

A Hero Grows In Brooklyn

By Jeffrey Rubin

Copyright 2012 Jeffrey Rubin

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CHAPTER 1

In the shadows of a leafy maple tree, a scrawny five year old pitches a pink rubber ball up against the steps of his dusty red stoop. As it bounces back, he pretends to be playing shortstop for his favorite team, the Brooklyn Dodgers. He bends slightly forward, reaches out with his hands, and smoothly makes the catch. Quickly he fires to first base. When the ball slams into the outstretched glove of Gil Hodges, a roar sweeps across Ebbets Field!

"Nice play, kid!" Jackie Robinson calls out from third base.

The boy tips his cap. The crowd begins to shout his name, "Steve! Steve! Steve!"

Now, up on the pitcher's mound, the boy wipes some sweat from his brow and then leans forward, copying the exact movements of Don Newcombe. As he begins his windup, a purring vehicle pulls up behind him. Turning around to get a better look, he sees his Uncle Ricky at the wheel of a midnight blue Ford pick-up. Suddenly, the summer's biggest hit, "Rock Around The Clock," comes bursting from the rolled down windows. The boy's hips and arms begin to dance and he cries out over the thrilling music, "Uncle Ricky! Uncle Ricky!"

"How's it goin' _,_ Steve _?_ " Ricky yells back while he finishes parking.

As the final words of the song are reached, Steve and his uncle join in, "We're gonna rock, gonna rock around the clock TONIGHT!!"

The pick-up's driver-side door swings open, and Ricky steps out stretching his tall, lean, and muscular body. He's wearing a short sleeve white shirt which is open at the neck and hangs just above the top of his white linen trousers. His bronze complexion provides contrast to the fine cloth in his outfit—as does his black hair, belt, and well-shined shoes. Steve runs over and leaps into his arms.

Ricky lifts Steve, turns him upside down, flips him right side up, throws him way up in the air, and catches him. Steve is laughing and laughing. Now Ricky begins to playfully mess Steve's golden highlighted dark brown hair.

"Cut that out, or I'm gonna beat ya up," says Steve.

Ricky returns Steve to the ground and with twinkling eyes, crouches down, and throws up his dukes. The two dance around sparring.

Steve takes a jab at his uncle's chest.

Ricky blocks it.

Steve quickly follows with a swing to the shoulder and hits pay dirt.

Ricky pretends to wince from the pain.

"I got ya good that time, Uncle Ricky."

Ricky rolls his eyes around while looking like he's about to topple over. Then he smiles, takes a comb from his back pocket, and slides it through his thick ebon hair. His Romanesque facial features are striking and it's easy to imagine him a dashing young emperor. When he begins to speak, however, the way he mixes Italian words in with a distinct Brooklyn accent exclaims to anyone within earshot that the handsome young man standing before us is hardly some imperial leader.

_"S_ _impatico bambino_ , go on with ya stoopball. Show me how good ya are."

Steve steps into position, throws the ball up against the steps, and on the rebound makes a nice pick-up on a short hop.

_"Bene!_ " cries Ricky.

Steve throws it again and this time the ball bounces off the edge of a step, lines back to Steve, who deftly sticks out his hands and nabs it.

_"Bravissimo_!" Ricky cries out clapping his hands.

Ricky watches for a few more minutes, his eyebrows rising each time Steve makes an impressive catch. Steve's practicing for hours this summer has really paid off. He's dazzling to watch.

_"Non c'e male_ ," says Ricky, "not bad."

"I'm pretty good Uncle Ricky, ain't I?"

_"Bene_! _Mama Mia!_ "

"You really think so, Uncle Ricky?"

"Yes! Yes! But now let me tell you why I stopped by. I thought maybe you and me, we'd go up ta the Stadium today ta catch the Yanks."

As Steve makes out what Ricky has just proposed, his right hand, which had been cocked to throw the ball up against the steps and is now in forward motion, comes to an abrupt halt. He turns to his uncle. There are five seconds of silence. And then—" **Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"** You'd think Steve had fallen from a window. **"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"**

CHAPTER 2

Steve's mom, hearing her son's screaming screech, rushes out on the stoop with a hand over her heart, and she screams, "Sister of Mary!"

Ricky quickly runs his hands through his hair and looks up to her. " _Ciao,_ Marie," he says with a smile.

The crunched up forehead and lowered eyebrows that Marie had when she first came running out is now easing into relief. And in that relief, we see a very pleasant face with smooth, olive-brown skin, and dark eyes that sparkle. Her nose is well proportioned and she can often be found with a sweet, sweet smile. It is true that she is a bit heavier than the models in the fashion magazines, but she has nearly come to accept this about herself.

Here on the stoop of this four family brick house, Marie aims a frown at her brother-in-law. "Whadaya have Stevie all worked up about, Ricky?"

"I thought I'd take him up to the Stadium today," he responds with an altogether good-natured smile. "The Yanks are playin' a double header 'gainst Boston."

Marie rubs her arm. "Taking the boy to see the Yankees," she says. "Mike's a Dodger fan. He'll think you're trying to turn him into a traitor."

"Uncle Ricky, how come you ain't no Dodger fan like Dad?" asks Steve. "You're from Brooklyn like the rest of us."

