“Well, if your dad drinks, that’s no excuse for his behavior!” I said. I felt as if I should say something more to Maria, something that would prove that I really understood, something about my mother. But I didn’t. All I said was: “But you don’t drink… do you?”
“No!” she paused, shaking her head. Her hair flopped from side to side. “Never. Never. I never drink, and I don’t want to. I just want him to stop blaming my mother for everything, and stop yelling at her.”
“Well, as long as you don’t drink, you’ll be okay, I guess.”
“That’s not true, A.J.” She said it as if I really wasn’t getting her point at all. “That’s why I don’t trust anyone. And that’s why I’ve never had a boyfriend. And that’s why I hesitate telling you stuff about me. Because I don’t trust anybody. Don’t you remember what I told you last time we were here? I said that when I was a little kid my dad told me that I could always trust my family. But that’s not true. I can’t trust him, or rely on him for anything. So if he doesn’t keep his word, then who will? I just wish…” She trailed off.
“I will,” I said.
“Well, that’s why I said you were hopeful. Remember that?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, I think that maybe you are hopeful. You see, that’s the word, hopeful, that I use to describe you to myself when I’m alone at night, or when my dad is yelling, or when I’m depressed. I say to myself, ‘Don’t worry, Maria, A.J. is hopeful.’ I talk to myself a lot.” She giggled silently, but sadly.
“I want you to talk to me a lot. I want you to have faith in me, and hope, because I’ll never let you down, as long as you don’t let me down, either.”
“I won’t let you down, A.J. But please, let’s not go too fast. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m saying? Amici con tutti, confidenza con nessuno. It’ll be hard for us to be confidants, because I’m so afraid.”
“There will be time,” I said. “There will be time.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” she replied. And then she gave me a hug.
It was getting late. Maria and I had been talking by the bench for maybe four or five hours. Actually, during much of that time, we were in one another’s arms, loving that feeling you get when you lay close next to someone you love. Beneath the quieting trees, shaded from the sunlight but warm from the air and each other, we slept for hours, only shifting occasionally to get closer. When we awoke around 5 p.m., Maria had to go home.
As we walked to the R train, I kept thinking that within a few weeks, my seventeenth birthday would arrive, and then I could drive her around instead of taking the subway all the time. I could drive to her house, and have dinner with her family, and watch a movie or in her living room. I’d go to school each day anticipating one thing: the next time I saw Maria. And I’d drive to her house every weekend and weeknight that I could.
She knew I was getting my license soon. But the great thing about Maria was that she didn’t really care. What I mean is, it didn’t take a car to impress her. She would’ve been just as happy riding the subways with me. I respected her so much for that. More significantly, I respected myself for attracting such a noble person. The Central Park sun, coupled with Maria’s radiant spirit, assured me that the future was mine to shape. There was so much to look forward to.
I hadn’t even been inside her house at that point, but I knew that I’d be going there a lot in the future. At that moment in the park I could see it all—our wedding, our children, growing old together. The future was reflected in Maria’s eyes. I knew she felt it, too. And I hadn’t even kissed her yet.
But that was the next step in my plan. I always planned little things to happen on dates, and I was proud of my plan for Maria. And I had no regrets about it, no ulterior motive. I planned on kissing her that day. I knew it would be a little difficult, because of Lynn. But I also knew that she wanted me to kiss her.
As we descended the stairs, a guy walked by us smoking a cigarette. So I asked her if she had ever smoked.
“I recently quit,” she said.
“What?” I was shocked. First there was the thing about her father, and now this.
“Well, I hung around with a lot of people in my neighborhood who smoked, so sometimes I’d smoke too.”
“How often did you smoke?”
“What difference does it make? I don’t do it anymore. It was a stupid thing to get into, so I stopped.”
“How much did you smoke? I asked.
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that you’ve been so open with me, I just want to know everything about you.” But I was more than interested. I was really pissed off. Only losers smoked.
“About a pack a day,” she said.
“A pack a day? God, that’s so much! What’s wrong with you?”
Maria became visibly pissed off at me for pressing the issue.
“People make mistakes, A.J. And people learn from them. That’s what happened with me. I hung out with the wrong crowd; but now I’m with you, and I won’t do it anymore. I promised myself right after I met you that I’d quit smoking. Because you gave me so much hope that I didn’t think I needed to do it anymore. Instead of having a cigarette when my father frightens me, I’ll call you, and I know you’ll make me feel better.”
I was touched, but still angry. I kept thinking: What else don’t I know about her?
“Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry. Well, as long as you quit, it’s all right.”
“Thanks for your permission,” she said. Her abrupt sarcasm surprised me.
“No, really,” I said, “I’m sorry. As long as you tell me everything about yourself, it doesn’t matter what you say.“ She just glared at me. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me everything, only what you want to tell me. Uh, anyway, I just want you to be my friend, and I want to be yours.”
What I didn’t tell her was that I smoked, too. And I wasn’t planning to quit any time soon, either. But I wasn’t like all those losers in my school. And I probably wasn’t like Maria, standing on a street corner with a bunch of hoods and losers smoking cigarettes. I don’t know, it was just different.
I didn’t want to let the revelation ruin the day—I still wanted things to go as planned—so I figured I’d just forgive and forget. It was no big deal, really.
We finally made it back to Ridgewood. It was such a long ride home--two trains and a bus. Standing on the corner of her block, 69th Street and Fresh Pond Road, I leaned toward Maria like I was going to kiss her. She drew closer, but I quickly pulled away. It was a little trick I’d pull before. Just a way to see her reaction. I think she was a little embarrassed by that.
Again, we looked at each other, happily anticipating what was about to happen. I kept waiting for the right time to make a real move. First I thought that I should give her a peck on the cheek, and then make out. Then I thought it would be best to kiss her forehead first. And then I thought that maybe I should just go right in and kiss her on the lips.
But Maria threw me for a loop—she kissed me first, smack on the lips!
“You don’t know how to kiss!” I interrupted.
“What?” she said. She was surprised that I was so goddamn blunt. But I was telling the truth. She didn’t know how to kiss. She did it like all those jerks at the school dances I went to—like Lynn, like Rachel—like she was trying to inhale my face. All tongue, no lips. I hated to kiss that way.