A Kiss on Highland Avenue

At the edge of the park were two stone pillars, set apart and capped with concrete eagles whose wings long since had been chipped away. Now the flightless birds scowled at each other from their perches, this despite the glow from a nearby streetlamp which seemed to halo them in gold. Peter thought the light too intrusive, reminding the birds of past indignities, when they should have been allowed to retreat into the shadows.

The boys avoided the light as they emerged from the park, walking under the low, full branches of a sycamore. They only needed to turn the corner and they’d be on Highland Avenue, close to an open porch where some girls from Tom and Mick’s class hung out. Peter could already hear music wafting down the street. Steely Dan. Ricki Don’t Lose that Number. Cool and lyrical, with a moderate yet rhythmic bass offsetting a slightly pinched tenor, the song was a curiously detached plea for intimacy. Tom summed it up with a wink, “Make out music.”

Peter would never have read it as a signal, but then again, Peter also read nothing into strawberry lip gloss. During the last year, practically imprisoned at an all-boy high school, he’d forgotten everything junior high had taught him about girls, which had not been much to begin with. He retained almost every detail from the porno tabloids in Mick’s apartment, but he couldn’t imagine a situation with actual girls where any of that information would be helpful. He took a stick of gum from Sully and popped it into his mouth. Mick declined the offer.

“Let ‘em smell the beer, man,” he said.

“Yeah, let’s gross ‘em out.”

“No, make an impression.” Mick stopped to light a cigarette.

“Make sure you fart while you’re at it.” Tom broke into a trot to get some separation from Mick and Peter loped alongside him.

Mick stopped them with a harsh whisper, “Wait up!” and came running, cigarette in mouth.

“What’s your prob?”

“We’re together right? Don’t go ditchin’ me before we get there.”

“We’re there,” Tom said.

“No,” Mick stifled a cough. “We’re not there ‘til we’re in front of the house.”

“Who’s there?” a girl called.

The boys froze. “Shit,” Tom whispered. “Now look, they think we’re peeping toms. Like we’re scared to come up an’ face ‘em. Fuckin’ Pro.”

“Tom? Tommy Sullivan?” the girl called.

“Yeah. Ria.” Tom stepped out of the shadows. He snapped his head, jerking Peter and Mick forward. “We were just cuttin’ through the park.”

“What were you doin’ in the park?” Ria asked, as if she already knew.

“Golf. What do you think?”

“You guys get goin’ early. Your mommies want you home soon?”

“Least my mom lets me off the porch.”

Tom climbed the porch steps and took a seat like he owned the place. There were four girls sitting mostly in shadows. Peter didn’t recognize any of them, so he stood leaning on the banister at the foot of the steps, fanning away the smoke from Mick’s cigarette, until Ria looked their way. She was tall, slender and pretty. Her brunette hair was cropped short.

“Hey, Mickey.” Ria acknowledged Mick without inviting him. “You workin’ on yer cancer?”

“If I can’t have you…”

“Good you’re clear on that.” She eyed Peter then spoke to Tom without taking her eyes off him. “Who’s your friend?”

“That’s Einstein.”

“Einstein?” she laughed. “He ain’t got the wild hair. What else?”

“He got a theory?” another girl asked. “Einstein’s got a theory.”

“What’s your theory, Einstein?” Ria teased.

Peter looked at the second girl, another dark-haired, slender kid. Something of a brat, he figured, but that interested him. She might not be smart, but she wouldn’t necessarily be easy.

“Takes a while to explain,” Peter said.

“So sit.”

Peter felt his head spin. He saw Tom nod. He was in.

The brat turned out to be Bernadette, a fourteen year-old, filled out well enough to be flattered, but not embarrassed, by the knit tube top she wore. Her bare shoulders and neck were straight, which set her apart from a couple of girls who hunched and lurched their heads forward like vultures. Their feathered shag haircuts made them seem even more birdlike. Bernadette had deep, brown eyes and lips that seemed permanently pursed, the result of a slight bucking of the front teeth. Peter studied her mouth and decided he liked her imperfect smile. There was an honesty and vulnerability to it, a tacit admission that humor was nothing more than how you coped.

Mick was still on the outside. Peter was stuck between the idea of inviting him up and, alternately, joining the girls in ostracizing him. Sully had clearly opted for the latter, choosing to listen to the girls talk the lives they planned once out of grammar school.