Ricky crouches down so he's eye to eye with our young hero. "Steve, the Dodgers got Carl Furillo, Jackie Robinson, Pee Wee Reese, Gil Hodges, Roy Campanalla, and The Duke. They're a great bunch of boys. Why I'm a Yankees fan? Hmmm." Ricky's forehead creases. He slides his right hand through his hair. "Well, to tell ya the truth, I ain't really sure. Ever since I remember, your dad loved the Dodgers and I loved the Yanks. I guess for me it's got somethin' ta do with Joe DiMaggio. When I was a boy he was the Yankees' centerfielder, and wow, I went for him in a big way. Every day I'd find out how he made out—and well, he was a _paesano,_ a _paesano_ with _viva forza_! And well, then he retired. By that time I guess I just got used to rooting for the Yanks." Ricky shrugs his shoulders. "So there ya have it. Ya still wanna go see 'em today?"

"Yeah! But what'll Dad say?"

"Well, let's go see," says Ricky, and he straightens up and leads the way from the stoop into the apartment. Heading toward the kitchen through a hallway with old black and white family pictures hanging on the walls, Ricky breathes in deeply. "Mmmmmm. Smells like garlic, olive oil and tomatoes. Ya making some of your great sauce, Marie?"

She turns to Ricky beaming. "On Sundays, I like to make a big pot before the heat sets in so in the evening, and a few times during the week when I get home from work, I can get supper together a little easier."

"Your sauce," says Ricky, "it sings in the mouth." With this, he puts his right hand's thumb, pointer, and middle fingers together, kisses their tips, and points them up to the sky.

Steve's dad, Michelangelo Marino, who is called Mike for short, is sitting at the kitchen table in a white undershirt, his arm muscles rippling as he sips a cup of coffee and bites into a donut. He has remarkably broad shoulders, just a hint of a pot belly, and his nose looks like it's been crushed at least a half dozen times. It is just as he reaches for a lit cigarette that is burning in a heavy glass ashtray when he notices his younger brother, Ricky. " _Dio mio_!" he flares. "What the hell do you want?"

Ricky attempts a response but Mike harshly interrupts—

"Ya come down here to say I told ya so 'bout last night's gad damn poker game?"

"No I ain't..."

_"Va all' inferno_!" Mike screams.

_"Calma,_ " Ricky softly replies, and with great effort he restrains himself from repeating the sentence he had told Mike a few months earlier—There'd be nothing wrong with the poker game if the guys ya play with played nickel, dime, quarter, but they're all trying to make out like they're a bunch of gaddamn Rockefellers.

_"Dio mio!_ " Mike hollers pounding the table. "I couldn't pull a decent card all night. _Bastardo!_ " Mike glares down at the table, pounds it again, moans, and turns silent.

Ricky waits patiently.

Steve lets out a long sigh, runs to Ricky, then to his mother, and then back to Ricky. He pulls on Ricky's sleeve while looking wide eyed into his eyes.

"Soon," Ricky whispers.

Steve puts his hands on his head, and then flings them in the air.

With a large wooden spoon, Marie stirs the sauce she has cooking in a pot on the gas stove as steam wafts upward toward the ceiling.

When Mike moans again, Marie glances over to him. She notices how, in such a familiar way, he looks at his cigarette, flicks the ashes into the ashtray, and takes a long drag.

The first time I saw him, she says to herself, we were teenagers in Angelo's Pizzeria and he was smoking a cigarette exactly like he is now with the same angry expression. And then he turned, looked me over, and his anger turned into a wonderful smile; my how I fell for him. I remember thinking, if only I were fifteen pounds thinner.

With this memory, her whole struggle with her weight flashes before her—all those hours with her back to her mirror crying her eyes out; all those desperate diets that all, ultimately, failed.

As these recollections pass by, their tone begins to undergo a shift. Marie recalls how, over the years, she has encountered so many wonderful women that pleased without perfect physical beauty. Complete satisfaction with my weight, she decides, could have led to, well, a kind of contentment. Yes, I believe so. I've been developing higher character because of all that I've been through. And character is far more important than shallow appearances.

After what seems to be a hundred years to Steve, Mike crushes out his cigarette, and looks up at Ricky. "Ya take Mom to church this morning?"

"Yeah."

"Ya know I would have done it but I didn't get home till dawn. Did she say anything?"

"She said she likes it when you take her. She was disappointed."

"Well, it's good for you to go for a change, Ricky. Was Chris Bellona there? She's always asking 'bout you. What a looker."

Steve glances at his dad, and then his uncle. He spins around, flops down on a kitchen chair, leans forward, and puts his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the floor. Softly, he sighs and his cheeks begin to burn. Who cares about Chris Bellona, he says to himself. What about the Yankees!?

"Yeah, she was there," says Ricky. "When we got out of church, I was talking to Mom under the big maple out front and she's by her car in the lot. After a couple of minutes, she calls after me. So I tell Mom I'll be right back and I go over, ya know, to see what she wants. 'Hi, beautiful,' I says. Then she places her hands on my shoulder and leans into me, kinda snuggling. I can smell her perfume and feel her soft..." and his glimmering brown eyes lose focus on anything present in the room. An observer studying those fine glowing eyes at this moment would be at a loss to say exactly what they are seeing, and yet there would be no doubt they are looking in the general direction of heaven.

"Well," says Mike, "if you could get that far with Chris at church, think of how far you could get if ya take her out on a Saturday night. Ya ought da ask her out."

"A lady like that comes from a pretty well off family, I don't think I can afford her."

"It's your chance for _amore,_ " says Marie _._ "Take her for a walk in Prospect Park, and then after, you could go to Juniors' Restaurant. It's a little more expensive than a typical deli, but not too bad. It would be very nice, and you can see, maybe _amore_ is just waiting for you, Ricky Marino."

"I already know I like her. I like her a lot," and as Ricky says this he brings his hands to his heart.

