Authors: Tom Winton
A few moments later, she and the chaperones turned toward me. The toy nun looked my way too. I noticed the girl's forehead was a bit crinkled, as if she was perturbed at something. Forcing what felt like some goofy innocent expression onto my face, I wondered
what the hell is going on here now?
Then my jury turned back around to resume their deliberation. But before the girl turned away she snuck me a quick wink and an assuring smile.
A moment later they finally broke their huddle, and all four heads bobbed in agreement. A few more words were spoken, then the mystery girl strode over to me. She said, "Come on. We're going home."
Side by side in Saint Agnes’ hallway, both of us stepping quickly, our eyes connected once again. It was then that we shared our first smile.
Who is this dream girl?
I wondered. Why did she come to my rescue?
Have I met her before?
Nahhh, I would have definitely remembered.
Without breaking stride, I peeked over my shoulder, back toward the office, making sure no one was in sight or hearing range. Then I looked at her again and asked quizzically, "Do I know you?" My beer buzz not yet totally worn off, my words came out louder than I'd intended and ricocheted off the narrow hallway walls.
"Shhh … " my new friend said, " … wait till we get outside."
Even her voice was intriguing, a bit deeper than I'd expected...
"But, I've got to tell my friends I'm … "
"No … you can't," she whispered forcefully. "Those men see you back inside there, it'll be all over. They told me to take you directly out of the building. We'll get our coats, then we have to leave."
Oh well, I figured, no big thing. Plenty of times before, me and the guys had split up when we met girls. Times when we took them home, or took whatever they'd give us in apartment building basements or on their rooftops.
It seemed very strange, but as we descended the steps outside the school, thoughts of making sexual advances didn't even enter my mind. Usually by now I'd be conjuring where to take a girl, but with this one it was different. Somehow it felt special just to be with her. I was not only flattered by what she had just done for me and intrigued by her beauty, but also dumbfounded by how unpretentious she was.
We took a stroll beneath a starry sky, she sensibly dressed in a knee-length, quilted coat, me under-dressed in my lightweight varsity jacket. A log burning in a nearby fireplace filled the night air with a pleasant richness, but it was getting colder by the minute, and I shivered as I dug a chilled hand into my pocket for my Kools.
"Want one?" I asked, holding out the pack.
"No thanks. I have my own."
From her purse she extracted a Marlboro, the hitter's cigarette of choice. But this small cultural difference didn't bother me either. Somehow it made her even more appealing, sort of like being with the enemy's woman during wartime. With my brushed-metal Zippo, I lit her smoke first. I did this the conventional way, not the cool way I always did when with the guys, jerking it back and forth across my thigh in two, quick, well-practised motions, one to open the hood, the other to activate the flint wheel.
"How'd you do it?" I asked, holding the windblown blue flame to the end of her cigarette. "How'd you get me outta there?"
"Easy. I just told Sister Carmella that you were my brother."
So that was what she had mimed to me from the hallway, not system, or assistant, but sister.
"I also told her that I saw that other boy start the fight … which I did." Then she smiled, a small bashful smile that warmed my heart when she admitted, "I was watching you dance."
I drew on my cigarette meditatively then exhaled. Mixing words with smoke, I said, "Thanks a lot, but why'd you do it? You don't even know me."
"I do now!" she said, looking at me with those eyes, her lips evolving into a most captivating smile. "I thought you were cute!"
That's what I'd suspected, hoped anyway. Now she'd admitted it. Hearing it come from that lovely mouth made the moment seem like a wonderful dream.
Our eyes still embraced in the darkness, I smiled back at her shyly. Totally disarmed by her beauty, I was forced to admit to myself something I'd never dare tell anyone else, that no way could such a perfect creature possibly be interested in me. In just - what, ten, fifteen minutes? - this living, breathing doll had stripped away every ounce of all that thin bravado I was so used to flaunting. Of all the girls I'd met in my young life, this was the only one who seemed too good for me. I didn't much like the feeling, yet still, I ached with desperate desire. With no mask to hide behind now, I could only resort to acting like my true self. And it's a lucky thing I did, because whether I realized it or not at the time, frankness and honesty form the very foundation of all true romances.
"By the way, my name's Dean … Dean Cassidy. What's yours?"
"Theresa Wayman," she said. Then she paused for a couple of strides, her eyes searching deep inside my soul's blue windows.
I knew she liked what she saw when she said, "I'm glad I met you tonight, Dean Cassidy."
Suddenly, I no longer felt cold. I actually felt warm inside. The warmth of her words had gone straight to my heart and pumped throughout my body.
Though Theresa lived just a few blocks from Saint Agnes, she and I walked all over College Point that night. We strolled up and down quiet side streets where unbroken chains of parked cars buffered sidewalks alongside interminable rows of two-family homes. We spoke easily about the things that newly-acquainted teenagers do: school, music, movies, likes and pet peeves, favorite aftershaves and perfumes. We inventoried our friends to find out if any were mutual. A few were. We talked about our families, but only briefly. I said nothing of my mother's mental problems or my father's vile temper. All she said about her family was that she and her mother lived alone. Since she didn't volunteer any information about her father, I didn't push the issue.
