what?”
“I guess I’m not particularly happy.” Funny; I hadn’t even realized it myself until Marco suggested it.
“So,” he said. “Do something that makes you happy.”
“Well, Marco, I think I just did.”
He chuckled and then was silent for a long moment, looking down the length of Polaris Lane.
“Angela,” he finally said very quietly. “You sorry?”
“About boning the town lothario in my childhood bedroom? Or screwing him on his front porch?”
He snorted. “I know I seem like a pretty big prick but I really didn’t wake up this morning and say, ‘Hell, today I’m going to ruin my neighbor’s life.’”
“I’m not your neighbor anymore.”
“ Come on, Angela.”
I rested my head on my knees. My mind was in a tumult. Never in my life had I taken this kind of risk. And never in my life had I felt so awake. Vibrant. Alive. But all I said was, “No, I’m not sorry.”
Marco snuffed out his cigarette and reached for me. One hand went around my back and the other cupped my chin, drawing my face to his. We made out like teenagers, our tongues exploring, our hands tentatively groping as if we hadn’t already been ten times more intimate.
He pulled the scrunchie from my hair. My dark curls fell in a riot long past my shoulders.
“Come inside with me.”
I swallowed. “All right.”
The inside of the Bendetti house wasn’t as neatly tended as my parents’ home but had the same darkly paneled décor whose day was over a decade expired yet comforting nonetheless. The last time I vividly recalled seeing the inside of the house was circa 1979 when my mother, busy at the store with my father, had sent me over to retrieve a piece of Tupperware from Mary Bendetti.
I remembered now; Marco had answered the door with his shirt off as Ozzie blared loudly in the background. Behind him, on a rust-orange floral patterned sofa, Cindy Page was red-faced and hooking her bra.
“Yeah?” Marco, more well-defined than any other reasonable ninth grade boy, was already bored by my interruption.
I blushed, crossing my ar ms over my polo shirt. “Um, is your mom here?”
Marco raised his eyebrows while Cindy giggled. “What do you think?”
I took a step back, nearly sprawling on my back as the front steps came out of nowhere. Marco looked at me like I was a zoo animal which annoyed the living crap out of me. Cindy had left the sofa to slither behind Marco and wrap her skinny arms around his muscled torso. So I said the most sensible thing that came to mind. Actually I yelled it at the top of my lungs.
“I was just looking for the goddamn Tupperware!”
And then I spun on the heel of my Keds and went running back to my house, my face in flames. I slammed the door to my room and flopped on my bed, realizing Marco very likely, almost certainly, didn’t have any idea what the hell Tupperware even was.
When the doorbell rang a few minutes later I was expecting to see one of the neighborhood gossips in search of my mother, or perhaps one of Tony’s hopeful girlfriends in search of something that didn’t exist.
But it was Marco Bendetti. He twirled the moss green plastic bowl on his right index finger and grinned at me. “This what you were looking for?”
I snatched it away and for the briefest of universe snaps, my hand brushed his. “Thanks,” I murmured, hugging my mother’s bowl to my chest.
“You’re welcome, Angela.” And as he turned away and began to walk back across the street I stared after him, still feeling the vibration in the air of my name on his lips. Watching him, I could almost see the restless man he would become already simmering under his skin and I shivered, closing the door, wishing that I hadn’t seen him in his living room with Cindy Page, wishing that ad ulthood didn’t loom so close. And then praying it would let me catch up soon.
“It’s the same,” I said, motioning to
“I guess I’m not particularly happy.” Funny; I hadn’t even realized it myself until Marco suggested it.
“So,” he said. “Do something that makes you happy.”
“Well, Marco, I think I just did.”
He chuckled and then was silent for a long moment, looking down the length of Polaris Lane.
“Angela,” he finally said very quietly. “You sorry?”
“About boning the town lothario in my childhood bedroom? Or screwing him on his front porch?”
He snorted. “I know I seem like a pretty big prick but I really didn’t wake up this morning and say, ‘Hell, today I’m going to ruin my neighbor’s life.’”
“I’m not your neighbor anymore.”
“ Come on, Angela.”
I rested my head on my knees. My mind was in a tumult. Never in my life had I taken this kind of risk. And never in my life had I felt so awake. Vibrant. Alive. But all I said was, “No, I’m not sorry.”
Marco snuffed out his cigarette and reached for me. One hand went around my back and the other cupped my chin, drawing my face to his. We made out like teenagers, our tongues exploring, our hands tentatively groping as if we hadn’t already been ten times more intimate.
He pulled the scrunchie from my hair. My dark curls fell in a riot long past my shoulders.
“Come inside with me.”
I swallowed. “All right.”
The inside of the Bendetti house wasn’t as neatly tended as my parents’ home but had the same darkly paneled décor whose day was over a decade expired yet comforting nonetheless. The last time I vividly recalled seeing the inside of the house was circa 1979 when my mother, busy at the store with my father, had sent me over to retrieve a piece of Tupperware from Mary Bendetti.
I remembered now; Marco had answered the door with his shirt off as Ozzie blared loudly in the background. Behind him, on a rust-orange floral patterned sofa, Cindy Page was red-faced and hooking her bra.
“Yeah?” Marco, more well-defined than any other reasonable ninth grade boy, was already bored by my interruption.
I blushed, crossing my ar ms over my polo shirt. “Um, is your mom here?”
Marco raised his eyebrows while Cindy giggled. “What do you think?”
I took a step back, nearly sprawling on my back as the front steps came out of nowhere. Marco looked at me like I was a zoo animal which annoyed the living crap out of me. Cindy had left the sofa to slither behind Marco and wrap her skinny arms around his muscled torso. So I said the most sensible thing that came to mind. Actually I yelled it at the top of my lungs.
“I was just looking for the goddamn Tupperware!”
And then I spun on the heel of my Keds and went running back to my house, my face in flames. I slammed the door to my room and flopped on my bed, realizing Marco very likely, almost certainly, didn’t have any idea what the hell Tupperware even was.
When the doorbell rang a few minutes later I was expecting to see one of the neighborhood gossips in search of my mother, or perhaps one of Tony’s hopeful girlfriends in search of something that didn’t exist.
But it was Marco Bendetti. He twirled the moss green plastic bowl on his right index finger and grinned at me. “This what you were looking for?”
I snatched it away and for the briefest of universe snaps, my hand brushed his. “Thanks,” I murmured, hugging my mother’s bowl to my chest.
“You’re welcome, Angela.” And as he turned away and began to walk back across the street I stared after him, still feeling the vibration in the air of my name on his lips. Watching him, I could almost see the restless man he would become already simmering under his skin and I shivered, closing the door, wishing that I hadn’t seen him in his living room with Cindy Page, wishing that ad ulthood didn’t loom so close. And then praying it would let me catch up soon.
“It’s the same,” I said, motioning to
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