"So," says Marie, "what are you waiting for?"

"The thing is, once I spend the evening with her I'll be completely hooked and I'll want to take her to the nicest places and I just can't afford that right now."

"That's no way to think," says Mike. "If ya both like each other ya work it out, for Christ's sake!"

Ricky pulls up a chair next to his brother's and sits down. Leaning forward, his hands open, palms facing Mike, he says, "Ya see, it's like this. I like being a longshoreman, the ocean air, the guys all working together loading and unloading the great international ships... work where ya get to use your arms and legs, I love that. It's just, well, ya see, last week during my vacation I worked on the cabinet and I got this burning feeling that I want to work with wood in a sea side shop more than doing the dock stuff. When I make a table or a chair or a cabinet, I'm using my arms and legs, and to me, it's not just a piece of furniture, it's, well it's a work of art, _comprendo?_ "

"If ya feel that way about it," says Mike, "well ya already got most of the tools. What does it take to set up a shop like what ya want?"

"Ten grand."

"Ten grand! _Stupido!_ It would take ya ten years to raise that kind of dough! Ten years, for Christ's sake, Ricky!"

Marie, rinsing some dishes off in the sink, looks Ricky over. He has his youth, she reflects. He won't be twenty for another month.

"If it takes me ten years it takes me ten years," says Ricky laughing as if he were bold and free. "I admit it's gonna take a while, but I'm gonna make it happen, and only then I'll be ready to start a family."

"Well, Michelangelo, that Italian artist I was named after, he had to create out of stone," says Mike, "maybe you're the Michelangelo of wood."

Steve had been patient; God knows he had been patient. And if there was any justice in this world, the recording angel ought to have written this monumental effort down to Steve's credit. But, at this point, Steve gets up and walks over to the sink. "Mom," he says softly while pulling on Marie's apron and looking way up to her eyes. "Mom, when is Uncle Ricky gonna ask?"

Mike looks at Steve, and then to Ricky. "So, why'd ya stop by, Ricky, if it's not to give me a hard time 'bout last night's poker game?"

"I thought I'd take Steve to see a ball game."

_"Idiota!_ The Dodgers are in Pittsburgh this weekend," Mike retorts pointing to his head and then to Ricky's.

"Yeah, I know. I thought we'd catch the Yanks' doubleheader up at the Stadium."

"Can I go Dad? Please. I'll never ask ya for anythin' else ever. Please? Pleeeeeease?"

"A Yankee game, for Christ's sake!" Mike hollers.

"They're playing the Red Sox," Ricky says. "In one day the boy'll get ta see not only Mickey Mantle but Ted Williams—two of the greatest ever lived."

"Mantle and Williams, Dad! Pleeeeease!"

"Well, Jesus, if ya wanna go, ga 'head," says Mike. "But if it turns ya into a gad damn Yankee fan, better not let me hear ya rootin' for them 'round me or I'll give ya plenty."

"I won't! I won't! I love ya Dad! I love ya."

_"Bravissimo!_ " responds Ricky. "Go get ya mitt, Steve. Maybe you can catch a ball that wanders into the seats."

"If it's a doubleheader, you better take along a jacket," says Marie as she begins to pack up a bag for them.

"The boy's gonna have a super time, Mike," says Ricky. "I got pretty decent tickets from Caginesi."

"What's the boss doin' giving _you_ tickets?" asks Mike.

"Me and my pick-up helped him move his son, Frank, up ta Albany yesterday. Frank's starting college there next week. I guess Caginesi was planning on going to the games but he decided he'd sleep over in Albany so he could spend all Sunday there. You shoulda seen his face whenever he talked about saying good-bye to Frank. _Peccato._ I guess it's gonna be tough on him."

"What's the big deal?" Mike asks. "Albany's only a lousy three hours from here."

"Well, Caginesi, he's had Frank living with him since he's a baby, and now he's eighteen."

"Hmmm," says Mike as he picks up from the table a pack of Chesterfields. He slides a cigarette out, lights it with his stainless steel Ronson, takes a long drag, leans back on his kitchen chair, rests his eyes on his son, and thinks on this for a while.

CHAPTER 3

"There it is!" cries Steve. "There it is!"

"Yeah," Ricky responds, "Yankee Stadium—some ballpark!"

They are approaching the three-tiered horseshoe colossus from Manhattan's Harlem River Drive. Across the river over on the Bronx side, the massive structure swells as they come closer and closer.

"Wow!" Steve keeps saying every few seconds. "WOW!"

The boys leave the pick-up in a large parking lot beside the El. Steve is all eyes as he and his uncle follow the hordes of people heading to their shrine.

Entering through a gate Steve hears cries of "Get ya scorecards heah!"

People are streaming in multiple directions.

Ricky checks the section on his tickets and looks up at a sign. "It's this way, Steve," he says motioning to his left.

A few minutes later, a gray haired man is leading them to their box seats, just behind the Yankees' dugout along the first base side of the field.

_"Momma mia,"_ cries Ricky, "dese are the best seats I've ever had by far! Duh boss must've laid down a bundle to get them!"

Steve's amazed at how enormous everything looks compared to the black and white TV picture he's used to. The green of the field, the darker green of the grandstand seats, the blue of the sky, and the colorful characters all around him join together, filling him with unforgettable wonder.

"Look!" cries Steve, "it's Yogi Berra! For real!" Steve's pointing to the short, knobby catcher wearing his number 8 jersey. Berra is standing behind home plate signaling to Whitey Ford, the Yankees starting pitcher, to begin his warm-ups.

