Sixteen 豆蔻初恋

莫琳·戴利 译/聂雅真 郭庆怡

You see， it was funny how I met him. It was a winter night like any other winter night. And I didn’t have my Latin done either. But the way the moon tinseled the twigs and silver-plated the snow drifts， I just couldn’t stay inside. The skating rink isn’t far from my house—you can make it in five minutes if the sidewalks aren’t slippery， so I went skating. I remember it took me a long time to get ready that night because I had to darn my skating socks first. I don’t know why they always wear out so fast—just in the toes， too. Maybe it’s because I have metal protectors on the toes of my skates. That properly is why. And then I brushed my hair—hard， so hard it clung to my hand and stood up around my head in a hazy halo.

My skates were hanging by the back door all nice and shiny， for I’d just gotten them for Christmas and they smelled so queer—just like fresh-smoked ham. My dog walked with me as far as the corner. She’s a red chow， very polite and well-mannered， and she kept pretending it was me she liked when all the time I knew it was the ham smell. She panted along beside me and her hot breath made a frosty little balloon balancing on the end of her nose. My skates thumped me good-naturedly on the back as I walked and the night was breathlessly quiet and the stars winked down like a million flirting eyes. It was all so lovely.

It was all so lovely I ran most of the way and it was lucky the sidewalks had ashes on them or I’d have slipped surely. The ashes crunched like crackerjack and I could feel their cindery shape through the thinness of my shoes. I always wear old shoes when I go skating.

I had to cut across someone’s back garden to get to the rink and last summer’s grass stuck through the thin ice， brown and discouraged. Not many people came through this way and the crusted snow broke through the little hollows between corn stubbles frozen hard in the ground. I was out of breath when I got to the shanty—out of breath with running and with the loveliness of the night. Shanties are always such friendly places. The floor all hacked to wet splinters from skate runners and the wooden wall frescoed with symbols of dead romance. There was a smell of singed wool as someone got too near the glowing isinglass grid of the iron stove. Girls burst through the door laughing with snow on their hair and tripped over shoes scattered on the floor. A pimply-faced boy grabbed the hat from the frizzled head of an eighth-grade blonde and stuffed it into an empty galosh to prove his love and then hastily bent to examine his skate strap with innocent unconcern.

It didn’t take me long to get my own skates on and I stuck my shoes under the bench—far back where they wouldn’t get knocked around and would be easy to find when I wanted to go home. I walked out on my toes and the shiny runners of my new skates dug deep into the sodden floor.

It was snowing a little outside—quick， but melted as soon as they touched your hand. I don’t know where the snow came from for there were stars out. Or maybe the stars were in my eyes and I just kept seeing them every time I looked up into the darkness. I waited a moment. You know， to start to skate at a crowded rink is like jumping on a moving merry-go-round. Once in， I went all right. At least， after I found out exactly where the rough ice was. It was “round， round， jump the rut， round， round， round， jump the rut， round， round—”

And then he came. All of a sudden his arm was around my waist so warm and tight and he said very casually， “Mind if I skate with you？” and then he took my other hand. That’s all there was to it. Just that and then we were skating. It wasn’t that I’d never skated with a boy before. Don’t be silly. I told you before I get around. But this was different. He was a smoothie！ He was a big shot up at school and he went to all the big dances and he was the best dancer in town except Harold Wright who didn’t count because he’d been to college in New York for two years！ Don’t you see？ This was different.

At first I can’t remember what we talked about， I can’t even remember if we talked at all. We just skated and skated and laughed every time we came to that rough spot and pretty soon we were laughing all the time at nothing at all. It was all so lovely.

Then we sat on the big snow bank at the edge of the rink and just watched. It was cold at first even with my skating pants on， sitting on that hard heap of snow， but pretty soon I got warm all over. He threw a handful of snow at me and it fell in a little white shower on my hair and he leaned over to brush it off. I held my breath. The night stood still.

