta dress during her thirteenth birthday party. As far as Amy was concerned, I was a stranger, with no phobias or syndromes renamed in my honor.
I knew I had to act soon, as any advantage to be gained from her newly-arrived status would soon be lost to those bolder and more aggressive. And from the way she seemed to fit right into her new surroundings—busily exchanging hello’s, and what I hoped were not phone numbers—it was apparent that this kind of beauty would not sit quietly, waiting for the shy or less confident to finally work up the nerve to speak.
And so from the very first moment I saw her, standing in front of the green board, I had to meet her, touch her, and convince her to spend the rest of her life with me.
The three of us met every day before school. Assuming our regular positions—leaning against one of the slatted wooden benches in the quad—we gathered like tribal chieftains to survey our turf and plan our conquests, real and imagined.
Mark always arrived first. An anomaly of sorts, he was a contradiction in both appearance and personality. His boyish face barely balanced his heavy-lidded blue eyes and paling complexion. And with his slight build teetering on the frail, he gave the impression of a young child who was aging much too rapidly. Mark could display a quick wit, and at times turn surprisingly intense and even philosophical about issues too distant for me to consider important. But his shyness made him a social cripple, often leaving him moody and far too serious. Other than my parents, he was the one person who insisted on calling me David, instead of Dave. But that was Mark—thoughtful to the point of being somber. Seldom offering much in the way of subject matter for our discussions, his input was usually limited to interjecting an occasional, “Yeah, you’re right,” to confirm his participation.
Pete was the complete opposite of Mark. Stocky and barrel-chested, he insisted that his 5 foot, 10 inch frame set him at above average height. He often claimed his dark brown hair—which always stuck up straight and thick at the crown—was his best feature. My electrician father told me it resembled a multi-stranded cable plug, and had once offered to insert it into a 220-volt socket to ‘clear the shit out of Pete’s brain.’
Constantly seeking to reaffirm his manhood, Pete had tried to grow a beard over the summer (to go with his deep-set brown eyes, he’d said), but had only managed to produce a dozen dark strays on the very tip of his chin. Even so, he saw his daily encounter with the razor a ritual confirmation of his maturity, and he foamed and scraped every morning, usually cutting little more than an occasional chunk of his own skin.
Unlike Pete or Mark, I was tall and lanky, desperately waiting for a healthy ratio of fat and muscle to fill out my frame. But no matter how much I ate or exercised, my metabolism seemed determined to keep me skinny and athletically undeveloped. I thought my face to be rather unremarkable—the kind that was easy to recognize and just as easy to forget. And although I liked the color of my sandy-blonde hair, I religiously backcombed it, keeping its unappreciated curl under control.
In spite of the absence of any glaring physical irregularities, I secretly believed I had far less to offer than the more popular guys, who always seemed to have a never-ending supply of pretty girls to date.
Pete thought of himself as our unofficial leader. Being the most outspoken of the group, he always tried to control our conversations. He usually started things off by updating The List—twenty of the school’s arguably most attractive girls, hand-picked by Pete as the most deserving of his attentions. Every morning, he re-ordered the priority—deciding who should be asked out first and who would have to wait—based on recently changed hairstyles or which ones had been seen talking to some of the jocks.
Pete’s master plan was to date every girl on The List before the end of the school year. But Mark and I knew the truth: Pete’s preoccupation with The List was little more than an adolescent substitute for real sexual contact. We knew because of Pete’s notorious past attempts to engage the fairer sex. Most had found him annoying and irritating, and certainly not someone they would consider going out with.
But even though most girls held him in unmistakable disfavor, Pete still thought of himself as a real cocks-man. He even carried a picture of the girl who he swore had given him his first blowjob. He claimed she had seduced him while standing in line at Taco Bell, insisting they do it behind the building in the parking lot. Several years later, I found out he’d made up the story, cutting the picture from his older sister’s high school annual in an attempt to convince us of his advanced sexual experience.
So why did I put up with him? Because in spite of Pete’s hollow boasting, in spite of the obvious pretense of his list, I knew they were mere by-products of a mutually shared obsession—and the main reason for our daily meetings:
It was why we chose the quad. An open area roughly half the size of a football field, it was choked with waves of arriving students, moving from buses to lockers, and then to first period classes. There was no better spot from which to watch.
And we did. Constantly.
Short, tall or the ever-coveted medium, it didn’t matter. Observing the female form was our art, and we practiced it every day—rain or shine—between eight and eight-thirty. Vigilantly attentive, we collectively gawked at every curve and contour, delighting in tight, muscled legs and the exquisite prominence of nubile teen-age breasts.
By the third week of school we had memorized the wardrobes of our cherished favorites, sometimes offering a silent prayer of thanks when a preferred dress or sweater came into view. And when we were lucky—when they passed close enough—we would inhale deeply, reveling in the intoxicating mixture of Shalimar, Breck, and Ivory soap.
With each of us contributing to a constant narrative of the passing scene, we talked about touching them, holding them, and exchanging gallons of bodily fluids with those we imagined to be willing. Like most guys without dates, we brazenly planned our next conquest, wondering aloud if Wednesday was too late in the week to call our first choice and ask her out.
