About a Girl

Chapter 4: Lots in Common

The second week of December was here, and my friendship with Kurt Cobain was hazy at best. I withdrew from him a bit and sticked with the friends I'd known my whole high school life. It was almost as if they didn't even know I was friends with him, because they never talked about him. But I did sometimes.

"You know, Kurt wants me to sit with him tomorrow," I said one Thursday, after not eating with him for a week.

"What are you even doing, Stef?" asked Cindy. "I mean, I think you like this guy..."

"Pssh, no! I like Kevin Romano. We've been dating a year. Right, Kevin?"

He nodded, self-assured, then pulled me in for a kiss. He was so handsome. I'm sure my girlfriends were all jealous, even the ones that had boyfriends.

The next day, Friday, I did sit with Kurt and his friends. The misfits. And on that day, I decided to take a big step forward.

"Kurt, do you want to come to my house after school?"

He looked down, then back up at me, mesmerizing me with those eyes. "I don't know if Dad will let me. Where do you live?"

"8th Street," I replied. "My car's out in the parking lot. When school ends, I'll meet you there and we'll just drive to my house."

"Yeah, then I can just walk home. Does your mom know?" he asked, as Chris playfully nudged his arm.

"I'll tell her."

As school let out, Kurt met me in front of the silver Chevy I'd gotten for my 17th birthday in October. And I drove the few minutes it took to get to my house, with the quiet 16-year-old boy in the passenger seat.

We entered the house where my mother was watching one of her stupid soap operas. "Hey Mom, this is one of my friends from school," I announced.

I didn't know how Kurt felt in front of my mom, a short yet elegant Chinese woman in a crisp white blouse and black slacks. She'd started working at a corporate office from 8 to 3 right after Dad died. I missed Dad. Rick Westcott, whose family had been in Aberdeen since the Civil War era, a white American who married an immigrant.

"Mike O'Neal?" Mom asked. "Kevin's friend?"

I laughed and shook my head. "His name's Kurt Cobain."

Kurt tried to appear presentable in his torn jeans and Bobcats (our school mascot) sweatshirt. "Hey, Mrs. Westcott."

"You're Stefanie's friend? I've never heard about you..." my mother mused.

"He's in my social studies class. We met in November, and I sit with him at lunch sometimes," I explained.

Mom finally smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Kirk."

"It's Kurt, with a T," my friend corrected, trying to be polite. Sure, he was no Kevin, but I could see that he had a special charm about him.

"Stefanie, you know how I feel about you bringing boys home," Mom mentioned.

"I'm still dating Kevin, geez. Kurt's a friend."

She twisted her mouth into a pout. "Okay, very well, just don't do anything... you know."

We went to my room to leave Mom alone with her TV show. It was a small space, with just a bed, desk, bookcase, and pictures that hung on the purple walls. "This is it," I said.

"Whoa, I've never seen such purple in my life!" he joked. He stopped his facetious mood as he examined the paintings in their neat frames. "Did you paint these?"

"Yeah. Except that one of the fairies. My dad painted that for me when I was a little girl. He died when I was 14. Lung cancer."

"That's sad. My parents are divorced," he told me. "I don't see my mom as often. It's hard."

Wow. We both liked The Beatles and art, and came from broken families. I didn't think I'd ever have anything in common with Kurt Donald Cobain.

He was sorting through the records on my desk. "You collect vinyls? Ooh, Hot Space! And Heroes! Queen and David Bowie are awesome!"

Whoa, we had something else in common!

For about an hour and a half, we stayed in that room, listening to records and getting to know each other.

"You're such a different girl outside of school, you know," he said. His voice was a delicate rasp. "That's not a bad thing. It's cool. Stefanie, there's a lot more to you than what you think."

Hearing Kurt say that made me feel special, even better than acing a test.