“Y’know, we shouldn’t even call ourselves eighth graders anymore,” Bernadette said. “The word for it’s rising freshmen.”

“Yeah, where you rising, Bernadette?” Mick asked. “Cuz I’ll show you where I’m rising.”

“Eewwyooo!” the girls chorused. Mick was expecting a laugh after the initial revulsion. It didn’t come. “Get lost pervert!” Ria groaned. Tom threw a hairbrush that one of the vultures had left out.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

Tom hopped off the porch and went to retrieve the brush. He also walked Mick back toward the curb, his mouth close to Mick’s ear. Peter trotted down to join his friends and they huddled at the curb.

“What I should be invisible?”

“You gotta be patient with these girls.”

“You can’t get me on the porch? Thanks.”

“They don’t like you,” Tom snapped. “You think telling ‘em you got a hard-on’s gonna help?”

“You stop treatin’ me like a freak of nature, and maybe…”

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

Tom’s face was frozen. Peter tried not to be obvious, but turned his head to see what Tom was seeing: four figures emerging from the shadows of a sycamore, exhibiting a stiff, high-toed swagger. Peter recognized Jimmy Bartell from his class, the rest from Sully’s, including Jimmy’s younger brother, Joey. The Bartell brothers had been small and cute through most of grammar school, then each hit a prodigious growth spurt in seventh grade. They soon became tough and nasty. Rob Delaney was a tall bruiser, blond and good-looking except for an overbite. Peter didn’t know if he was extremely stupid, or if his tongue was just too big for his mouth and made him sound retarded whenever he spoke. Leading them was Danny Simmons, whom everyone called Mingo, a runty snot

with an enormous, bobble head. Too small to ever actually win a fight, he entertained himself by provoking fights between passersby and his primate companions. He’d made a lot of enemies that way, and since he couldn’t keep his goons with him ‘round the clock, had started carrying the sawed-off handle of an aluminum baseball bat. Only six inches long, it was still a formidable club. Mingo was the dangerous one, Peter knew. The others were generally peaceful enough if you stayed out of their way. Mingo would go out of his way to cause trouble.

The problem for Peter and his friends was that Mingo and his goons were Jewett Avenue, one block over, which gave them a sort of geographic primacy over Highland Avenue and most importantly, the girls of Highland Avenue. They weren’t going to let any guys from Kensington come in and porch sit. Peter figured they probably wouldn’t fight with the odds as they were, four to three, unless they figured Mick counted as zero. Of course, if Mick was a zero, then their macho code wouldn’t allow them to fight him, unless he did something outrageous to provoke it. Peter looked at Mick, who was frozen with terror. Keep your cool, Mick, he thought, and your total inability to fight may save us.

“Sully, Pro,” Mingo nodded. He eyed Peter suspiciously.

Peter looked over to Jimmy Bartell, hoping for some recognition.

“Professor,” Jimmy nodded.

“Jim.”

“Who’s this guy?” Mingo barked, pointing the knobby end of his aluminum club at Peter’s chest. He was drunk. They’d all been drinking. That made things less predictable.

“He’s the Professor,” Jimmy Bartell laughed. “From Gilligan’s Island.”

Mingo leaned into Peter, “How’d you get off the island, Gilligan?”

“I’m the Professor,” Peter said. He tipped his head to Mick. “That’s Gilligan.”

Mingo laughed. There was a mocking tone so Peter couldn’t tell if he had broken the tension or if Mingo would continue the hard guy grilling.

“He’s Einstein,” a girl’s voice called. Ria and Bernadette had come down from the porch to the front gate. “Ask him his theory.”

“I don’t give a fuck about his fuckin’ theory!” Mingo howled.

Peter was getting annoyed. “That’s good, because you probably wouldn’t be interested.”

“I said I’m not interested.”

Peter saw the shoulders rising on the Bartell brothers. Rob Delaney was puffing his chest like a blowfish. Would they start something here, in front of the girls? Might depend on how they read the girls, Peter figured. Would they be entertained or repulsed? Would Mingo even care?

“You guys go drinkin’?” Sully asked Joey Bartell. Bartell rolled his eyes, as if the question was an insult. “Who copped for ya?”

Mingo turned from Peter to Sully. “Who copped for you?”