The moon hung just over the warming shanty like a big quarterslice of muskmelon and the smoke from the pipe chimney floated up in a sooty fog. One by one the houses around the rink twinked out their lights and somebody’s hound wailed a mournful apology to a star as he curled up for the night. It was all so lovely.

Then he sat up straight and said， “We’d better start home.” Not “Shall I take you home？” or “Do you live far？” but “We’d better start home.” See， that’s how I know he wanted to take me home. Not because he had to but because he wanted to. He went to the shanty to get my shoes. “Black ones，” I told him. “Same size as Garbo’s.” And laughed again. He was still smiling when he came back and took off my skates and tied the wet skate strings in a soggy knot and put them over his shoulder. Then he held out his hand and I slid off the snow bank and brushed off the seat of my pants and we were ready.

It was snowing harder now. Big， quiet flakes that clung to twiggy bushes and snuggled in little drifts against the tree trunks. The night was an etching in black and white. It was all so lovely I was sorry I lived only a few blocks away. He talked softly as we walked as if every little word were a secret. “Did I like Wayne King， and did I plan to go to college next year and had I a cousin who lived in Appleton and knew his brother？” A very respectable Emily Post sort of conversation， and then finally—“how nice I looked with snow in my hair and had I ever seen the moon so—close？” For the moon was following us as we walked and ducking playfully behind a chimney every time I turned to looked at it. And then we were home.

The porch light was on. My mother always puts the porch light on when I go away at night. And we stood there a moment by the front steps and the snow turned pinkish in the glow of the colored light and a few feathery flakes settled on his hair. Then he took my skates and put them over my shoulder and said， “Good night now. I’ll call you，” he said.

I went inside then and in a moment he was gone. I watched him from my window as he went down the street. He was whistling softly and I waited until the sound faded away so I couldn’t tell if it was he or my heart whistling out there in the night. And then he was gone， completely gone.

I shivered. Somehow the darkness seemed changed. The stars were little hard chips of light far up in the sky and the moon stared down with a sullen yellow glare. The air was tense with sudden cold and a gust of wind swirled his footprints into white oblivion. Everything was quiet.

But he’d said， “I’ll call you.” That’s what he said， “I’ll call you.” I couldn’t sleep all night.

And that was last Thursday. Tonight is Tuesday. Tonight is Tuesday and my homework’s done， and I darned some stockings that didn’t really need it， and I worked a cross-word puzzle， and I listened to the radio and now I’m just sitting. I’m just sitting because I can’t think of anything else to do. I can’t think of anything， anything but snowflakes and ice skates and yellow moons and Thursday night. The telephone is sitting on the corner table with its old black face turned to the wall so I can’t see its leer. I don’t even jump when it rings any more. My heart still prays but my mind just laughs. Outside the night is still， so still I think I’ll go crazy and the white snow’s all dirtied and smoked into grayness and the wind is blowing the arc light so it throws weird， waving shadows from the trees onto the lawn—like thin， starved arms begging for I don’t know what. And so I’m just sitting here and I’m not feeling anything. I’m not even sad because all of a sudden I know. I can’t sit here now forever and laugh and laugh while the tears run salty in the corners of my mouth. For all of a sudden I know， I know what the stars knew all the time—he’ll never， never call—never.

你们不知道，我与他的相遇还挺有意思的。那是一个冬夜，与其他冬夜毫无二致。而我还没有完成我的拉丁文作业。但是，看见月亮为树枝镀上金箔，为雪堆镀上银箔，我在屋里说什么也待不住了。滑冰场离家也不远——如果人行道不太滑，走过去也就五六分钟，所以我决定，去滑冰。记得那天晚上准备了好久，因为我得先补好滑冰袜。我不懂这袜子为什么总这么不经穿——还总是脚趾的地方磨破。可能是因为我在冰鞋脚趾部位衬了个金属护趾。一准儿就是这护趾闹的。然后，我梳了梳头——使了大劲儿梳，大得头发都贴在手上再竖在头上，形成了一圈朦胧晕轮。

