crazy.
“Ask—your—friend if he wants something to eat or drink.”
“You want something to eat or drink?” I said.
I saw him look at me, then at my mother. “No, I’m good,” he said slowly, seeing something. And standing there, awkward as a teen-aged baboon pretending to be a man, pretending to be tough, pretending, I felt a spasm of gratitude and shame.
“You’re quite sure?” my mother said. “Because it’s no problem. You’ll have to excuse my son’s manners.”
“I’m fine,” he said. He was looking at her, an angle to his voice, almost a smile. “We ate before.”
I think it wasn’t until then I realized how alone I’d been.
I T’S HARD TO CHANGE what you remember. In my head I can hear Falvo trying to talk to us about the Russians going into Czechoslovakia and somebody in the back of the class saying he’d check her slovakia, no problem, and one of the girls moaning “Oooh, baby, check it,” and Falvo kicking the kid out, and all that happening around the same time as Tina. And even though I know it wasn’t like that, that Tina was that April and the Russian invasion of check her slovakia almost four months later, I can’t unstick them. And maybe it doesn’t matter. Everything was crazy then, charged up. The fact that a stupid joke like that could actually get under my skin— Oooh, baby, check it! — that it could make me shift around in my chair to get myself loose, tells you everything you need to know.
That spring, grabbing something in my room on the way to school, I saw Mr. Perillo walk out of his house followed by his daughter, Tina. She was wearing bell-bottoms, a halter, some kind of yellow headband. They were arguing about something.
I liked looking at Tina. She was five years older than me, in college at New Paltz, and in summer I’d watch her lying on a towel in the back yard smearing lotion on her stomach and I’d try to make things happen. I’d try until my legs were shaking but even though it felt good, nothing went anywhere. In fact, nothing had ever gone anywhere—not with Cleopatra, who I’d torn out of the magazine when Ray was in the bathroom, not with anybody. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Still, all those times watching her, trying, felt like some kind of connection between us. Sometimes I even imagined she knew I was there, was helping me out, flipping over on her stomach and letting the straps of her top fall to the towel just for me.
The windows were closed—I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mr. Perillo had the car door open and was about to get in when he turned as if to say something and Tina spun into the car and fell to the driveway. I didn’t understand what had happened. I could see her lying on her side, the headband pulled down over her face. I was about to run outside when I saw Mr. Perillo get in the car and slam the door and pull out of the driveway. She was standing up, holding her face with both hands. By the time I realized he’d hit her in the face with the back of his fist, she was inside the house.
I just stood there. The whole thing—the smallness of the movement, the way she’d slammed into the roof of the car, the way she lay there like a dropped doll, her hair covering her face—it seemed acted, unreal. I’d never really seen what people could do to each other.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I call the cops? Would she want me to? We’d known the Perillos all my life. Mr. Perillo had cleaned our gutters after Aaron died. Mrs. Perillo had always been kind to me. I grabbed my books. I was walking down the steps with the idea of knocking on their door to see if she was OK when she ran out of the house carrying a backpack, threw it in through the open window of her car and got in. I slowed down. I didn’t want to embarrass her. Worse, she might think I was doing it for some other reason, using it somehow, that I was ridiculous, a kid.
It was too late to turn around, or hide behind the bushes. For a
“Ask—your—friend if he wants something to eat or drink.”
“You want something to eat or drink?” I said.
I saw him look at me, then at my mother. “No, I’m good,” he said slowly, seeing something. And standing there, awkward as a teen-aged baboon pretending to be a man, pretending to be tough, pretending, I felt a spasm of gratitude and shame.
“You’re quite sure?” my mother said. “Because it’s no problem. You’ll have to excuse my son’s manners.”
“I’m fine,” he said. He was looking at her, an angle to his voice, almost a smile. “We ate before.”
I think it wasn’t until then I realized how alone I’d been.
I T’S HARD TO CHANGE what you remember. In my head I can hear Falvo trying to talk to us about the Russians going into Czechoslovakia and somebody in the back of the class saying he’d check her slovakia, no problem, and one of the girls moaning “Oooh, baby, check it,” and Falvo kicking the kid out, and all that happening around the same time as Tina. And even though I know it wasn’t like that, that Tina was that April and the Russian invasion of check her slovakia almost four months later, I can’t unstick them. And maybe it doesn’t matter. Everything was crazy then, charged up. The fact that a stupid joke like that could actually get under my skin— Oooh, baby, check it! — that it could make me shift around in my chair to get myself loose, tells you everything you need to know.
That spring, grabbing something in my room on the way to school, I saw Mr. Perillo walk out of his house followed by his daughter, Tina. She was wearing bell-bottoms, a halter, some kind of yellow headband. They were arguing about something.
I liked looking at Tina. She was five years older than me, in college at New Paltz, and in summer I’d watch her lying on a towel in the back yard smearing lotion on her stomach and I’d try to make things happen. I’d try until my legs were shaking but even though it felt good, nothing went anywhere. In fact, nothing had ever gone anywhere—not with Cleopatra, who I’d torn out of the magazine when Ray was in the bathroom, not with anybody. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Still, all those times watching her, trying, felt like some kind of connection between us. Sometimes I even imagined she knew I was there, was helping me out, flipping over on her stomach and letting the straps of her top fall to the towel just for me.
The windows were closed—I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Mr. Perillo had the car door open and was about to get in when he turned as if to say something and Tina spun into the car and fell to the driveway. I didn’t understand what had happened. I could see her lying on her side, the headband pulled down over her face. I was about to run outside when I saw Mr. Perillo get in the car and slam the door and pull out of the driveway. She was standing up, holding her face with both hands. By the time I realized he’d hit her in the face with the back of his fist, she was inside the house.
I just stood there. The whole thing—the smallness of the movement, the way she’d slammed into the roof of the car, the way she lay there like a dropped doll, her hair covering her face—it seemed acted, unreal. I’d never really seen what people could do to each other.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I call the cops? Would she want me to? We’d known the Perillos all my life. Mr. Perillo had cleaned our gutters after Aaron died. Mrs. Perillo had always been kind to me. I grabbed my books. I was walking down the steps with the idea of knocking on their door to see if she was OK when she ran out of the house carrying a backpack, threw it in through the open window of her car and got in. I slowed down. I didn’t want to embarrass her. Worse, she might think I was doing it for some other reason, using it somehow, that I was ridiculous, a kid.
It was too late to turn around, or hide behind the bushes. For a
Similar Books