"Let's see what's in this bag ya mom packed, besides your jacket," says Ricky. "Look, a bag of peanuts. Oh, we got us a box of Cracker Jacks, too. Steve, your _madre's_ _carissimo!"_

"Soda heah!" yells a tall skinny kid carrying a large tray of cups. "Soda heah!"

Ricky waves at him.

The skinny kid hustles down the steps to get to Ricky.

"Let me have two Cokes," says Ricky.

* * * *

Soon the game gets underway.

Ford looks mighty good as he quickly strikes out Goodman and gets Klaus to pop up. There's some respectful boos when Ted Williams, the six foot four superstar for the Sox, batting .386, steps to the plate. Working the count full, then fouling off a couple of tough pitches, Williams finally gets a hold of one, smashing a blazer toward first but Collins snares it.

In the bottom of the first, Boston's pitcher, six feet seven Frank Sullivan, looks pretty sharp himself as he retires Carey, Cerv, and McDougald—one, two, three.

The game moves into the top of the second.

"Pretty tight American League pennant race this year," says a man with a straw hat, his binoculars resting on his belly.

"I'm pretty nervous about Chicago," Ricky replies. "They've been creeping closer and closer to us all month. This morning they were just two games out."

Ford hurls another scoreless inning.

In the bottom of the second, through the reverberating public address system, the fans hear the distinctive, precise, resonant voice of the stadium's announcer, Bob Sheppard. " **NOW**... NOW... now, **COMING TO BAT**... COMING TO BAT... coming to bat, **FOR THE NEW YORK YANKEES**... FOR THE NEW YORK YANKEES... for the New York Yankees, **THE CENTER FIELDER**... THE CENTER FIELDER... the center fielder, **NUMBER SEVEN**... NUMBER SEVEN... number seven, **MICKEY**... MICKEY... Mickey, **MANTLE...** MANTLE... Mantle."

Many of the fans, who had been listlessly watching the game and chatting, lean forward in their seats while joining their voices to the cheers.

The Yankees' switch hitting slugger, batting from the left side, approaches the plate. Just before stepping into the batter's box, he pulls off his hat to wipe his brow, revealing his blond hair.

"Boy, he could pass for a high school kid," says Ricky.

"That's really Mickey Mantle," says Steve. "For real!"

Ricky smiles.

Now Mantle steps into the batter's box and sets himself. Here comes the pitch. Mantle begins to swing, but suddenly jerks his bat back.

"STRIKE!" bellows the ump as he turns to his right and violently throws out his right fist with its index finger extended.

Tumultuous cries and boos! Apparently, quite a few fans think the pitch was clearly outside, and they're not exactly shy about letting the home plate umpire know they disagree with him.

On the next pitch, a low inside fastball, the Mick begins his swing and his thick neck muscles bulge, his taut arms surge forward, and CRACK!!!

Steve and those sitting around him almost strain their necks following the path of the ball as it rockets from home plate to the deepest part of the upper deck in right field for a gigantic, home run.

"I can't believe the way that kid can hit!" exclaims a burly red faced guy sitting beside Steve as the Mick begins his trot around the bases, clenched fists slowly pumping at his sides, head and eyes down, unsmiling, and seemingly shy about the raucous cheers swirling about him.

"I've never seen anything like it," says the gentleman in the straw hat, shaking his head.

"I bet I could hit a shot like that," says Steve smiling. "I'd just take my bat and I'd..." and Steve stands up and imitates swinging a bat with all his might.

"Sure ya could," Ricky replies. "In fact I bet ya could hit one right over that left field facade and clear out of the stadium."

"I bet I could," says Steve laughing.

* * * *

It's now the top of the ninth of the first game—the Yankees are winning a close one, 3 to 2. Ted Williams steps to the plate with two outs and runners on the corners. The batter's box lines are almost all gone now. With the game on the line, the respectful jeers Williams received earlier have now been replaced with great big bellowing boos. A single could tie the game; an extra base hit could put Boston ahead.

Batting from the left side of the plate, Williams gazes at the Yankees' pitcher, Whitey Ford. Ford steps off the rubber and starts rubbing his shoulder.

Now he's ready. He leans over toward home plate, his left arm behind him resting on his back, glances at Williams and turns his attention to the crouching catcher, Yogi Berra. As he looks over the signs, Ford twirls the white leather, red stitched ball in his left hand, feeling the seams with his fingertips as he does so. Satisfied with Berra's signals, Ford hides the ball in his glove, makes a few changes in his fingering of the ball, and checks the runners on first and third. The wind-up. The pitch.

Williams lines one into the right field seats just foul.

"Yipes!" cries Steve.

_"Marone!_ " cries Ricky.

Yogi hustles over from his catcher position to the pitcher's mound to conference with Ford. The two great ball players look over at Williams. Each time Ford and Berra say something to each other they cover their mouths with their gloves, hiding the movements of their lips.

Now Ford is nodding. Berra pats Ford on his shoulder, hustles back behind the plate, and as he adjusts his mask he says something to Williams. Williams glances back at Berra but doesn't appear to reply. As Berra crouches down he waves his hand at Williams, and he looks like he's still trying to make some conversation with him.

The runners on first and third are checked. The pitch.

Williams crushes a deep fly ball into the gap in left center. As he finishes the follow through of his magnificent swing, in the same smooth motion, the Splendid Splinter races toward first. The fans leap to their feet, their mouths agape. It looks like a sure triple, maybe an inside the parker. Mantle, getting a great jump on the ball, races after it.

"Look at him go!" Ricky yells as he points to the Yankee centerfielder.

