Christopher Prato - Little Boy or, Enola Gay

That pissed me off. “Well, do you?” I repeated.

“Sometimes,” she said, grinning, as if she was telling me how often she roller-skated. She was beginning to piss me off. I had to find out more about her.

“Who do you hang out with? Lots of boys?”

“A few,” she said. “But mostly my cousin and her friends. My cousin is older than me. She introduces me to all of her friends.”

Overwhelmed by an urge to know all about her ‘friends,’ I abandoned my plan to break up with Maggie and decided to interrogate her instead. Sure, her friends were probably hoods and losers, each and every one of them. But just how greasy were they? Maybe Maggie was just another piece of shit on Queens Boulevard. Maybe she gave me a fucking disease!

“Like who? Anyone I might know?”

“A.J., there are like billions of people in New York!” She laughed again. Suddenly, she seemed to be a lot less interested in me. Her eyes wandered up at the trees and lake out of apparent boredom. She didn’t seem to take my questions seriously. It was frightening. And I was outraged. I would’ve walked away right then and there; but first, I had to know what kind of people she hung out with. Sure, I wanted to quell my fears. But I also wanted to discover something bad about her, something that would make me hate her, something that would compel me to kick her goddamn face and walk the fuck away, leaving her alone in the city. Or at least just walk away.

“All right,” I said, trying to hold back a burst of rage, “enough games. Just tell me a few names.”

She out her index finger to her chin. I still remember her stupid response—“Ummmmmmm… Ummmmmm” as I sat there waiting for what felt like a lifetime. “Ummmmmmm, well, there’s this senior I know named Kerry—she goes to Stella Maris, too. She helps me get beer since I don’t have a fake ID. And then there’s this girl Laura. She gets me into lots of clubs. Then there’s Elizabeth. Her and her sister always drink with me at the park in Ridegwood, the one where no cops come, you know? She sometimes goes to Kearney’s, too. We even hooked up with the same guy in the same night once!” She laughed again. Roller-skating is fun! Hardy-fucking-har.

Had I stuck to my new plan, I would’ve bitch-slapped Maggie and walked the fuck away. I would’ve said “Catch ya later, whore,” and split. I would’ve laughed at her for laughing at me. Not a giggle laugh, but a vindictive one, a hearty chuckle that would’ve bellowed across the Central Park bridges and let Maggie know that she was a piece of shit and I knew it; that there were hoods in my school that had too much self-respect to come on her face; that no guy in Kearney’s could replace her long-lost daddy; that even her sexy body could not lure me away from The One.

Instead, like God had just snapped a picture, I was frozen in a cold flash of light. Then I felt something funny in my gut: butterflies. For the first time since I’d sat in that spot with Maria last spring, I had butterflies in my stomach. Only these butterflies didn’t tickle. They had stingers. And they danced and pricked my insides with glee. Unable to escape, plastered to the cotton blanket below, I forgot for the moment that Maggie was beside me. She simply disappeared. All that was left were the words that had just shot out of her mouth like a round of bullets. It was just butterflies… butterflies… butterflies… and then bullets. A moment later, I understood why.

“What’s her last name?” I asked. “Elizabeth’s, I mean.”

“Della Verita,” she said. “Why?”

I ran.

Through the park I dashed, huffing and puffing my way to the R train, hoping to catch Maria before more damage could be done.

The subway ride home lasted five years. I plopped into the hard plastic seat, and tightly gripped the slimy, shiny metallic pole. Somewhere in the tunnel between Lex and Queens Plaza, my body atrophied, all except for my head. My skull shook—trembled, actually—from side to side, preparing to deny everything that Maria would accuse me of. No, no, no! I didn’t do it! I practiced, silently within. The movement was non-existent to those around me, but I felt it.

I’d left Maggie alone by the pond in Central Park. Thinking about it now, she must have thought I was crazy for jumping up and sprinting away like that. At the time, however, had someone asked me, I wouldn’t have recognized the name Maggie, or the park. Who’s Maggie? I’d forgotten all that before I darted away from her. Perhaps that’s why I neglected to ask her to promise not to tell Elizabeth about me.

But, to be honest, I never even considered that. Within the recesses of my heart I knew that my doomsday had arrived. The long and winding road had led me to the gates of Hell. But I was going to fight it all, fight the inescapable, try to avoid my fateful journey through those gates. I couldn’t live without Maria. There was no getting around that fact. But that reality didn’t strike me until it was too late.

Precisely what happened next has been erased from my mind. All I know is that somehow I ended up standing in front of Maria’s house, shivering more than the spring air called for. Her doorbell sounded like fire alarm to my ears. Impatiently, I waited for her to answer.

A plane thundered overhead. It resonated like a B-1 bomber; however, glancing toward the sky, I noticed that it was a simple Boeing 747, perhaps en route to Paris or Rome, or some other place I’d never visit. How I longed to be sitting in its cockpit, traveling to a faraway place.

As Maria opened the door I was still staring at the sky. I’d completely forgotten about my tar-stained teeth and smoky breath, a result of the cigarettes I’d sucked down on the subway platform, and on the walk to the subway, and on the walk to her house. Had it not been for the terrible look in my eyes when she first saw me, perhaps Maria would’ve noticed the odor of tobacco. Instead, she stood before, quiet and still. I didn’t ask if her parents were home; I didn’t know what day it was, or what time of the year it was. Trying to hold back a torrent of sad tears and vomit, I just stood there, waiting for her to make the first move. Maybe she doesn’t know anything , I thought, despairingly. Maybe it’s not too late to save our relationship . Maria’s cutting stare filled me with more uncertainty than ever before. I didn’t know whether or not Maria knew about my encounter with Maggie. I didn’t know whether her silence was a result of my unexpected visit, or a sign of the news she’d just learned of from her sister, Elizabeth, or, God forbid, from Maggie herself.

She made an about-face and began walking down the staircase toward her room. I remained in the doorway ready to cry and throw-up at any moment. Then she motioned for me to follow her. I snapped out of my trance and plodded behind her.

I don’t recall pondering my first statement to Maria that day. I suppose my assumption was that—God, I don’t know—if I could control what was told to her first, she would disbelieve other versions of the story. It was the very first time in our entire relationship that I can’t recall even attempting to devise a plan of action. The only specific thing I do remember was wondering what she would tell her father and mother. If she remained my girlfriend, was her love strong enough to keep my disloyalty a secret? Despite what Grandpa Della Verita had said, I didn’t know for sure if her father had sent in the recommendation. Academy acceptances and rejections would be delivered within a few weeks.

Maria was staring at me. She had an uneasy look, one I’d never seen before. When someone who’s trusted you has caught you in a lie, they have this look—you know what I’m talking about, because it’s a look you only see in that situation.