“Frank Slattery.”

“Slattery?” Mingo whooped. “Is that junky still around? Thought they found his body in the Hudson.”

“That was his mind,” Peter said, trying humor again. He thought his nervousness showed too much. That he looked too eager to win Mingo over. That was weakness.

“Funny guy,” Mingo sighed. He nodded to Mick. “I thought he was the funny guy. But you got two funny guys.”

“Ask him his theory.” One of the vulture girls had come down from the porch. She was maybe bored with the standoff and wanted to shake things up.

“I don’t care about fuckin’ theories!” Mingo started banging the knob of his club on a telephone pole not two feet from Peter’s face. Half moon dents appeared in the wooden surface. Peter made sure not to flinch. No more weakness to feed him. Mingo finished hammering and turned to Tom.

“Sully,” he asked, his tone suddenly friendly, “you guys get enough beer outta Slats? Cause you get there late, I know, he’ll drink it all.”

“He fuckin’ drank half!” Tom forced a laugh.

“Fuckin’ junkie! Well, we can help you out there,” Mingo smiled. “We got these fuckin’ quart bottles of fuckin’ Miller out the…the house thing…”

“Gazebo?” Peter asked.

“Yeah, fuckin’ ga-zebra with the black an’ white stripes,” Mingo rolled his eyes. “The foundation there’s a window thing and inside we put the bottles. Ray Mack was s’posed to be with us, but Gay Ray can’t get out the house. We were gonna drink ‘em tomorrow, but so fuckin’ hot tonight, they’ll be like piss by then.”

“Or some jigs’ll get ‘em,” Delaney said.

“Or piss in ‘em,” Jimmy Bartell added.

“I ain’t drinkin’ jig piss,” Mick groaned.

Mingo leaned into him. “Then you better hurry up an’ get ‘em. While they’re cold.” He eyed Tom intently. “Come back when you’re finished.”

Tom nodded. He bobbed his head over his left shoulder, signaling Peter and Mick to move out. Peter looked back at the girls, thought about waving, then was embarrassed by that thought when Mingo stepped between. Halfway down the block, Tom whispered, “They followin’ us?”

“Can’t tell.”

“If they follow us,” Tom said, “you know we gotta run. But not ‘til we’re round the corner. Can’t let them see us run.”

“I’m goin’ home,” Mick said. “I ain’t drinking Mingo’s fuckin’ backwash.”

“Mick, there ain’t no fuckin’ beer,” Tom whispered hoarsely. “They just wanted us off the block. Either just to get rid of us, or follow us into the park to rumble.”

“Rumble?” Mick spat. “What’s this fuckin’ West Side Story?”

“Just shut the fuck up.” Tom screeched through gritted teeth.

Peter froze. He heard footsteps.

“Where you fuckin’ goin’?” Mingo’s voice.

“Gazebra!” a girl laughed.

Peter crouched behind a car and looked across the street and up the block. Mingo paced the sidewalk, then banged his club against Ria’s fence. His goons were standing speechless. Then two girls burst across the street into the glare of the streetlamp. It was Ria and Bernadette. Mke and Mick stood behind the barrel trunk of a sycamore as Peter continued to look up the block.

“Girls are coming,” Peter whispered. “Creeps are stayin’ put.”

Tom nodded, then started walking away towards the park. They walked three abreast, slow enough for the girls to gain on them, then turned around when Ria called.

“Where you guys goin’?”

“Free beer,” Tom shrugged.

“You think there’s beer?”

“No.”

“Then why’d you leave?”

“That’s what we do,” Peter said. “Look for action.”

“You could of had some,” Bernadette teased.

“Not looking for that kind.”

“Then what?”

They were at the park gate now. The scowling birds looked down at them.

“See what’s in the park,” Tom suggested.

Mick pulled up alongside him and grumbled, “There better be another girl.”

Bernadette insisted they check out the gazebra just in case Mingo had been telling the truth. To everyone’s surprise, the quart bottles were there. One was uncapped and had about two inches of foamy beer and assorted bugs inside. Mick wrestled it away and emptied it onto some shrubs before Sully could spray it around. The second bottle was still sealed and Peter twisted it open then held it out for the girls. Ria took it first and chugged like a pro. She passed it to Bernadette who seemed slightly daunted by the size of the bottle. She took a whiff, curled her lip, then hoisted the bottom up. She tried to chug, but gagged and pitched her head forward as suds dripped from her chin. The boys laughed as Bernadette flicked beer off her hands and coughed.