But the truth was devastating: Despite our insatiable appetites for the earthy, our sexual posturing was purely theoretical. True to traditional high school hierarchy, only the jocks and party boys could actually speak in the past tense about their sexual triumphs. If there was one thing our little group genuinely shared, it was the knowledge that our collective carnal experience was limited to a few kisses sideswiped from an unsuspecting cheek as we attempted a nervous goodnight.
The three of us had met as freshman. Now in our senior year, there was an emerging and unmistakable sense of competition—to see who would be the first to touch a naked breast, or to feel the special dampness waiting a few inches below the waistband of a pair of tight Jeans.
There had been predictions of who would be second and third, but only after each of us had selfishly proclaimed to be the most likely candidate to make the first score. But in reality, we were three guys without prospects, making it impossible to guess who would win the race to claim his manhood.
This morning, like every morning since Amy’s arrival on campus, I walked through the banks of lockers and checked the cafeteria, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, and maybe—just maybe—find an opportunity to start a conversation.
As I approached the bench in the quad, Mark was already waiting. Seeing me, he dug his hands deeper into his pockets, pushing his waistband an inch lower, although still not enough to cover the glaring white athletic socks that rose out of scuffed, black loafers. There was the usual passive exchange of a quick nod before I propped my leg up on the seat. It wasn’t really comfortable, but I was certain it made a less gangly presentation of my six-foot frame.
“Anything?” I asked.
A group of giggling freshmen drew our attention. Too young. We would never be seen babysitting a freshman.
Two popular sophomores were next. Great faces, tight bodies. And way too sure of themselves. They never went out with anyone but senior jocks.
“Fuck ’em,” Mark whispered, dismissing them.
As they walked away from us through the arch leading to the locker area, Pete passed them on his way out. He started to strut, pretentiously throwing his hips from side to side, mocking the girls behind their back. He was nearly on us when he finally dropped the affectation and said, “Listen up, men. There’s new talent in town.”
I tried to manage a neutral expression while sounding appropriately interested. “What are you talking about?”
“So you guys haven’t seen her yet?”
Mark and I shrugged.
“I saw her getting off the bus,” Pete continued. “She’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like her.”
I could feel the growing tightness in my jaw and I wondered if either of them noticed.
“I just talked to a guy in one of her classes,” Pete added. “He thinks her name is Amy.”
Shit, shit, shit. I felt my breakfast turn sour.
Pete’s eyes widened, his mouth contorting into an exaggerated sneer. “The first thing I want to know is how big they are.”
I looked at him with feigned confusion, hoping he would drop the subject and become distracted by Vicky Anderson, nick-named “Pixie,” because of her petite frame and pretty features. But as she walked by us, Pete didn’t even offer a glance. Not caring who might overhear, he dropped his voice to a growl. “Tits,” he said, pushing the word out on a puff of air to give emphasis to his favorite part of the female anatomy. “I want ’em right here, you know?” He gestured as he spoke, bringing both hands up to his face as if examining the pimpled skin of a large grapefruit. “I wanna milk ’em, really hard.”
Mark’s mouth widened into a huge grin and he immediately joined Pete in the synchronized two-handed squeezing of the air directly in front of their faces, arrogantly pretending to cup and suck an imaginary breast.
Pete was nodding wildly, adding, “Oh yeah, baby. Give it to me now. Open up for me, baby, that’s right.”
My private treasure had been discovered. Amy was no longer a secret. I would have eventually told them—after I had met her, and could claim my right of priority. But now, it would be impossible to protect her from Pete’s verbal pokes and prods without revealing my true feelings. And worse, if Pete discovered my obsession with Amy, he would focus on her, making it a point to get to know her, even pulling one of his stupid pranks that could eliminate my chances of winning her over. I had to change the conversation, shift it to another topic. “So, do you guys want to do something different for lunch, or eat in the cafeteria?”
“Screw lunch,” Pete said. “One of us needs to try it out.”
“Try what out?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.
“You’re kidding, right? I mean, just wait ‘til you see them.” He smacked his lips loudly. “Mmmm, boy. They’ve got to be the greatest tits in the world.”
“So what?” It was a feeble comeback, but it was all I had.
Pete gave me the same look of annoyed confusion he had used on a group of born-again holy-rollers canvassing the school during “Kids for Christ” week. “Look, Dave, don’t you get it? She’s new. She probably hasn’t made any friends yet. And that means there’s a good chance she’ll go out with just about anybody.”
He had read my mind.
“So we should give it a shot,” he added, licking his lips.
I hesitated, scrambling for a rebuttal so disqualifying, so final, that it would put an end to any further discussions about Amy. But Mark, who had been quiet through all of Pete’s rhetoric, broke in before I could speak.
“So what can we do?” It sounded like he was asking for some kind of duty assignment.
“We’ll just work on it,” Pete answered, his voice ringing with cocky self-assurance. “We’ll use the weekend to figure something out.”
It was the kind of thing that Pete would say when he didn’t have a real answer. But it didn’t make me feel any better.