Another Brooklyn

11

We turned thirteen and it seemed wherever we were, there were hands and tongues. There were sloe-eyes and licked lips wherever our new breasts and lengthening thighs moved.

Angela and Gigi and I showed up at Sylvia’s house one Saturday morning when the family was gone. Sylvia, able to sneak us inside, stood ironing her Catholic school uniform as we talked. It happened, Angela said. I’m bleeding.

Finally, we said.

We thought you’d never join us on this side, we said.

We were teenagers now, our bodies different but all of us still the same height, all of us still blending into each other.

We found places to be together, sharing a joint on the stairs of the closed library, stepping over prayer rugs to sit on my bed, cutting two pizza slices into four at Royal Pizzeria because if we bought something, we could sit for hours. Park swings, handball courts, the spot of sun on the corner where a windowless factory set dozens of pale, tired women free every day at 5:00 P.M.

Angela said, My mother said don’t tell a soul.

But we didn’t have to open our mouths. Summer came again and men and boys were everywhere, feathery hands on our backsides in crowds, eyes falling too long at our chests, whispers into our ears as we passed strangers. Promises — of things they could do to us, with us, for us.

When Sylvia threatened to run away, her father said we could stay over. He asked to call our parents, make sure they knew where we were. We no longer looked at him — gave him our numbers without lifting our eyes. Angela said, My mother already knows, quickly before anyone could dial a number, speak to someone. It’s fine, Angela said, looking anywhere else.

After speaking to my father, he said, He’s a good man. He has his God. A man needs his God. He eyed Angela, the torn sweater, the hole in the toe of her dingy socks. Angela tucked one foot behind the other, bent into herself. Then, saying nothing, he left.

We stayed up late, watching television sitcoms, eating Popsicles and bags of candy. Sylvia and I wore baby-doll pajamas that felt obscene and made us giddy. We slow-danced with each other. Angela showed us how to French-kiss and we spent hours practicing. We practiced until our bodies felt as though they were exploding.

We whispered, I love you and meant it.

We said, This is scary and laughed.

When Jerome asked where I’d learned what I learned I said, Don’t worry about it because he was eighteen and I was nearly fourteen and nothing mattered but hearing I love you and believing he meant it.

There were days when we sat in front of the television watching Clark Kent fall in love with Lois Lane and understood what it meant to hold secrets close. When Angela cried but wouldn’t tell us why, we promised her our loyalty, reminded her that she was beautiful, said Knock, Knock, Angela. Let us in, let us in. We stroked the sharp knots of her cheekbones, moved our fingers gently over her lips, lifted her shirt, and kissed her breasts. We said, You’re so beautiful. We said, Don’t be afraid. We said, Don’t cry.

When she danced, her dance told stories none of us were old enough to hear, the deep arch of her back, the long neck impossibly turned, the hands begging air into her chest.

What are you saying, we begged. Tell us what it is you need.

But Angela was silent.

On the Fourth of July, my father took all of us to the East River, where thousands of people crowded to watch fireworks explode above the water. Pressed against each other, Angela whispered into my ear, I’m gonna leave this place one day.

I promised her we’d go with her.

But Angela shook her head, her straightened hair hot curled into a mushroom low over her brow and ears. She stared straight ahead at the fireworks.

Nah, she said. Ya’ll won’t.

That night, as New York and the rest of the country celebrated its independence, everywhere we looked, the world was red, white, and blue. We had shared a joint in the smoky bathroom of a crowded McDonald’s and felt wild and giddy and free. On the subway home, someone’s boom box played “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” and we all laughed, singing along.

Hop on the bus, Gus. You don’t need to discuss much.

Angela nodding, saying, You know that’s right!

On a different planet, we could have been Lois Lane or Tarzan’s Jane or Mary Tyler Moore or Marlo Thomas. We could have thrown our hats up, twirled and smiled. We could have made it after all. We watched the shows. We knew the songs. We sang along when Mary was big-eyed and awed by Minneapolis. We dreamed with Marlo of someday hitting the big time. We took off with the Flying Nun.

But we were young. And we were on earth, heading home to Brooklyn.