“Hey Vito, are you okay? You look upset.”
“No, that’s just my face,” I accidentally snapped back.
“Oh, sorry.”
“No, no. Ha, it’s just that people have been saying that to me all my life. It was more of a reflex. Sorry.”
“That’s okay. But I did hear you lost a friend recently? Or…”
“No, my friend’s dad died last year. It’s been…”
“Awwww, you poor thing. Come here.” And she pulled me in close, the sidestream of smoke snaking into the air next to my face.
I felt guilty accepting that hug. Karl needed that hug. Go hug Karl!
And then she kissed me. It wasn’t particularly precise and it didn’t feel particularly good, but I will say this: I enjoyed the taste of kissing after a cigarette.
“Eyy ohh! Look at this!” shouted Sonny, arms spread out from his sides as if to say finally. “How are the two lovebirds? How ’bout a shot to celebrate?” Sonny took a shot, by himself, straight from the bottle of vodka.
“Goddammit!” screamed Katie, storming down the driveway. “Ricky and his shitbag friends are on their way here. Now.”
“What, why? What are you talking about?” said Diana.
“I was on the phone with him. He would not stop calling me. And fucking Joey started yelling ‘pussy’ over my shoulder. So he freaked out and said he’s on his way with his ‘boys.’ Ugh, he’s such a douche.”
I hopped off the rock wall and waited to hear the plan like a foot soldier awaiting orders from his paladin to defend against an orcish assault.
“How the fuck does he know where Tank’s house is, Katie? Fuck it. Vito, go tell Joey and them to get out here. Kate, how many did he say…”
I turned on a dime and sprinted up the driveway like I was Deion Sanders covering Jerry Rice. “Yo yo yo yo,” I said, trying to catch my breath. “Some guy from Westfield, Ricky something, is coming with his boys.”
“Fuck him,” said Joey, not even putting down his Solo cup of mixed everything. “I’ll knock that Wonder-Bread-eatin’, ketchup-on-pasta-puttin’ little bitch the fuck out.”
We followed Joey outside to his car, where he popped the trunk and started handing out miniature bats—the kind they give away at minor league baseball promotions—to each of us like we were in the armory. “Mafia bats,” he called them; easier to conceal, but they still packed a wallop on a kneecap.
“Give me one of them,” said Sonny as he pulled his white t-shirt over his head, leaving him in nothing but tattoos and a guinea tee.
Joey and Sonny were linebackers, built thick like Tank, but with two extra years in the weight room. I had a growing frame but had yet to fill out, and without any tattoos or piercings—my mother said she’d rip them right out of my ears—I practically felt naked standing there fully clothed.
I had never met Ricky, at least I didn’t think I had; perhaps he too was at the party with the invigorating globe collection and I merely ignored his advances. But when he pulled up in his Mercedes SUV adjacent to the driveway and popped out in his blue collared shirt and khaki shorts—all of his ‘boys’ were in similar, if not matching, attire—and began firing off “guido,” “greasy,” and “guinea,” I couldn’t help but visualize a senior-year Pierce Stone.
The girls rushed them, forming a barrier between us, telling them to get the hell out of here—we are Hell—and go home. I gripped the Mafia bat until my skin sounded like tightening rope. Part of me wanted to resolve the matter without fighting and preach nonviolence like the good Lord intended, but another part of me wanted to use violence so very, very badly.
There was a bunch of shouting and finger-pointing and honestly it was all so convoluted that I couldn’t make out specifics. There were a lot “faggot” and “cocksucker” and other colorful, derogatory terms for homosexuals flung around. I followed Joey and Sonny’s lead, grabbed Diana by the waist and moved her out of the way, and sized up the kid in the pink—pink—Ralph Lauren polo.
We would’ve killed them—weren’t they ever told “don’t show up to a Mafia bat fight with fists”? But no one threw down. Ricky and the ‘boys’ got back in the Mercedes and peeled off down Tank’s street, getting in one more barrage of “cocksuckers” and “faggots” as they hung out the windows.
It felt good to mobilize as a unit—that feeling of camaraderie I was trying to get when I asked Tony and George to hide in the bushes with weapons and protect the Halloween decorations on Mischief Night.
“We would’ve fuckin’ merked ’em,” said Joey, turning toward Katie.
“Yo, you guys see Vito?” started Carmine. “Yo Vito, I thought you were going to fuckin’ kill that kid. I look over and Vito’s just silent, got this game face on and everything.”
“I bet Vito’s the nastiest motherfucker out of all of us,” said Sonny, putting his arm around my shoulder.
“Yo, let’s set off those fireworks to celebrate. Like the Romans and triumph and shit,” said Joey.
“You idiots are gonna get the cops called on us,” said Carina.
“Fuck it, my cousin Paulie is a cop over in Springfield. We’ll be fine,” said Carmine.
“That’s not how it works,” said Carina.
Diana sauntered over to me as we headed back inside. “Hey, thanks for not crackin’ any skulls.” She grabbed my forearm, running her fingers through my arm hair jungle, and worked her way down to my hand. I was still humming and caught myself purposely taking my time to get inside the house, hoping that Mercedes would make its way back down Tank’s street. “Hey, let’s go downstairs,” she said, redirecting me from the front door and down the outside steps that led directly to Tank’s bedroom. “You have condoms, right?” she asked—plural, like I worked at a 7-11.
“Um… no.”
“Okay, take one of Freddy’s. What do you guys call him, Tank?”
Tank has condoms? How would she
