My students were watching Hamlet not long ago when the scene turned, what they would call, “cringy.” Hamlet was berating his mother and at one point, threw her on the bed and shook her, yelling in her face. In an instant, students covered their eyes, two bolted from the room and there was a flurry of giggles and gasps filling the air. I should have stepped in. I should have given the disappointed glare — but honestly I found it adorable.

Granted, the kids were given a primer on the play and this particular production of the Shakespeare classic. They knew Hamlet and Queen Gertrude were relatively close in age and that the scene would have some sexual undercurrent in it. Still, for all the adolescent bluster — all the false bravado in the hallways and posturing in the schoolyard, these were just innocent kids scattering like birds at the sight of something grown up. It was a priceless moment and one of many to follow as they read lines from certain scenes later on, through red faces and laughter.

I thought of my younger self and wondered at what age it all went away. Where’s the turning point from child to young adult? Certainly, by the time I was in high school, I was beyond the blushing and instinctual clamping shut of the eyes to shield myself from adult concepts. Wasn’t I? If so, when was that line crossed? When do we step outside our child selves and begin to slog down the long, lonely road of acquisition and drudgery?

I think back to my prom. The theme was An Evening in Emerald City and the gym was decked out like Oz. The band was a local group who actually had a hit on the radio with a tune called “I Love a Girl but She Loves Buddha.”

My date for the big day was the little sister of my friend, Jim. April was a freshman that year, so it was kind of a big deal to go to a senior prom. Each of Jim’s three little sisters were extensions of our group of friends. I referred to his parents as Mamma and Pappa Logan and was welcomed into the house just as often when Jim wasn’t at home as when he was.

Even though we were just going as friends, that didn’t stop Mamma and Pappa Logan from doting over every detail. April, though still looking very much like the little kid I saw every day in the hallway, shone with the presence of the young woman she would soon be. Her parents moved us around, taking pictures of us together, April by herself and a nervous me pinning a corsage on the chest of my good friend’s little sister.

For dinner, we ate at the Stowe House, which was really one of the only upscale eateries in town at the time. I had heard some kids secured rooms at The Atrium in Cook’s Corner, providing for dinner and a safe house for after-prom debauchery.

Before venturing to the Emerald City, April wanted to just drive around a while. Back then, I was driving a fully restored 1953 Chevy with all the chrome, bells and whistles, so I had no trouble putting in some miles up and down Maine Street.

Occasionally, I wold glance over at April, catching her face in the passing lights from the street. She beamed radiantly, occasionally catching my glance with a broad smile. As we turned and headed back toward the school, she threw her arms around my neck at the Pleasant Street light and kissed my cheek. She thanked me for taking her to the prom but I was still feeling her arms around me. It was a perfect moment — it was innocent, it was sweet, and even then there was the sense it was something I would never feel again.

I had had serious girlfriends already by then (at least serious by high school standards). Virginity had fallen by the wayside long by then and I was already promised on paper to the Navy and scheduled to depart in weeks. I was, if only in my mind, an adult and “it” was gone — lost somewhere between freshman and senior year.

It was that moment, that perfect moment, when I became aware something was amiss. April was still capable of giggling at “grown up” things. She could find herself aghast by a kissing scene in a movie or Hamlet railing against his mother’s marriage to his uncle. It was that moment where I realized I had changed.

I don’t want that for my students. I know it’s irrational and even a little cruel to not want them to become grownups — to lose what innocence they still carry, but it’s true. It seems once we’ve crossed that line, our laughter loses a certain pitch. Our eyes aren’t as wide and we become a little more prone to cynicism. In short, I want them to hold onto their “it” as long as they can.

Douglas McIntire is a writer and educator in the Midcoast. He was recently kicked out of the Stowe House. Apparently he’s no longer welcome to dine on a medium rare sirloin in that particular establishment anymore. He can be reached at [email protected].