As I said before, I wasn’t about to try any funny stuff. No way was I going to jeopardize her apparent fondness for me. As a matter of fact, she made the first show of affection.
She put her arm around my waist. It happened on Broadway when we were oohing and ahhing in front of an unlit jewelry shop window. Well, really, I was sneaking glances at her reflection in the plate glass more than I was surveying the trove of gold and silver behind it. We had been walking for some time now and it had gone from chilly to downright cold. If I hadn't been broke, I would have taken her to the all-night diner and warmed us both up with coffee. But all I had in my pockets besides my Zippo, and maybe some lint, was twenty cents for bus fare home. I strained to hide my shivers the best I could. But Theresa was sharp. She quickly picked up on the tremor in my hand when I pointed to a real spiffy, Florentine-finished ID bracelet behind the glass.
It was then that I felt her arm slide around the small of my back. Nothing pretentious about the gesture, just a heartfelt, benevolent reflex meant to help warm me up. Talk about being in heaven! This was it. Looking down at her, directly into those dark exotic eyes, I lowered my shivering hand and laid it gently around her slender waist. For a second or two we held this pose, then, slowly, allowing her ample time to pull away, I leaned to kiss her.
She let me. It was nothing passionate, just a meeting of young lips, pressing gently, yet eagerly. Right then both our lives took on a whole new meaning. Instantly, my old world transformed into a totally different place. A wonderful alien place, saturated with new hope.
It was nearing 1 a.m. when we finally arrived outside Theresa’s house. She pointed across the dark, deserted street, to a two-story house that was exactly the same as all the rest on the block. "That's where I live,” she said, “on the first floor." The happy glow that had been in her voice and on her face all night disappeared, replaced now by concern and disappointment. She focused intently on the front window. A pale light was on inside, and there was music playing, sad music, depressing bluesy stuff that kids our age definitely were not into.
Still arm-in-arm as we stepped between two parked cars to cross the narrow street, I looked at her again and asked, "What's the matter, something wrong?"
"Ohhh, nooo … nothing." She managed a melancholic smile. "It's just that I … I can't ask you inside, and I feel bad about it." Then we stepped onto the sidewalk and she turned to face me. "I'm sorry," she said. "I wanted to invite you in, let you get warm, make you a cheeseburger or something."
Seeing the disappointment intensify on her face, I put my hands on her trim waist. Not having a clue as to what was troubling her, I said, "It's OK, I understand." Then I forced a smile, "Can I call you?"
"Of course! You better!" she said, as she hurriedly fumbled through her purse for something to write with.
In the time it took her to dig out a pen and a matchbook, she had twice glanced at her front window.
"Please call me, Dean."
"Tomorrow, I promise."
Rising to her toes, she slipped her hand on the back of my neck and kissed me once again. God, she knew how to kiss! She eased her tongue inside my mouth, slowly sweeping it over my teeth and gums, exploring for a moment before bringing it to meet mine. Holding her in my arms, I felt through her coat the swell of her breasts as they pressed against my chest. I wasn't shaking any more. Our tongues now sliding against each others, I cheated a little. I opened my eyes, just a bit, to see if she was into this as much as I was.
What I saw was upsetting. A single tear had spilled from where her eyelashes met. I pulled away, gently.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Is this something I can help with?"
She bit her lower lip then said, "No. It's nothing major … I'll explain another time."
She sniffled, then smiled for my benefit and said, "I won't go anywhere tomorrow. I'll wait for your call … Dean Cassidy." Then she kissed my cheek, turned quickly, and went into her house.
I can no longer bring the feeling back, but I still remember how ecstatic I was waiting for the bus outside Bogart's Bar on Broadway that special night so many years ago. Looking up at the night-time city sky, I saw new stars, brighter stars, more stars than ever before. I even recall the misty stream rising from my mouth as I muttered to the heavens, "God, please, let there be many more nights that I'll wait on this bus stop."
Chapter 2
As usual, when the city sun rose Sunday morning, it was obscured from our first floor apartment. Secondhand rays delivered light to our bedroom but there were no visible horizons anywhere outside it. We never saw the sun down there until late morning, when it finally rose above the surrounding rooftops.
Shortly after it had risen somewhere out in the burbs, the sun's indirect light managed to penetrate the urban grime coating the outside of our bedroom window, waking me up in the process. As the backs of my eyelids went from black to red, my first thoughts of the new day were of Theresa Wayman and the night before.
Squinting across the room, seeing my parents' bed empty and rumpled, I sighed in relief.
Yes, I was sharing a bedroom with my parents. Here I was, crowding my eighteenth year, a starter on Flushing High’s basketball team, had my own part-time job and all, and I had to sleep in the same room as my parents. All because my father was too damn cheap to spring for a place with two bedrooms.
Thank God!
I thought.
Privacy!
Well, almost. As usual, the door was wide open. It had been that way for a long, long time. I must have been about eight when its hinges pulled from the wooden jamb, and it had laid to rest against the wall ever since.