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Linda Lieban was an artist, a free spirit, a bohemian who played the flute in the park, drew pictures of winged horses and naked nymphs, and signed these drawings with the blood from her own pricked finger. She was someone, we all knew, who was destined to go to New York, dance on tabletops, pose naked for struggling artists, and rally the masses to riot.

One day, for some reason, she smiled at me in art class. After I passed her a note asking her why, she passed me a note saying that I knew why, and I passed her a note saying that I really didn’t, and she passed me a note telling me to guess, and I passed her a note asking if she liked me, and she passed me a note with a heart on it that said “Yes!”

So Linda Lieban, one of the prettiest girls in the seventh grade, liked me. I was immensely proud of my conquest, though I had no intention of doing anything about it, partly because she frightened me and partly because, in those days, it was my ambition to collect as many female hearts as possible without committing my own heart to any particular one.

Unfortunately, during recess Greg Ransohoff mentioned that he had a crush on Linda, and I mentioned that I could go steady with her anytime I wanted.

“Oh sure,” he said.

“Wanna bet?” I said.

“How much?”

“A dollar.”

“Okay,” he said, “there’s Linda. Go and ask her.”

So I walked over to Linda and asked her to go steady with me. She said yes, of course, but before she could kiss me or embrace me or hold my hand, I walked back to Greg Ransohoff and said, “She said yes. Give me a dollar.”

So now I was going steady with Linda Lieban, which meant that I would have to call her every night, gaze at her during class, stop flirting with other girls, write romantic letters signed with a heart, carry her books, defend her if necessary, and generally stop being myself. Also, Linda was a girl who, though lovely, was looking for someone to love much as a boa constrictor looks for a small pig or owl to swallow.

That night I called her and did my best to sound as docile and love-struck as possible. This I accomplished by lowering my voice an octave and whispering as though I had laryngitis. A half hour into our conversation she asked me if I loved her, and I said, “Of course,” and she said, “How much?” and I said, “A lot,” and she said, “I love you more,” and I said, “No, you don’t,” and she said, “Yes, I do,” and I said, “No, you don’t,” and she giggled and I giggled and she hung up and I felt a little queasy.

The next morning during recess she walked over to me coyly with her hands behind her back, kissed me, said, “Hi, lover,” and handed me a small white stuffed unicorn with silver glitter on its horn, its tail, its mane, and its hooves. She handed it to me as though it were a baseball signed by Willie Mays, and I took it as though it were a poison apple.

“Do you know what it means?” she asked.

“No,” I said, which was the first honest thing I had said to her since I asked her to go steady.

“It means I love you.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to look grateful and moved. Then the bell ending recess rang and she kissed me and we walked together arm in arm toward our next class.

During math class she handed me a note covered with red hearts and when I looked at her she blew me a kiss and I managed to smile and kiss the air and Mrs. Fine said, “William, if you are going to carry on with your girlfriend, you can do it in the vice-principal’s office.”

Naturally, we talked on the phone that night:

“Hi, lover,” she said.

“Hi,” I said in my breathy baritone.

“Do you miss me?”

“Yes.”

“Come over.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

“It’s nine o’clock at night, Linda.”

“So? Sneak out.”

“I can’t sneak out.”

“Sneak out now and throw a pebble at my window.”

I laughed nervously.

“Then I’ll sneak out and throw a pebble at your window,” she said.

Here was the Linda I had feared. Here was the bohemian, free-spirited Linda who would come to my house, throw a pebble at my window, alarm my parents, and ruin my life.

“No, no,” I said. “Let’s just go to sleep instead and think about each other.”

“I’m thinking about you now!”

“It’s different when you’re in bed. Pretend we’re lying under the stars together.”

“In Oregon?”

“Okay, Oregon.”

“I love you, lover,” she said.

“I love you, too,” I said.

“Not as much as I love you.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

Then she giggled and I giggled and she hung up and I felt queasy again.

