THE YEARS OF THE GRAPE/Judy Young I always watched boys watch girls. I guess I always had to. Girls (who have boys watch them) never have to watch boys watch girls, if you know what I mean. You see, my parents taught me to read and write before I started school, (bet you're thinking what the hell does this have to do with anything,) anyway, I was absolutely bored with kindergarten and first grade, when I was five, and since my parents couldn't pay for private school, I was put in the second grade of public school, practically right off. Intellectually the whole thing was a breeze, but physically it was the...well, I'd better not say it. Other girls always wanted me to play the baby when we played house, and even then the stupid girls had begun to talk like their mothers, you know, about recipes for mud-pies and their darling dollchildren. I was bored with the girls, so if I played with anyone, I played with the boys. I was pretty damn speedy and was so little that I got to carry the ball everytime in football. The boys liked me well enough, I guess, they always came and got me whenever they wanted to see Christine down the street. They were always a little afraid of Christine's dad, and if I came with them, then Christine could come out and play. I always watched the boys watch Christine. They thought she was pretty cute; you could tell by the things they wrote about her on the sidewalk, and the way they kidded each other about liking her. She was pretty cute: she had dark curly hair; my hair was dirty blonde and straight. She wore lace even on her play clothes. I wore levis. She giggled at everything, and I remember how the boys looked at each other and smiled. I always horse-laughed. By the time sixth grade came around, it was bad news. Some of the girls were already shaving their legs, wearing lipstick, and worst of all, wearing brassieres. I didn't even look as mature as the fourth graders, who were, after all, my age. I got better grades than any of the sixth graders, though. I was pretty damn smart. So why couldn't I figure the whole thing out when all of the sixth grade girls but me got to go in and see a film during recess? I remember asking the boys what the bit was, and they really laughed. They went to the ball park to talk about it and wouldn't let me listen. I went back to class and wrote a poem. When I think about it, it was pretty damn perceptive of me. After that everything was different. From then on, Miss Nispull, our teacher, let some of girls stay in and play jacks during recess. She always made me go out and get fresh air and exercise so I could "grow". I went out and watched the boys play with the girls that did come out. Usually the boys were rough and pulled the girls' hair. That was pretty funny. But the schizophrenic idiots would sometimes kiss the girls. I could have thrown up, but just the same, I watched. Gad, it seemed pretty damn stupid. I was a late bloomer. I wore an undershirt all through junior high. I was in the eighth grade before I knew what that film was about back in the sixth grade, and it was the last of my junior year in high school before I really knew. All through high school I was the epitome of the girl genius. "Girl" genius, hell! I was just the epitome of a neuter genius. Boys treated me like their little buddy, and I kept scouting for a boyfriend that would be some kind of a lover or something. Yeah, I (continued on next page) 31