Uproar.
“Eyy, I’m not white,” said Joey. “Italians aren’t white. That’s like Wonder Bread, motherfuckers.”
“Henri and Pierre are good dudes,” I said.
“Hard to believe that,” started Sonny. “My father’s old neighborhood is all mooglis now. He said the entire block used to be guineas and Polacks.”
They used “guinea” with pride, similar to the way Pierre and Henri said “nigga.”
“Jessie’s dad complains about that too,” I said, staring into my limoncello shot with the fear of God. “He says Weequahic used to be all Jewish. That this writer Philip Roth went there, who wrote this famous book about this girl from Short Hills. Goodbye, Columbus, I think.”
“I love Short Hills girls. Got this snobby ’tude and shit. Love it,” said Joey.
“Eyy Michaela, you got that Short Hills attitude? Tank, your sister kinda does,” said Carmine.
“Hey, so Vic. Are you and Jessie still hooking up?” she asked.
“Well… I guess. I haven’t talked to her in a while. She didn’t respond to my text either,” I said, opening and closing my RAZR phone.
“Ohhh, ya know what that means!”
“She’s sucking face with the Jew Crew!”
Uproar.
I glanced at Michaela and could see a little smirk appear. When our eyes met, she rushed to the fridge and grabbed a sparkling water.
“Eyy, have some of this swill instead. It’s been marinating in my Nana’s cabinet for a hundred fuckin’ years!”
“Is it any good?” she asked.
“No, but it’ll get ya nice and sauced.”
The liqueur hit Michaela like a ton of bricks. We probably should’ve cut her off after the third shot, but by 10:30, the girl had taken her shirt off and tossed it on the floor and wasn’t stopping her tight skirt from popping over her butt cheek.
We stopped salud-ing (translation: cheers! Sláinte! Kanpai! À la vôtre!) and went rogue with our drinks. The crack of shot glasses on the wood table started to form an avant-garde percussive rhythm, like a tribute to Thelonius Monk. Joey left to puke in the bathroom, even though he didn’t want to admit it—his bloodshot eyes betrayed his stiff upper lip.
“Eyy ohh, Michaela, you gotta give my boy here a birthday present,” said Sonny as he shook Carmine by the shoulder.
“Hey Freddy, do you… do you know when Carina is getting back?”
“My Nana says that you never show up to a party empty-handed. Hey sweetheart, you listenin’ to me?” said Sonny.
“She can’t even keep her eyes open,” said Tank.
“Hey Michaela, you okay?” I said, putting my hand on her back to keep her from falling off her stool.
“Look at us. We’ve barely put a dent in this piss and we’re all wasted,” said Carmine.
She leaned in and rested her head on my shoulder. “Do you want a present, Victor?”
If I was single, I would throw you on the sofa and rip your clothes off and attack you like a mad dog.
“Eyy ohh, Vic ain’t the birthday boy,” said Joey as he cracked open a Coors Light.
“Hey Victor,” she whispered, “when’s Carina getting back?”
“Eyy, what’s she sayin’ over there?”
“I’m saying I want to give Victor a BLOWJOB.”
Uproar: “Eyy! Ohh!”
“Vito’s got a girlfriend. Eyy Vito, she ever blow you? I heard the Jewish ones don’t suck on the pisciadool (translation: dick, penis, pisciali),” said Joey.
“That’s why I only date girls from Union,” said Carmine. “The Portuguese will treat ya right. Gotta get a girl with a similar heritage—baccalà (translation: cod) people.”
“I think that if anyone is gettin’ their braciole tasted, it should be Carmine,” said Sonny. “You only turn fourteen once.”
“I will only do it if I can also give Victor one.”
Uproar.
“Look at this, she’s serious!”
“Carmine, ya can’t turn this down.”
“Michaela, aren’t you Portuguese?” I asked. “With some family in Brazil, right?”
“Victor, I want to suck your dick.”
“Look at him. He’s trying not to smile,” Sonny pointed.
I hadn’t smiled in fourteen months—the streak continued.
“And what about Tank, huh? I mean, he’s the host. He needs to get some too, don’t ya think?” posited Carmine.
“Okay, fine, Freddy… I mean Tank… and Carmine. Then Vic, okay?”
“Okay,” they said in unison, then turned to me as if they had just sealed a business negotiation in my favor.
“But I’m with Jessie.”
“Yeah, then where is she? Come on, cuz, if you keep pickin’ the Jewish girls, ya never gonna get that pisciadool slobbed,” said Sonny.
Tank and Carmine argued over who would go first—Carmine eventually won out by playing the “birthday card” hard. He took Michaela by the hand and I watched the tops of their heads disappear as they descended the steps that led to the basement and Tank’s bedroom.
Joey poured out a round of limoncellos, and we shot the shit until Carmine appeared at the top of the steps, grinning ear to ear.
“You up, cuzzo,” he said, patting Tank on the back.
Tank practically slid down the steps, as if he were on a skateboard grinding the rail.
I shot Jessie a text: I think we should break up.
Another round and Tank was ascending the basement steps, sporting—eerily—the same exact grin Carmine had after his appointment with Michaela.
I don’t know why I thought she’d come and get me like a psychiatrist greets their next patient, one foot on each side of the doorway: “And how are we feeling today, Mr. Ferraro?”
The lights were off at the bottom of the stairs and each step down creaked, and I tripped on the last one and almost went crashing into Carina’s door. Turning the corner, there was only a sliver of light emanating from underneath the bathroom door in Tank’s bedroom. I tapped on it with my index knuckle. “Michaela, you in there?” As if she would be anywhere else.
“It’s open, Victor.”
The vanity was overflowing with colognes and body sprays and an uncapped, curled-up tube of Crest. Michaela sat on the brim of the bathtub, her skirt rolled up to her waist like a belt, her knees purple like the galaxy.
“Remember when I asked you on a playdate in Ms. O’Donnell’s class? I just wanted to kiss you, Victor. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
I should’ve