我的冰鞋就挂在后门，铮光锃亮，那是我刚得的圣诞礼物，还带着股新鞋的怪味儿——就像新鲜熏制的火腿。我的狗一直跟着我到了街角。她是一条红毛松狮犬，很守规矩，也很温顺。她一直像是亲近我，但我始终知道她其实是喜欢那股火腿味儿。她气喘吁吁跟着我，呼出的热气凝成一个小霜球在鼻尖上晃来晃去。我走路时冰鞋在我背上轻轻跳动着。夜，沉静得令人窒息;星星，像无数眨动着的眼睛。太美了，這一切！

太美了，这一切！我几乎一路奔了过去，还算运气好，人行道铺上了煤渣，要不我肯定早滑倒了。煤渣踩上去嘎吱嘎吱响，像爆米花，隔着薄薄的鞋底，我能感觉到煤渣不太平整。我去溜冰时总是穿双旧鞋。

去冰场必须穿过人家的后花园，而今年夏天的草钻出了薄冰，黄黄的，蔫蔫的。这条路很少有人走，地里的玉米残茎冻得硬硬的，冻结的雪壳从残茎之间的小小凹陷处凸起。我终于到了冰场的小屋，有点上气不接下气——一是因为奔跑，二是因为这可爱的夜色。冰场小屋都是比较温馨的地方。小屋地上到处都是滑冰鞋冰刀留下的湿湿的划痕，木墙上刻满了已逝恋情的表白图案。屋里会闻到羊毛燃烧的味道，那是有人靠铁皮火炉太近了，火炉的云母格栅被炉光烤得红红的。女孩们笑着冲进门，头上粘着雪，被散落地上的鞋子绊得跌跌撞撞。一个脸上长着粉刺的男孩从一个金色鬈发的八年级女生头上抢过帽子，塞到一只空套鞋里表示他的爱意，然后急忙弯下腰假装检查鞋带，一脸没事人的样子。

很快我就穿好了自己的冰鞋，把刚脱下的鞋藏在长凳下——尽量往里塞，让别人踢不着，我想回家时一伸手就能拿到。我踮着脚尖走了出去，新冰鞋闪亮的冰刀在湿漉漉的地板上刻出了很深的划痕。

外面正下着小雪——很密，但落在手上就化了。我真不知道这雪是打哪儿来的，明明天上还挂着星星。没准儿星星就在我眼睛里，每次抬头望向漆黑的夜空，我都能看到它们。我等了会儿。你知道，冰场里人挤人时，踏入冰场就像骑上不断转动的旋转木马。不过，一旦上了场，我都能对付。至少，在我发现哪片冰面不平后就不会有问题了。要做的就是“滑，滑，跳过去，滑，滑，滑，跳过去，滑，滑——”。

然后，他就来了。突然间，他搂上我的腰，暖暖的、紧紧的，他很随意地问道：“我可以和你一块儿滑吗？”之后就握住了我另一只手。就是这样。没说别的什么，我们就一块儿滑起来。我并不是没和男生一块儿滑过冰。别犯傻。我告诉过你，我什么事都能应付。但这次不一样。他是个八面玲珑的人！他在学校可是个大明星，参加过所有的大型舞会，是全镇跳舞最好的，不过哈罗德·赖特没算在里面，因为哈罗德已经到纽约上了两年大学了！知道了吧？这就没法比了。

一开始我不记得我们都聊了什么，我甚至不记得到底聊了没有。我们就一直滑、一直滑，每次滑到那片不平的冰面就大笑，没过多久我们就无缘无故笑个不停。太美了，这一切！

后来，我们坐在冰场边缘很大的雪堤上，就这么坐着看。一开始感觉很冷，虽然我还穿着溜冰裤，可毕竟是坐在那一大片冻硬的雪堆上，但不一会儿我全身都感到暖了起来。他向我扔了一把雪，雪屑纷纷扬扬落在我头发上，他靠过来掸掉了我头上的雪。我屏住了呼吸。夜依然那样沉寂。