Things proceeded in roughly this fashion for four days. By the end of the fourth day I knew I had to break up with her. I was tired of cooing, kissing the air, and carrying her books. I was tired of looking lovestruck and docile and content. Also, I knew that one night she really would throw a pebble at my window, and if I pretended to be asleep, she would throw a rock, and Sam, our dog, would bark, and my parents would wake up, and all hell would break loose.

On Friday she asked me if I was going to Chris Block’s party Saturday night.

“I didn’t even know he was having a party,” I said.

“He sent our invitation to my house.”

“Our invitation?”

“Uh-huh.”

That night I decided I would break up with her at Chris Block’s party. “Linda,” I said to the mirror, “it’s not working. We’re two different people looking for two different things.

“Linda,” I said, “sometimes two people, even if they love each other, can’t be together.

“Linda,” I said, “let’s break up . . . I think it’s time to break up . . . let’s do ourselves a favor and break up.”

And no matter what I said, my imaginary Linda smiled, told me she understood, and walked cheerfully out of my life.

The night of the party I felt happier than I had felt for a week. I decided that I would not waste any time. As soon as I got to the party, I would pull Linda aside, explain the situation as tenderly as I could, kiss her on the cheek, and enjoy my freedom.

Unfortunately, it didn’t quite work out that way because as soon as I got to the party, Linda ran over to me, picked a piece of lint off my jacket, told me I looked delicious and that she had missed me all day. As I started to say, “Linda, sometimes two people, even if they—” she said, “Come on,” led me into Chris Block’s living room where everyone was dancing, and said, “Let’s dance.”

So we danced. To be absolutely honest, she felt very good in my arms, and for one brief moment I was actually happy that she was mine. When the song ended, however, I remembered that I had to reclaim my freedom and said, “Linda, I have to talk to you.” With that, I led her out to the backyard, past a row of rosebushes, to the swimming pool. I sat her down on the diving board, took a deep breath, and looked at her.

“Linda,” I began. “Lover . . .” She smiled. “I . . . I have something to say. ”

She looked earnestly into my eyes.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too. Is that what you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s all. Let’s go back to the party.”

“Did you buy the ring?”

I had promised to buy her a ring.

“I ordered it,” I said. “Yes.”

“What kind of ring?”

“Gold,” I said.

Linda smiled, stood up, and kissed me. Then we went back to the party. Ten minutes later, after one slow dance, a glass of punch, and endless cooing and pet name calling, I asked her to come outside with me again. I was determined to succeed this time, determined to sit her down, speak my piece, and regain my freedom. So I took her by the hand, walked her back to the diving board, sat her down, and after a few false starts, told her I loved her again and walked her back to the party.

This, I knew, could not. go on. A real man, I knew, could look a girl in the eye, speak his piece, and walk away. A real man was nobody’s puppet, nobody’s property. I simply had to take her outside again, sit her down, and get it over with.

So I walked over to her, looked her in the eye, and said, “I have to talk to you.”

“Again?”

“It’s about the ring,” I said.

So once again we walked out to the backyard, past the rosebushes to the diving board.

“Linda,” I said, “how do you feel?”

“Fine,” she said.

“Happy?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you sort of feel like something isn’t right—like maybe you could be happier, or I could be happier?”

Here her face changed. I was about to tell her that I loved her again and take her back to the party, but I knew that this was my last chance to prove to myself that I had character and backbone.

“No,” she said. “Do you?”

“I think so,” I said. And then, because that sounded too spineless and weak-willed, I added, “Yes. Yes, I do. I want to break up.”

I had prepared myself for at least a dozen questions, but she did not say a word. She just looked at me. Then her eyes filled with tears and she ran back to the party.

I would like to say that I ran after her, but I didn’t. I would like to say that I held her in my arms and comforted her until she stopped crying, but I didn’t do that either. I would like to say that we parted that night with a warm and enduring understanding of each other, and that we remain good friends to this day, but we didn’t and we aren’t.

What I did do was watch her run into the house. Then I smiled. I smiled because I had stood my ground—because I had had the strength and character to look a girl in the eye and break up with her. So proud was I of my achievement, so sure was I of my irresistible attraction to women, that ten minutes later I went back to the party, found Eileen Weitzman, and asked her to go steady.