people stare, and a Hassidic mother frowns and hustles her children to the other end of the car, but I don’t care. We get off the train and buy iced coffees and peroshki at a Russian deli and then walk barefoot across the hot sand to the water’s edge. It’s a weekday, but the beach is still crowded, with so many colorful children and toys andtowels and sun umbrellas that I imagine we look like a spill of beautiful jewels from above.
It’s windy and hot and loud and feels like we’re all teetering at the edge of the planet. Nat cartwheels along the beach and then does a series of backflips, supposedly for a pack of shirtless little boys who don’t speak English at all, although I’m more impressed than anyone, I’m sure. The boys cheer her on, in Russian, I think, and then follow us along the board-walk to the freak show. Nat gives them each a quarter, and they run off toward the arcade.
“Want to go in?”
“I’m not old enough.”
Nat winks. “I can hook us up.”
She knows the girl who swallows swords, so I soon find myself in a dim little theater with wooden bleachers and a sad, rickety stage. The lights go down. Nat kisses me and takes my hand.
“I’ve never brought a girl to the freak show before,” she whispers.
“So what should I think?”
She kisses me again as the curtain rises. “You’re pretty special, that’s what I think.”
We watch her friend swallow swords. There are flame eaters and knife throwers and a man who hangs weights from fresh piercings, and another man who can contort himself through a tennis racket with the strings removed, and a woman who lies on a bed of nails with the sword swallower standing on her belly. Life is like that, really—a stunning, painful stunt, yet magically endurable.
When we emerge into the hot, blue daylight, we make our way to the train and go home, tired and sunburnt and blissed out on each other.
Later, Nat comes with me to Joy’s because my parents are supposed to call. Joy isn’t home, although she’d promised Bruce would make us his famous spaghetti that I’ve heard so much about and never actually had. I told her about Nat, and she told me it was a phase that she’d gone through too—but she says that about everything, so who knows, really? I bet the only comment Joy will make when she meets Nat is about her dreads. Joy hates dreadlocks on white people.
Joy’s cell phone is sitting on the tablebeside a twenty-dollar bill and a note. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her separated from her phone, but judging by the note, which suggests I order pizza with the twenty, I’d say she’s feeling a little guilty about the prank she pulled on me. We order pizza and then wait for the call.
“What are you going to tell them?” Nat says. We’re spooned on the chaise lounge in the dark, the sound of the summer evening street slipping in the open window.
“I don’t know.” And I don’t, right up until the phone actually rings. I’ve been so looking forward to talking to my parents, but I’m suddenly terrified of the little silver thing, shimmying its way across the table as it plays some brain-dead club-track ring tone.
I answer it. “Mom?”
“What, you think your old man can’t work a satellite phone?”
“Daddy!” “Daddy?” The connection crackles and pops. “Is something the matter?”
“No, no, no. Everything’s fine.” And it is, I suddenly realize. It really, truly, honestly is.
“Everything is great! I met someone really spectacular.”
“Oh? Let me tell your mother.” I hear them talk, muffled, and then he’s back. “Your mother has her ear mashed up to the phone.”
“Hi, honey!” she says, her voice a little tiny scratch in the static. “We love you!”
Dad’s voice is much clearer. “What am I thinking right now?” he asks.
“Okay, wait.” I close my eyes and put my fingers to my temples. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“I’m sending it to you,” Dad says.
And I get the clearest picture of
It’s windy and hot and loud and feels like we’re all teetering at the edge of the planet. Nat cartwheels along the beach and then does a series of backflips, supposedly for a pack of shirtless little boys who don’t speak English at all, although I’m more impressed than anyone, I’m sure. The boys cheer her on, in Russian, I think, and then follow us along the board-walk to the freak show. Nat gives them each a quarter, and they run off toward the arcade.
“Want to go in?”
“I’m not old enough.”
Nat winks. “I can hook us up.”
She knows the girl who swallows swords, so I soon find myself in a dim little theater with wooden bleachers and a sad, rickety stage. The lights go down. Nat kisses me and takes my hand.
“I’ve never brought a girl to the freak show before,” she whispers.
“So what should I think?”
She kisses me again as the curtain rises. “You’re pretty special, that’s what I think.”
We watch her friend swallow swords. There are flame eaters and knife throwers and a man who hangs weights from fresh piercings, and another man who can contort himself through a tennis racket with the strings removed, and a woman who lies on a bed of nails with the sword swallower standing on her belly. Life is like that, really—a stunning, painful stunt, yet magically endurable.
When we emerge into the hot, blue daylight, we make our way to the train and go home, tired and sunburnt and blissed out on each other.
Later, Nat comes with me to Joy’s because my parents are supposed to call. Joy isn’t home, although she’d promised Bruce would make us his famous spaghetti that I’ve heard so much about and never actually had. I told her about Nat, and she told me it was a phase that she’d gone through too—but she says that about everything, so who knows, really? I bet the only comment Joy will make when she meets Nat is about her dreads. Joy hates dreadlocks on white people.
Joy’s cell phone is sitting on the tablebeside a twenty-dollar bill and a note. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her separated from her phone, but judging by the note, which suggests I order pizza with the twenty, I’d say she’s feeling a little guilty about the prank she pulled on me. We order pizza and then wait for the call.
“What are you going to tell them?” Nat says. We’re spooned on the chaise lounge in the dark, the sound of the summer evening street slipping in the open window.
“I don’t know.” And I don’t, right up until the phone actually rings. I’ve been so looking forward to talking to my parents, but I’m suddenly terrified of the little silver thing, shimmying its way across the table as it plays some brain-dead club-track ring tone.
I answer it. “Mom?”
“What, you think your old man can’t work a satellite phone?”
“Daddy!” “Daddy?” The connection crackles and pops. “Is something the matter?”
“No, no, no. Everything’s fine.” And it is, I suddenly realize. It really, truly, honestly is.
“Everything is great! I met someone really spectacular.”
“Oh? Let me tell your mother.” I hear them talk, muffled, and then he’s back. “Your mother has her ear mashed up to the phone.”
“Hi, honey!” she says, her voice a little tiny scratch in the static. “We love you!”
Dad’s voice is much clearer. “What am I thinking right now?” he asks.
“Okay, wait.” I close my eyes and put my fingers to my temples. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“I’m sending it to you,” Dad says.
And I get the clearest picture of
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