月亮高悬在温暖小屋的上空，像大瓣的甜瓜;而烟囱里飘升的烟形成了一团黑雾。冰场周边的住家一一熄灭了灯。哪家的猎犬向星星哀号了一声，表达了歉意，就蜷起身准备睡觉了。太美了，这一切！

这时，他坐直身体说：“我们该回家了。”他没说“我送你回家吧！”或者“你住得远吗？”，只说“我们该回家了。”。你看，他就是这样表示他要送我回家的。不是因为他不得不送，而是他想送我回家。他去小屋替我拿鞋。“黑色的，”我告诉他，“尺寸和嘉宝的一样。”我们又大笑起来。他回来时还带着笑。他帮我脱下了冰鞋，把湿鞋带打了个潮乎乎的结，挂在自己肩上。他伸出手，我从雪堤上滑下来，拍掉因为坐在那儿粘在裤子上的雪，准备回家。

这会儿雪下大了。大片的雪花静悄悄地挂在灌木枝杈上，结成小砣砣贴在树干上。夜，像一幅黑白蚀刻画。一切都是那么美好，真遗憾我就住在几个街区外。我和他一边走，一边听他低声说着话，就好像每个词都是个秘密。“喜欢韦恩·金吗，计划明年进大学吗，有没有一个住在阿普尔顿的表哥认识他弟弟？” 这是一次礼仪专家埃米莉·波斯特式的彬彬有礼的交谈，最后——“头发上落点雪花有多漂亮，有没有看到过月亮像今晩离得这样——近？”我们一路走来，月亮一直跟着我们，而每次我一转身看它，它就顽皮地躲到烟囱的后面。就这样，我们到家了。

门廊灯亮着。如果我晚上出去，妈妈总会把门廊灯开着。我们在大门外的台阶上站了会儿，彩灯照耀下，雪花变成了粉红色，有几片大如羽毛的雪花落在他头发上。之后，他把我的冰鞋挂在我肩上说：“晩安啦。我会给你打电话。”

于是我进了屋，过了一会儿，他走了。他向街那头走了，我在窗口看着他。他轻轻地吹着口哨，我一直等到口哨声完全听不到了，所以我也说不清楚是他还是我的心在深夜的街上吹着口哨。他终于没影了，完全看不见了。

我激灵了一下。黑夜似乎和刚才不一样了。星星好像是高挂空中发光的小片，月亮散发着忧郁的黄光凝视世间。突然袭来的寒气令人感到喘不过气，一阵风把他的脚印抹成了一片空白。一切归于沉寂。

但他说了：“我会给你打电话。”他就是那么说的：“我会给你打电话。”那一晚我彻夜难眠。

那是上周四的事情了，今天是星期二。今天晚上，我的家庭作业已经完成，袜子也补好了，其实不用补，我还做了一个填字游戏，听了会儿收音机，现在就只是呆坐着。我就那么坐着，因为我想不出还该做些什么。除了雪花、冰鞋、黄色的月亮和星期四的夜晚，我什么都想不起来。老旧的电话就搁在角桌上，黑色的面盘对着墙，所以我看不见它不怀好意的表情。电话铃再响起时，我甚至都不会跳起来了。我的心仍在祈祷，而脑子却在笑。外面的夜晚很静，我觉得静得让我发疯。白雪都被弄脏了，被烟熏得灰蒙蒙的;风在吹打着弧光灯，把怪异、晃动的树影映到草坪上——好像伸着瘦瘦的、营养不良的手臂在乞讨，我也不知道在乞讨什么。所以我就这么坐在这儿，什么感觉都没有。我甚至不感到悲伤，因为我突然明白了。我不可能永远坐在这儿，我放声大笑，不停地笑，眼泪流进嘴角，咸咸的。我突然明白了，明白了星星们一直都清楚的事——他永远、永远不会打电话——永远不会。