For the Love of Tracy Forrester
By: Clint Allisone
Tags: High School, Memoir, 80s, Party, Lovestory

Early mornings of first semester two lonely people waited for entry in front of the Drafting 1 door, me and Tracy Forrester. Both of us had no friends to meet before school started, both of us got dropped off early, at least one of us was miserable.

I thought she was a boy when I first met her, a sickly white skin, with a short heavy perm that was painful to look at, and as for her body, the rare time I saw it through the the opening of a thick wool trench coat she did not take off, it was emaciated.

The stresses of starting 7th grade showed, her lips were covered by cold sores gone to scab. We didn’t talk the first day, except that I may have asked her if this was the drafting class. When she spoke I realized she was a girl. Writing this, I still remember her voice, smooth, and feminine, but at the time, I felt repulsed, this ugly boy sounding so.. my embarrassment turned to loathing. Everything about her was off, unattractive, except she was smart.

I think after a couple weeks of waiting with her there, she may have thought I wanted to be a friend, or maybe she just wanted a friend, I say this because she probably began our morning conversations. At some point early on I asked her about her pins, I said, “what are the pins for?” I may have said it with derision in my voice, or she may have taken it that way, she went on to describe them as Mod pins and Adam Ant as an icon, wholly different from me, which he was.

Things went downhill, as I became jealous of this Adam Ant person, though I wasn’t sure why, and thus began us meeting there every morning for the entire first semester, and verbally put each other down. I do remember being the meaner of the two, more willing to hurt the other, whatever the cost. I also remember when she wasn’t there in the mornings I felt very lonely.

In the summer between 9th and 10th grade I volunteered for a weekend activity for the handicapped at the local community college, which in itself made for an exciting time, but there was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. The 13 year old version of Tracy Forrester was to be my partner for the day, now with straight hair, dressed like a beach girl, no longer a stick figure, but in full bloom. If anything, I celebrate that here, I recognize her for what she was, stunning.

I couldn’t believe it. Astounded I fell deeply into that 13 year old kind of love, my heart hurt, my body ached, and she tolerated me. I brought up many things that might have hurt her that day, and she tolerated me. How much different she looked from when she wore the trench coat I said, where are your pins I asked, and I was blind to see the pain those memories caused, memories of my past belittling.

Maybe all the more painful because she had not changed, but conformed. Giving up the identity that got her nothing except that it was hers and hers alone in order to be liked. She played the role well, I was convinced at the time she was a much better version of herself, but thinking of her, and my many mistakes, my mind drifts to those cold mornings with the Adam Ant worshipping wraith.

I knew nothing of kindness. How could I be kind? I hadn’t seen much of it, some by Linda Frick, and more by Linda Pyatt, a small amount by Mrs. Gore, Mary Scott had shown some, my Aunt Leslie had shown me kindness, but any kindness I had received had been drowned out by the constant fear of abuse as a child, and as for my childhood crushes, aside from heartfelt times here or there at cotillion or the roller rink, it had mostly been competition, or mean exchanges, and when there were valentines there were perceived betrayals, how betrayed can an elementary student really be by another elementary student? Not enough kindness, though, is my point, to be able to freely know it and share it. I wish I had known how to be kind back then, Tracy probably needed some unadulterated encouragement.

One year later we ended up together in a small new high school, her hair now full ’80s medium short wave. She’d bleached her red hair blond, and wore red lipstick, I was dying whenever I saw her. There were other beauties at our school, and I would ache over them as well, eventually feeling love for one named Kerri, but Tracy was this other story of the heart, a story began at odds on cold mornings in 8th grade, and carried over to a sophomore year, the many changes in between had still not found me my place.

I doubt she had any idea how much I liked her, there were two parties that year at Brian Ramirez’ house. He was a ninth grader, but not inclined to behave like it. I think back to how small our high school was, everyone with their role, and yet my role still uncertain. The first party changed that, as I had my first, second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth drink of my teenage life there, and a villain emerged.

A 15 year old, 125 pound, bleach blond villain. No one told me exactly what I had done at that first party, I only remember patches of asking 19 year old punk girls to fuck me, whatever else I did led to me being attacked by footballers 3 times the following Monday of school. Growing up in Trabuco Canyon had prepared me, they attacked, but weren’t ready for a smaller guy who didn’t back down from a fight. That was an exciting day.

At the second party I was more established, I realize I behaved a lot like my step father did when he drank, grandiose, everything bigger than life, what we were doing at Brian Ramirez’ for the second time now something like destiny. Tracy Forrester’s arrival there stirred in me that feeling of now was the time, we would finally… something.

There was a finality, I found her after giving head to Ed Dreher, coming from the bathroom together, she looked me in the eye, smiling, and wiped mouth. There was no more lipstick.

I woke up from the black out in the backyard, Tracy sitting on my lap, I don’t know how she got there, I don’t know what I had done in between the bathroom scene, and the backyard. She was on my lap, I was in heaven, she was saying something to me in my ear, her arms around me. Then I remembered her and Ed coming out of the bathroom, and I pushed her off of me saying, “Fucking bitch!”

And that was about it, the cops broke up the party, I almost got arrested, but got saved by my co-dependent friend of 14. More gossip spread about me. I was a high school villain. She and I spoke no more than ten words after. In passing.

The people I find important, the people who haunt me out of a sense of loss, many of them are girls I knew from high school, the last time I spent day upon day for years with the same small batch of innocents. Some of those girls are passed away now, Kelly Olen died 20 years ago, the girl next door, an overdose. The rest are nearing 50, different people altogether, but somewhere inside, the same. I wish I had had the ability to love more freely back then, and with more confidence and kindness.

Ethan Thatcher (left), Me (right age 15) ready to meet the world the night of Brian Ramirez’ imfamous party.