One Hit Wonder. Charlie CarilloЧитать онлайн книгу.
to tip. Come on, take it.”
She didn’t want her father to catch her giving me more money. She kept peeking over her shoulder as she held out the bills.
“Will you take it, already?”
“What’s your name?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what’s your name?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m Lynn.”
“I’m Mickey.”
“Take this money, Mickey.”
“Listen,” I said, “you wanna get a slice tonight?”
She cocked her head in puzzlement. “A slice?”
She didn’t know what I meant. It might have sounded like a sexual offer to her. I had to clarify myself, and fast.
“A slice of pizza,” I explained.
Those impossibly big green eyes widened even more. She shook her head, as if to clear it of confusing thoughts.
“You’re asking me out?”
“I…yeah. Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You don’t seem too sure.”
“Did I do it wrong? I’ve never asked a girl out before. I’m not sure how it’s done.”
She giggled, not at me but at the comedy of the situation. At last she lowered the hand holding those three bucks.
“Sure, why not. When?”
“Eight o’clock?”
She nodded. “Okay. But please, take this tip.”
She held out the money again. I shook my head.
“Keep it,” I said. “You can buy the sodas.”
She smiled, went back inside and shut the door. I was practically flying as I finished the rest of my paper route. Collecting from the rest of my customers was a breeze that day. Everybody paid up, nobody gave me a hard time.
For the first time in my life I felt at ease in the world, like I belonged, like I fit in, but it wasn’t just that. It was a lot more than that.
Suddenly I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
She was waiting for me in front of her house at eight o’clock. It was a short walk to Ponti’s Pizza, an old-time joint that had containers of stale oregano and dusty Parmesan cheese on red Formica tables. We settled down at a booth with slices and sodas, and I was delighted to see that Lynn knew how to fold a slice so it wouldn’t flop over when she lifted it for a bite. It was the first time I noticed something that would always impress me—Lynn never, ever did anything awkwardly. I was always tripping over things and knocking over drinks but she glided through life like a swan, a pizza-nibbling swan who seemed to be enjoying our first date.
We’d hit a silent patch. I felt I had to say something, and what I said couldn’t have been more stupid, considering where we were.
“Do you like pizza?”
Lynn nodded. “Who doesn’t like pizza?”
Panic. “I don’t know. Maybe some people are allergic to it.”
“Allergic to pizza? Who?”
“I don’t know…people who are allergic to tomatoes, maybe.”
“There are people who are allergic to tomatoes?”
“Well, there must be….”
My voice trailed off. I was drowning in my own foolish words, and just then in walked three Italian kids with slicked-back hair. Cigarettes dangled from their lips. I knew one of them from grade school, an indifferent student named Enrico Boccabella. Our ways had parted a few years earlier, when his parents chose not to waste money on a Catholic high school education for Rico. He acknowledged me with a solemn, wordless nod.
Rico was the alpha male of the pack, ordering three slices and three Cokes. Jimmy Ponti seemed relieved when Rico paid up front. The other two carried the food to a round table, where the three of them sat and ate with their sleek heads tilted toward the middle of the table. Gold crosses dangled under their chins as they spoke in soft, urgent voices.
There were rumors that Rico was the leader of a burglary ring that hit rich people’s houses in Great Neck, the ritzy town right on the Nassau County/Queens border. They might have been planning their next heist. Now and then they stared at Lynn, but she looked back without fear, the way a truly calm person can stare down a menacing dog.
I was impressed, and glad to have something to talk about besides pizza allergies.
“My fellow Italians,” I said, almost in apology.
“Oh, I think Italians are wonderful.”
“They are? I’m not so sure about that.”
As if to reinforce my point, Rico let out a long, resonant belch, to the delight of his companions. Lynn rolled her eyes.
“I don’t mean those guys,” she continued. “I mean the Italians in Italy. The world would be a lot less beautiful without the Italians.”
“It would?”
“Oh, sure! The paintings, the sculptures…it’s an unbelievably rich history. I can’t wait to see it.”
“See what?”
“Italy. I’m saving up for my trip.”
I was stunned to hear this. She was fifteen years old, and planning a trip to the other side of the world. The farthest I’d ever been on my own was Yankee Stadium, and I got lost on the way home.
“I want to see Florence, Venice, and Milan,” Lynn continued, ticking the cities off on her fingers. “And Rome, of course. The Sistine Chapel.”
“When are you going?”
“When I have enough money. I work a cash register at Pathmark on the weekends. I’ve got a pretty good fund going…. Don’t you want to see Italy?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Aren’t you curious? You’re Italian, aren’t you?”
“Half.”
“Well, then, Italy is your heritage! Don’t you care about your heritage?”
“What are you gettin’ so excited about?”
“Ever heard of Venice? It’s this city the Italians built on water! People ride in boats called gondolas to get around! Wouldn’t you like to do that?”
“I guess.”
She giggled. “You guess? We’re talking about the most unique city in the world, here! Think you’re ever going to ride a gondola in Little Neck?”
“Maybe if we had a flood.”
She sat back in her booth and stared at me. “You’re smart,” she said softly, “but you don’t have to be a wise guy, Mickey. It doesn’t help anything.”
I was burning with humiliation. “How come you know so much about Italy?”
“Books.”
“But you’re not Italian.”
“That’s right. I’m Irish on both sides.”
“Well, don’t you want to go to Ireland?”
“No.”
“But that’s your heritage.”
Lynn waved me off. “Irish people drink and they sing sad songs. Who wants to go all the way across the ocean for that?”
Our voices had risen to almost