With his world class speed, Mantle closes in on the ball, and then... and then... he leaps off his right foot, reaches out with his left glove hand, notices he can't quite reach the ball, strains to reach further, and just... just manages to grab the ball in the web of his glove.

The crowd roars.

Steve puts his right hand on his forehead and looks up at his uncle with his mouth hung open.

_"Marone_!" cries Ricky shaking his head.

"Great game!" roars the man in the straw hat behind Ricky.

CHAPTER 4

"Hey Steve," says Ricky as he stretches his arms way above his head, "while we wait for them to get ready for the next game let's take a walk. My legs are getting stiff."

"Can we go way up there?" Steve asks pointing to the seats high above them.

"Let's go see," says Ricky.

In the crowded aisle between the dark green seats, slowly they make their way up to a covered cement walkway with hordes of fans on long lines seeking to buy peanuts, ice cream, beer, and soda. After a quick stop in the bathroom, Uncle Ricky looks around to get reoriented.

"Let's try this way, Steve."

"Wow, Uncle Ricky, I never seen so many people!"

The crowd thins out along an upwardly sloping tunnel. Soon, they emerge into bright sunlight and Steve finds himself in the upper deck behind home plate. This view provides a bird's-eye perspective. Looking down from the wall in front of the upper deck's first row of seats, Steve's mouth flies open, and he suddenly takes a step back. "I bet a guy could get pretty hurt if he fell from here!" he cries.

"Ya wanna find out," Ricky responds mischievously. "Here. I'll give ya a boost," and as he says this he bends down, interlocks the fingers of his hands together, and holds them by Steve's feet.

"No thank you," Steve answers feigning anger, throwing some mock punches, and laughing.

As they begin the journey back to their seats, Steve notices the unique smell of stale beer and Cracker Jacks.

"So, Steve, you getting excited about starting kindergarten in the fall?"

"I hear they got some mean kids there."

"There's always a few kids trying to earn respect by pushing kids around."

"Resect? What's that mean?"

"Not resect, respect."

"Yeah, re... respect, Uncle Ricky, what's it mean?"

"Well, if ya like a guy then ya..." Ricky begins to say but then pauses. He was about to say, If you like a guy you respect him. But then he thinks about his older brother Mike. He realizes that he likes Mike, even loves him, but he doesn't truly respect him. Then Ricky wonders to himself if you can dislike a guy and still respect him. Hmmm. I kinda don't like Ted Williams because he plays for Boston, and when he gets a big hit that beats the Yankees I get pretty angry, but I do have a world of respect for him.

"Well?" says Steve.

"I guess I'll tell ya what my dad used to say about respect. You're a little young ta understand this yet but anyway, every now and then your _nonno_ , in his heavy Italian accent, would say ta me and your dad when we were young, 'Ricky, Michelangelo, if ya wanna get respect ya gotta learn how ta use this-uh, wit' this-uh, and wit' this-uh," and as Ricky imitates Steve's grandfather saying these words he points first to his right arm's biceps, then to his head, and then to his heart.

* * * *

When they get back to their seats, Steve feels thirsty from their walk. "Can I get another soda, Uncle Ricky?"

"Let's fill up our empty soda cups over at the water fountain for now. It's not good ta drink too much soda. By the fourth inning of the next game it'll be supper time and we'll get some more soda then with some hot dogs, okay?"

Steve is really in the mood for a cool sweet soda sliding down his hot dry throat. Frustration at having to put off this refreshing sensation leads Steve to think about pleading for the soda. Then he thinks about how, if he's a pain in the butt, he won't get asked to go anywhere else again. In the end, even at this early age of five, Steve senses that at this moment it's best to go along with his uncle's plan. "Okay, Uncle Ricky," he says.

* * * *

As the Yanks are taking the field for the second game, Steve pounds his baseball glove. "Who's pitching for us, Uncle Ricky?"

"Bob Turley. He ain't too bad. Boston's got Tom Brewer going for them, a righty that gives up lots of homers. With the Yankee sluggers, I think we're in pretty good shape."

When Boston's leadoff batter, Jimmy Piersall is called out on what looks like a pretty high pitch, he's none too happy about it and starts to scream at the ump. Boston's manager, Pinky Higgins, hustles onto the field and pulls Jimmy back to the dugout before he can get tossed out of the game.

"That Piersall guy," says Steve, "he's kinda like Dad, ain't he Uncle Ricky?"

"Their anger, it flies all around, and for what?"

* * * *

Once again the Boston Red Sox star, Ted Williams, comes up in the top of the ninth with his team trailing by a run. Boston's got Billy Goodman dancing off third but there are two outs.

Williams smashes a line drive up the middle and the Yankees' scrappy shortstop, Billy Martin, dives for it. When Billy lands, he's on his side all stretched out and the ball is half in the web of his glove and half sticking out. Billy doesn't move a muscle until the umpire runs over, takes a good look at the ball and calls Williams out. Then Billy, very carefully, gets up with the ball still sticking out of his glove, runs over to Williams, and shows it to him, waving it in front of his nose. Williams, playing the perfect gentleman, tips his hat to Billy, and then hustles back to the Red Sox dugout.

The Yankees have swept the doubleheader. Rapturous cheers! Arms thrown in the air! And then, for Steve, comes the greatest moments of the day. The Yankees let the fans walk right onto the playing field after the game. Steve can't believe it. When he first steps onto the grass he looks up to Ricky with wide eyes.

_"Bene_?" asks Ricky smiling.

