“What are you talking about, Aunt Josie? Vito wouldn’t know your number.”
My brother nudged me and asked what the crap was going on. This was a perfect moment to use my incredible ability of pretending to be asleep. If only they would’ve turned around for a second.
“I don’t know. I got this call last night saying it was Victor Ferraro. He seemed frightened. I must be losing it, Tone. Maybe it was some kids playing a prank. Guess it wasn’t you, huh, Vito? Hey Vito, how come you never smile? What is it with this one? He never smiles.”
“Vito, stop playing with your hair. I don’t know, Aunt Josephine.”
“Yeah, okay, alright.” And we followed her to the little kitchen located in the back and around the corner where she handed us plastic tubs of pasta fazool to take home.
Dad bought the sign for us because he thought it was funny too—despite the fact that it wasn’t a full moon, or fifty-nine cents.
During the next few weeks at school all the guys were talking about masturbating like they had seen the same episode of Three’s Company. They swarmed around John Thompson for prime real estate in the auditorium and listened like Christ’s disciples listened to the parables as he described masturbating with his seven-inch penis to his older brother’s pornography.
After John finished, some of the other guys, like Mitch Farber and Josh Glassman, shared their own masturbating stories with such ease and confidence it was as if they had been doing it for years.
“You guys are gross,” said Jessie Levinson as she sat down with Stephanie Hinkle, Julie Fischer, and Jenna Tisch.
“That’s what I like about the Glenwood boys,” said Julie Fischer (number one). “They’re so well mannered.”
“Yeah we are!” said Pierce Stone, wrapping his arm around Paxton and giving me a high-five—I felt like such a phony acquiescing and giving him skin.
“Especially Vic. Don’t you think Vic is nice, Jenna?” said Julie Fischer. They thought I was nice because I was quiet. “I think you two should go out.” The disciples turned to me all at once. “I think you two make a cute couple. What’s that? I know, I know, they’re adorable. Okay, it’s settled then. Vic and Jenna are a couple.”
Uproar. The guys said “congrats” and a few slapped me on the back in masculine approval.
I had heard of arranged marriages during the Middle Ages and in India—Arjun said his parents never met before they got married. I felt like a prince marrying across the channel into French royalty.
But the moment Jenna and I were a “couple,” I felt this overwhelming pressure not to speak to her, to avoid her in the halls, to avoid eye contact by any means necessary. My thinking was that any and all forms of contact could only amount to blunders, imbroglios, or faux-pas. If we didn’t see each other, I couldn’t screw up.
One hundred percent of my communication to Jenna was through Stephanie Hinkle, her best friend. Stephanie would even call our house sometimes at night to update me on Jenna’s feelings: “She, like, really likes you, Vic. You have to go to Jared Rosenblatt’s party this weekend.”
Jared wasn’t even on the hot list, but he still went out with Carly Feldman (number four).
That Friday, my mom dropped Tank and me off at the top of the Rosenblatts’ driveway, which flowed down into a valley and split apart to surround a giant stone lion before reconnecting and reaching the house. It was a white monstrosity with a forest of Doric columns lining the front that I immediately recognized from Mrs. McNulty’s class on classicism—we had to carve our own columns from bars of soap.
“Okay, have fun,” Mom said as we undid our seatbelts. “And hey, remember to be respectful to Mr. Rosenblatt—maybe he’ll give you a job one day.”
Mrs. Rosenblatt greeted us at the door. “Hi, Mrs. Rosenblatt,” Tank and I said in unison.
“Oh please, boys, call me Cynthia,” she said as she waved to my mother.
That was another strange thing. Once we hit middle school all the parents wanted to be called by their first names, and the kids would refer to each other’s parents as if they were friends from “way back when.”
We followed the stream of middle schoolers into the basement, where TVs double the size of ours (and without the infamous loading time) were surrounded by big leather couches. They had every video game system—even the rare ones like SEGA Dreamcast and the original PlayStation—and each had its own shelf where none of the controller cords were tangled, truly a miracle in a household with three boys.
Tank and I plopped onto the couch and I scanned the room for hidden portals or trapdoors—if history had taught me anything, it was that houses this big always had moveable walls or underground passageways illuminated by flickering orange torches, possibly even leading to Hell. Basements and attics were meant for treasures and exploration, not gaggles of girls whispering and laughing in huddled masses.
“Vic!” I almost jumped out of my clothing as Stephanie Hinkle snuck up behind me. “Hey, so Jenna is over there”—she pointed to a laughing huddled mass—“and she wants to see you.”
“See me?” I felt like the teacher was asking me to stay after class.
“Yes, ya know… so you guys can hook up?”
I was transported back to Ms. O’Donnell’s class with all eyes on me as Michaela Silves asked to kiss me and my heart went thump thump, thump thump, thump thump.
“Ohhh Vic, mah man!” said Tank, pushing and pulling me by the shoulders.
Thus erupted the Greek chorus: “Go for it, Vic!” “Thatta boy, Vic!”
Stephanie Hinkle pulled me by the wrist to the bathroom, shoved me inside, and slammed the door. I started to panic, again having flashbacks of being locked in the Geigers’ attic—I missed Karl.
After a few minutes of me checking myself in the mirror and pacing along the tile,