Brooklyn Story by Suzanne Corso Page A

Janice’s cannoli. “I better not,” I said as I looked at Janice and tilted my head to the side and back quickly.
    Janice turned to Richie. “I gotta walk Sam home,” she said.
    â€œOkay,” Richie said, “I’ll call you later.”
    Janice and I disappeared into the crowd and headed for my street. “So, was I right, or was I right?” she asked.
    â€œHe was pretty cool,” I said.
    â€œâ€˜Pretty cool’? Is that all you have to say?”
    â€œHe gave me his number and asked me to call him in the morning.”
    â€œI knew it!” Janice said. “Now we can be a foursome.”
    â€œNot so fast,” I said. “I haven’t decided for sure to call him yet. He’s pretty pushy.”
    â€œThey’re all pushy,” Janice said. “Trust me on that one. And trust me, you’ll be calling him. There’s no way you’ll ever find a hotter guy than Tony Kroon. Everybody wants him and you got under his skin. I saw it. But he won’t wait around. He don’t need to.”
    Janice was right. I
had
gotten under his skin. And he had gotten under mine.

Sleep eluded me the night I kissed Tony Kroon.
    If I’d had my own room, I would have turned on the light and written in my journal about the feelings that were coursing through my virginal body, but I didn’t want to wake my grandmother. She would soon be seventy-five and insomnia plagued her; I often heard her rustling the sheets during the night. She slept soundly that night, her chest rising and falling so rhythmically that, as much as I wanted to write or talk to her about Tony, I didn’t have the heart to disturb her.
    I dropped off to sleep after hours of tossing and turning. When I awakened, still a little groggy, Grandma was already in the kitchen. I could hear the pots and pans and smell the aromas of scrambled eggs, lox, onions, and bagels, our usual fare on Sunday mornings. We did not keep a kosher home, but ever since my father had abandoned us, bacon was banned from the frying pan and lox became a satisfactory replacement.
    After I inhaled the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, I grabbed the telephone. Tony really ought to be calling
me,
I thought. I mean, he had to know that. But I had promised to call him when I awoke and I always kept my word. “Without your word,
bubelah,
” Grandma always said, “what do you have?”
    I closed my eyes and felt Tony’s kiss again, the way it had made me melt, and then I looked at the slip of paper he had handed to me. I said hello a few times out loud to test my voice before I dialed the number. It rang a few times—I almost hung up—and then a woman answered the phone.
    â€œHello?” she mumbled.
    â€œOh, hello. Is Tony there?”
    â€œHe’s sleeping. This is his mother. Who’s this?”
    I hesitated a bit before I spoke. “Samantha. Can you ask him to call me when he wakes up? He has my number.”
    â€œYeah, sure,” she said, and hung up the phone. I guess she’s used to annoying phone calls in the morning, I thought, like Tony had numerous girls calling him and she knew the drill. Would she give Tony the message? I worried. If she didn’t, he would think I hadn’t called and I didn’t want that. But there wasn’t anything I could do except wait.
    It was time for breakfast, and if I could get into the kitchen before Mom did I could have a private talk with Grandma about Tony. Grandma was less reactive and much more level-headed about things that young girls cared about—although the topic of dating Italians sure challenged that. I preferred not to keep secrets from my mother; I had been taught to be honest at all times, and instructed in a code of ethics that was supposed to get me through life and avoid trouble. That meant telling the truth and dating boys who were honest, too. Janice tried to live by the same code. She had gone out