“I hate Miller,” she said.

Right, sure, the boys laughed as the bottle went ‘round. Peter offered it again to Bernadette. She flashed her dark eyes at him, then her pursed lips opened into a full grin and she swiped the bottle away. She took a more measured swallow, lowered the bottle and licked her lips. Peter gazed at Bernadette’s moist lips and felt himself lifted toward her. He was a moth at the lamp of Bernadette’s face. He fluttered, listed left then right. A warm swell came over him. He needed the beer again, but Mick was draining it.

“Fuckin’ fo-oam,” Mick burped, staring at the spidery bubbles at the bottom of the quart. He slammed it down onto the concrete foundation of the gazebo, popping it loudly and spraying shards at the girls’ feet. The girls shrieked and jumped; Ria practically landed on Tom. Bernadette seemed to use the moment to sidle up to Peter. Peter lowered his head, the moth coming to land. He wanted to rest his chin on her shoulder, to bury his face in the dark shadow her hair cast on her neck. Her moist skin glowed, and a mist rose from her. Peter wanted to breathe the essence of her.

He knew it was time to make some kind of move, but he didn’t know how. Should he say something? Should he put his arm around her? Should he tuck a finger under her chin and lift her mouth towards his? There had to be a right way to do this.

“You gonna tell me your theory? Einstein?” Bernadette leaned into him with her chin uplifted. Her mouth was ten inches from his. This was the moment of truth. He could kiss her now, theorize later.

Ria squealed and Peter spun around. Tom had her by the waist and she was twisting his fingers to break his grip, laughing as he pulled her close. Peter grabbed Bernadette’s wrist and led her out of the glow of the lamppost. They ran across the broad lawn rolling down from the gazebo to a low stone wall bordering the throughway. Peter straddled the wall and sat Bernadette so her hip nestled against his right thigh. Her shoulder dropped against his chest and her cheek fell to his shoulder. Peter stroked the hair of the back of her head. Bernadette responded to his touch by lifting her head and turning towards him. She draped her arms around his neck. Peter moved his hands across her ribs and she jumped. Ticklish, he thought. Or what? She dropped her arms from his neck and then Peter saw the mark.

It was two inches long on the underside of her forearm, gray in the dim light, with flakes of black where the scab had not yet fallen off. Peter stroked the mark with his forefinger. Bernadette tried to pull away but Peter grabbed her wrist and uncurled her arm.

“My punk test,” she whispered. “Ria gave it.”

“With what? A can?”

“Her nail.” She brushed some hair from her eyes. “I gave hers.”

Peter turned his head toward the road. There were no cars, but street lamps formed an arc of light receding to distant, flickering points, then blackness.

“A hundred times. Back and forth.”

“You do the whole hundred?” Peter asked.

“If you don’t go the hundred, you’re a punk.”

“So both of you?”

“It was stupid. I shouldn’t of. Ugly scar.” Bernadette shrugged. She twisted around to see what Peter saw: the empty road and the string of lights. “You thinkin’?”she asked without looking at him.

Peter figured it was time to finally spill the theory, that is, if he could come up with one. Say something that wasn’t totally eggheady. “You know E = mc²?”

“Heard it. What’s it mean?”

“Einstein said nothing could go faster than light. And if you approached the speed of light then time slowed down and you got smaller and smaller.”

“So that’s your theory?”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about darkness. Maybe it makes time speed up, and maybe you get bigger and bigger. Big enough to fill the dark. Me and you right now. Feels like we been together longer than we have. Feels like, this is stupid…”

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not. Go.”

“I know they’re over there, but feels like it’s just you and me in this whole park. And like that road goes on forever, but it’s just us on it.”

“You sure talk, Einstein.”

Peter felt flushed, whether with the girl or the beer he wasn’t sure. “See how there’s not even any cars?” he said. “Just us.”

“So what’s stoppin’ you?”

Peter pressed his lips to her open mouth. He drew her breath. He filled his mouth with her. His chest swelled to bursting. Peter twisted his head and pressed his cheek to hers. He gave back Bernadette’s breath on her warm neck, his eyes closed and covered by her dark hair.

***