"Yeah!" Steve replies as he begins to jump up and down, getting the feel of the magic green softness beneath his feet. After a few seconds, he runs over to the infield by first base and picks up some dirt. It looks so different from the dirt in the lot where Steve plays. That dirt is blackish, with pebbles and shards of glass mixed in. This dirt is a much lighter brown, almost reddish. It has a rich moist smell. When Steve rubs it between his hands it feels so cool and fine as it slides through his fingers. He bends down and picks up some more and places his treasure in his pockets. Then he runs out to center field, puts on his mitt, faces home plate, and waits a few seconds. Suddenly he darts back, running as hard as he can, stretching out his glove hand. The crowd leaps to its feet and then lets out a terrific roar as the ball strikes his glove, for, like Mickey Mantle, he has made the greatest play of the day.

CHAPTER 5

As the midnight blue pick-up pulls up alongside Steve's Bensonhurst apartment, the sky is reddening. "Boy, I had a great time," says Steve turning to his uncle. "Can we go again sometime?"

"I had fun too, Steve. We'll go again soon."

Steve leans into his uncle, puts his arms around his waist, and squeezes.

As Ricky returns the hug, and plants a kiss on his nephew's head, the smell of sunshine sweat fills Ricky's nostrils and from deep within him comes a wonderful sensation of all that's fine about warm summer days.

"Thanks for everything," says Steve looking up into Ricky's eyes.

"A rivederci bambino simpatico."

Steve turns to his right, opens the door, and slides out onto the sidewalk. After walking up his stoop, he reaches up and rings his door's buzzer.

Marie opens the door and flashes one of her famous sweet, sweet smiles. Then, upon examining Steve, she cries, "Oh, look at that sunburn!"

"It was great, Mom! Where's Dad?"

"He went drinking with his friends," Marie answers as she waves goodbye to Ricky.

"To the bar on the kawner?" asks Steve.

"Yeah. He left just a little while ago."

"Didn't ya wanna go wit' 'im, Mom?"

Marie looks down to her white and gold speck linoleum kitchen floor for a moment and then she looks up to Steve's brown eyes. "I wanted to stay home and wait for you so I could get you into the shower and then I thought it'd be fun for us to curl up on the couch and watch 'The Ed Sullivan Show.'"

Steve smiles. "Okay Mom, but first do ya got... ya know... those paper things ya put a letter in..."

"An envelope?" Marie asks.

"Yeah. An endadope. Could I have one? I need it for somethin'."

Marie repeats the word, "envelope," a couple of times as she begins to look in a closet just to the left of the dish cabinet. "Here they are," she says as she pulls one out from an orange and black cardboard box and hands it to Steve.

Steve goes into his bedroom, puts his hands in his pockets, and fills them with a little of the reddish-brown Yankee soil. Very carefully, he slides the soft, fine grains into the envelope. Then, way back in the rear of his top bureau drawer, behind his socks, Steve tucks his treasure away.

In the bathroom, Marie turns on the light revealing its little white hexagon tile floor and a picture of a bouquet of bright flowers hanging over the toilet.

"Do I have to take a shower, Mom?"

"Let's go, Steve, get in there."

"You shoulda seen the way Mickey Mantle hit a home run today," says Steve as he begins to get undressed.

"Sister of Mary! Look how sunburned you got!"

Steve puts his hand on the back of his neck and notices it feels hot to the touch.

"I shouldn't have let you go today," says Marie. "A double header in the sun like that, it was way too much."

"No it wasn't, Mom," says Steve, his voice going high, his face muscles tensing. "It was great. I'm fine Mom. I'm fine."

"Sister of Mary! Look at you!"

Steve climbs into the shower and at first the warm water inflames his burn, but in a few seconds, somehow, it becomes soothing.

After soaping up and then washing his hair, Steve steps out of the shower. Marie throws a towel over his head and gently massages the water out of his hair. "Good!" she says. "Now finish up drying yourself and get dressed while I get the TV ready. The show's gonna start in a minute."

In the living room, Marie turns on the TV. It takes a half minute for it to warm up, and then, suddenly, the black and white picture appears on the screen.

"Did it start yet?" asks Steve hurrying into the room wearing his pajamas, still dripping a little.

"Not yet," says Marie as she turns the RCA dial to channel two. "Hmmm. That doesn't look so good." She adjusts the rabbit-ear antenna so she can get rid of the shadows that are interfering with the picture quality. "There," she says, "that's better. You need anything before the show starts?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Well, in that case, I'll just come over here and sit by my handsome young man." Together they settle in on their green sofa to enjoy the night's variety acts.

Steve likes the juggling act. Not only does the guy get balls flying all around, but he also performs a smooth routine using cigar boxes that dance in the air.

During a commercial, as Marie goes into the kitchen to get something to nibble on, Steve gets two pink rubber balls and a baseball and tries to juggle. As he tosses one ball up and then the second, he observes that he is already too late to catch the first because it is about to hit the floor. He tries again and again.

Marie comes back into the living room with a large bowl. The aroma of fresh buttered popcorn enters Steve's nostrils. He puts the balls down, goes over to the sofa, snuggles with his mom, and together they munch away on the soft, fluffy treat.

"Steve, what was all that commotion I heard in here while I was making the popcorn?"

"I was trying ta juggle, Mom. It's kinda hard. I'm gonna practice a little everyday till I get it."

The show drifts by. Marie recalls the quarrel she had with Mike before he left for the bar. He had promised to defrost the refrigerator today, and it hadn't gotten done. Oh, if this had been the only unfulfilled promise of Mike's she would have said nothing, nothing at all. But time and time again!

