Jersey. ‘They call it The Other Switzerland,’ she said. ‘Lots of hills and lakes and stuff. It’s real pretty. Plus, they’ve got cute guys and bars.’
‘You’re under age,’ I said. ‘You couldn’t get in.’
‘Sure I could. One of my cousins makes fake ID’s.’
‘You should be careful.’ I was standing over my opensuitcase. I had packed a couple pairs of jeans and a few shirts and couldn’t think of what else I’d need.
‘Don’t you know how to have fun?’ she said. ‘You better bring a dress or something in case they take you out. I mean really.’
‘I don’t want to go out with them.’
‘You’ll regret it. I love eating in restaurants.’ She rushed to the closet and got her high heels.
‘Remind me to take my hairbrush and toothbrush,’ I said.
‘I hope Patrick’s bringing some rubbers. I mean, he’s coming home with you, right? Coming.’ She grinned.
‘You know Patrick and I don’t do that.’
‘Maybe you should, is all I’m saying.’ She fished her black negligee out of her rainboot in the closet. ‘You never know,’ she said, tossing it at me in a silky flutter. I tossed it back.
But somehow, I would discover, she managed to slip it into my bag. I didn’t take the negligee, as Silvera would later claim. I didn’t plan any of it. It just happened, step by step, innocently, like most anti-events that twisted minds distort into scandal. Nothing happened over Thanksgiving vacation. We met Dad’s girlfriend, ate the usual turkey, and — okay — I slipped into the first sex-skin of my life, and it was black, and it was Gwen’s negligee. But that was all; it was nobody’s business what happened between Patrick and me. We loved each other. What we did or didn’t do together was private, or should have been.
Dad leaned against the wall opposite our gate at the bus terminal, waiting. Even after he spotted me, he just stood there and watched us. He smiled. I stared at him. He was wearing jeans and a translucent yellow Indian shirt over a black turtleneck. His hair was long. He looked silly, like an old man trying to be young. I liked him much better in his suit and tie.
‘You must be Patrick,’ he said.
Patrick thrust his hand nervously into Dad’s, and they shook. ‘Nice to meet you, Sir.’
Dad liked that. Sir.
‘His name’s Max,’ I said.
Patrick glanced at me, then said to Dad, ‘I really appreciate the invitation.’
‘We’re glad to have you.’
There he went with the we. The sound of it squeezed my stomach; I felt sick just thinking about it. We. Her.
‘Well,’ Dad said. ‘Shall we?’
Patrick nodded and looked at me.
I said, ‘Shall we what?’
‘Go home,’ Dad said.
‘Home? Oh, right.’
Patrick shot me an oh Kate look, a look that said can it, willya, and give the guy a chance.
‘Yeah, okay.’ I sighed. And Patrick shook his head at me. But Dad only smiled.
Dad was even more scared than I was! He was no dope; he knew what he’d done to our family. It must have embarrassed him to do such a stereotypical thing as to run off with a younger woman. Not that he ran very far: they were living in the city, in an old Upper West Side apartment. He was trying to differentiate himself, to jazz it all up with Indian clothes and long hair, to turn it into some kind of romantic adventure. He had his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and I knew Dad was really confused. He was trying too hard. He couldn’t afford not to like Patrick, and that was to be our barter system: the more points he scored by me — giving me things, liking my friends, allowing me freedoms — the more tolerance I owed him. Already, with Patrick, he was setting me up with a debt of generosity, trying to earn my acceptance of her.
Her name was Lisa. Their apartment had one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room which led into a kind of turret that housed her piano. The turret was lined with small windows of old thick glass through which twilight poured magnificently.
‘You’re under age,’ I said. ‘You couldn’t get in.’
‘Sure I could. One of my cousins makes fake ID’s.’
‘You should be careful.’ I was standing over my opensuitcase. I had packed a couple pairs of jeans and a few shirts and couldn’t think of what else I’d need.
‘Don’t you know how to have fun?’ she said. ‘You better bring a dress or something in case they take you out. I mean really.’
‘I don’t want to go out with them.’
‘You’ll regret it. I love eating in restaurants.’ She rushed to the closet and got her high heels.
‘Remind me to take my hairbrush and toothbrush,’ I said.
‘I hope Patrick’s bringing some rubbers. I mean, he’s coming home with you, right? Coming.’ She grinned.
‘You know Patrick and I don’t do that.’
‘Maybe you should, is all I’m saying.’ She fished her black negligee out of her rainboot in the closet. ‘You never know,’ she said, tossing it at me in a silky flutter. I tossed it back.
But somehow, I would discover, she managed to slip it into my bag. I didn’t take the negligee, as Silvera would later claim. I didn’t plan any of it. It just happened, step by step, innocently, like most anti-events that twisted minds distort into scandal. Nothing happened over Thanksgiving vacation. We met Dad’s girlfriend, ate the usual turkey, and — okay — I slipped into the first sex-skin of my life, and it was black, and it was Gwen’s negligee. But that was all; it was nobody’s business what happened between Patrick and me. We loved each other. What we did or didn’t do together was private, or should have been.
Dad leaned against the wall opposite our gate at the bus terminal, waiting. Even after he spotted me, he just stood there and watched us. He smiled. I stared at him. He was wearing jeans and a translucent yellow Indian shirt over a black turtleneck. His hair was long. He looked silly, like an old man trying to be young. I liked him much better in his suit and tie.
‘You must be Patrick,’ he said.
Patrick thrust his hand nervously into Dad’s, and they shook. ‘Nice to meet you, Sir.’
Dad liked that. Sir.
‘His name’s Max,’ I said.
Patrick glanced at me, then said to Dad, ‘I really appreciate the invitation.’
‘We’re glad to have you.’
There he went with the we. The sound of it squeezed my stomach; I felt sick just thinking about it. We. Her.
‘Well,’ Dad said. ‘Shall we?’
Patrick nodded and looked at me.
I said, ‘Shall we what?’
‘Go home,’ Dad said.
‘Home? Oh, right.’
Patrick shot me an oh Kate look, a look that said can it, willya, and give the guy a chance.
‘Yeah, okay.’ I sighed. And Patrick shook his head at me. But Dad only smiled.
Dad was even more scared than I was! He was no dope; he knew what he’d done to our family. It must have embarrassed him to do such a stereotypical thing as to run off with a younger woman. Not that he ran very far: they were living in the city, in an old Upper West Side apartment. He was trying to differentiate himself, to jazz it all up with Indian clothes and long hair, to turn it into some kind of romantic adventure. He had his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and I knew Dad was really confused. He was trying too hard. He couldn’t afford not to like Patrick, and that was to be our barter system: the more points he scored by me — giving me things, liking my friends, allowing me freedoms — the more tolerance I owed him. Already, with Patrick, he was setting me up with a debt of generosity, trying to earn my acceptance of her.
Her name was Lisa. Their apartment had one bedroom, a kitchen and a living room which led into a kind of turret that housed her piano. The turret was lined with small windows of old thick glass through which twilight poured magnificently.
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