Aching memory after aching memory drift through her thoughts as Dean Martin croons his way through _That's Amore._ Then Marie looks over to her son. She sees the golden highlights of his dark brown hair, his beautiful face, his sweet lips, the sparkle in his eyes... and as she gazes at him waves and waves of joy flow through her.

The show comes to an end. Steve begins to yawn. It's been a long day.

"Come on, Steve, it's time to go to bed," says Marie.

When they get to Steve's bedroom, Marie tucks Steve in with his teddy bear. "I love you, Steve," she says as she leans over and kisses him on his forehead.

"I love ya too, Mom."

Snuggling with his teddy bear, Steve closes his eyes. His mind drifts here and there. After awhile, he begins to dream of one day becoming the next great Yankee centerfielder.

CHAPTER 6

"Mom, you're getting fat," Steve tells his mother on an early spring day shortly after he turns six.

"Thanks, Steve," Marie replies while squeezing back a wave of tears. "That's just what I needed to hear. Look, Steve, when a mother is going to have another child, she gets fat to make room for the baby she's carrying."

"Yeah, Nick's mom got pregnant and boy did she get fat!"

"Steve, why don't you go out and play."

Steve heads out into the street and quickly gets into a game of punch ball with him and Nick Charo taking on Dave Olinsky and Rich Turzilli. Nick and Steve are up. Home plate is a manhole cover in the middle of the street. The boys have drawn the other three bases using white chalk.

Steve bounces the ball, catches it, tosses it about a foot in the air and punches it with all his might. It flies by Dave in the infield, and Rich, playing sixty feet further back manages to knock it down, holding Steve to a single.

Now it's Nick's turn to step to the plate. Built like a little army tank, Nick carries himself with a tough, no nonsense demeanor. He tosses the ball up in the air and whacks it with his fist. The ball bounces a foot in front of Dave and a yard to his right. He reaches for it but it tips off his hand and bounces toward Rich.

"It's fair!" yells Nick as he hustles to first while Steve dashes toward second.

Rich, seeing he has to hurry to pick up the ball if he's to get to second before Steve for the force out, leans over to his right. In his rush to pick up the ball, he loses control of it and it bounces away.

When Rich gets to the ball he sees Steve has not only reached second, but he's already rounding third and heading for home.

Dave, who has rushed to home plate to take the throw, hollers: "Hurry Rich! Throw it! Throw it!"

Rich reaches back and hurls the ball with everything he's got, sending it way over Dave's head. Steve steps on home, quickly followed by Nick.

After Dave retrieves the ball, he and Rich return to their positions.

The game turns out to be a nail biter. Every time one team gets a lead, the other team fights back and ties it up. Now Steve steps to the plate determined to smash one past Rich when his dad, coming home from work tired and hungry, notices them. "After this inning, Steve, come in the house and wash up for dinner!" he hollers.

"We just got two more innings, Dad," Steve responds. "We'll be done in a little while."

"Don't talk back ta me, Steve, or I'll come over there and give ya plenty!"

"But we're almost done, Dad!"

Suddenly, Steve's dad dashes after him, and when he gets a hold of Steve by a dark gray Buick a quarter block up the street, he wallops him across the face with the back of his hand.

Nick, David and Rich look into Steve's eyes, and then Mike's. "Ain't no call for something like that, Mr. Marino!" yells Nick.

"You mind your own business, Nick, or I'll have a good talk with your dad!" Mike yells back.

Steve runs up the steps to his apartment, flings its door open, darts down the hallway, then through the kitchen, and when he reaches his room, he slams the door, pulls the shades down, and spends the evening staring at the darkness above his bed. From time to time, tears stream down his cheeks.

"Where's Steve?!" Mike demands to know when supper is on the table. "Where is he?!" His great booming voice easily penetrates Steve's bedroom door.

Steve, trembling uncontrollably, covers his head with his blanket.

"He's still in his room, Mike," says Marie. "He's real upset the way you hit him in front of all his friends."

"I'll give him something to be upset about!" Mike hollers as he gets up from his chair.

"Give the boy some time," Marie implores as she quickly moves into position to block Steve's door.

"You let the boy get away with this kind of crap, Marie, there's no telling what he'll turn into. My dad always said, 'A boy gotta be forced to do as he's told, even if ya gotta whip him ten times running. Break his will, in order that his soul may live.' That's what he always said. He knew how to raise kids, I can tell ya that!"

"Give the boy a little time, Mike," Marie repeats, tears now beginning to well up in her eyes.

Usually Mike would have shoved Marie aside. But she is now eight months pregnant, and when Mike looks down at her waist, and then, back up at her watery eyes, he ends up walking away while hollering, "You're gonna turn Steve into a gad damn momma's boy!"

CHAPTER 7

Steve, along with his mom, dad, and new baby brother are all sitting beside the lake in Brooklyn's Prospect Park. Behind them and off to the left, gentle hills, large granite boulders and twisting paths give way to this pleasant lawn and lake area where the family is relaxing and breathing in the fresh fragrances of the new season. To the right is a grove of trees wearing their pale green spring outfits.

Seeing his mom and dad are completely absorbed with his little brother, Steve walks over to a leafy lilac bush a few yards away. It has a sprinkling of white and purple where the flowers are ready to open. Up in the sky, dark clouds are beginning to gather.

"I thought it'd be fun havin' a little brudduh," Steve complains. "He don't do nuttin' but sit there."

"Look how cute he is," says Marie as she takes little Pete's hand and waves it at Steve.

Mike leans over to Pete and smiles. "Hello little guy," he says as he gives his pinkie to Pete to grab onto. "Look, Marie, he grabbed my finger. Wow, what a strong grip! He's got strong hands, Marie, don't ya think so?"

"I think he's got beautiful hands," Marie answers.

Mike leans over and gives Pete a big kiss on the forehead, and then he turns to his wife and says, "I do love you, Marie."

"I... I know," says Marie sadly, "and... and I love you, Mike."

"We better have a catch now, Dad," says Steve. "It looks like it could be raining soon."

Steve and his dad get their mitts and after moving a few yards away from their blanket, Steve reaches back and hurls the baseball to Mike.

"Don't throw so hard at first, Steve," says Mike as he tosses the ball back to him. "Ya gotta loosen up first so ya don't get hurt."

"My arm's fine Dad," says Steve, who then returns the throw pretty hard.

"Don't be a wise-ass Steve or I'll come over there and give ya plenty," Mike says clearly annoyed. "Go slow at first, ya hear me!"

"Okay, Dad. Okay."

Father and son toss the ball back and forth a couple of more times, and then Mike accidentally throws the ball over Steve's head. Steve hustles after it, picks it up, and fires it back.

"Gad damn it!" yells Mike. "I just told ya to start off slow! Why don't ya listen to me, gad damn it?!"

"My arm's fine, Dad."

Mike's blood boils as a powerful urge grips him, an urge to run over to Steve and whack him. Glancing over his left shoulder, Mike sees Marie and Pete playing together. The image of mother and baby slams against his violent impulses. The sound of Steve talking fresh to him resounds in his ears. "That's it Steve!" cries Mike. "I ain't playin' with ya!" and he walks back to his folding chair, throws down his mitt, sits down, lights up a cigarette, and takes a long drag. "The boy don't know how to listen," says Mike to Marie. Then he takes another long drag of his cigarette, and relaxes to the swimming nicotine consciousness.

Steve tosses the ball up in the air, catches it, and looks over at his dad.

Mike takes another long drag of his cigarette, leans over to where Pete is sitting on Marie's lap, blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth so as not to get most of it in the infant's eyes, and begins to tickle him with his fingers. Pete blinks a couple of times, looks into Mike's eyes, and breaks out into a big smile.

"Come on Dad," says Steve. "Have a catch wit' me."

"Ya gonna listen to me and warm up slow?" asks Mike.

"Sure Dad. Sure." As Steve gives this answer, he feels like he's got something caught in his throat that he can neither cough up nor swallow.

Mike takes another long drag from his cigarette and then flicks it away. "All right. What'd I do wit' my mitt? Here it is."

After moving a good distance from Marie and Pete, Mike throws the ball to Steve.

Softly, Steve throws the ball back.

When Mike thinks Steve is good and loose, he calls out, "How's your arm feel, Steve?"

"My arm's fine Dad," Steve replies.

"Okay, let's see what it can do," says Mike as he tosses the ball high and way over Steve's head.

Steve digs hard for it and just catches it over his right shoulder. Then he spins around and whips the ball back to his father, who catches the ball chest high. "Did ya see that play, Mom?"

"I can't believe you caught that, Steve," cries Marie. "That was amazing."

"Dad!"

"Well done, Steve!" Mike exclaims. "Well done!"

"Throw me some grounders, Dad."

Mike throws a hard grounder to Steve's left. Steve gets to it, but the ball hits the heel of his glove and bounces away.

Steve hustles after it and throws a bit wide, but Mike moves well to his left and hauls it in.

"That was a tough play, Steve," says Mike. "Try again."

After a while, Steve is catching the hard grounders pretty smoothly.

As Steve continues to have a catch with his dad, he calls over to his mom. "How old ya think Pete's gotta be before he can have a catch, Mom?"

"Well, Steve, you were five when you started to catch pretty good, but that's a bit unusual. Maybe six or seven."

"That's a long time, Mom, ain't it?"

"It'll go by real fast, you'll see," says Marie.

"Ya think so, Mom?"

"Oh, I'm sure it will, Steve," answers Marie. "I'm sure it will."

Up in the sky the clouds have begun to lighten at the edges. Only way off to the east are there a few heavy clouds and some faint rumbling. For today, the storm has passed.

CHAPTER 8

Steve is now nine years old. There is a chill in the December morning air that seeps through his poorly sealed window. Marie drags herself out of bed clutching her long, pink bathrobe.

In the bathroom she runs the hot water tap in the white porcelain sink and looks up into the mirror. "Mother of Mary, will you look at those bags under my eyes? Oh, my hair is a fright! I look like hell!"

In the kitchen she gets a pot of coffee going. Hmm, let's see now, what should I prepare for breakfast? I'll check the fridge first. Will you look at this, Mother of Mary! "Hey, Mike, there's practically nothing in here."

"What are you talking about, Honey?" He goes over to the refrigerator to check for himself. " _Marone!_ Look at this for Christ's sake! Jesus, where does it all go?"

He shuts the refrigerator's door, puts his hands on his hips, and shakes his head. "Well, okay, today's Friday—payday. When I get home tonight we're gonna go to a fine, fine restaurant. After that we're gonna go to the supermarket and we're gonna buy out the store—steaks, donuts, ice cream—the works."

Steve's still in bed when he hears these words. Images of possible restaurants come to him while he salivates. There's the Greek diner on 86th Street with the huge menu, the Spanish place on 8th Avenue with the great chips and salsa, the Chinese restaurant around the corner...uh oh, it's dad's Friday poker game. With this image he shudders.

* * * *

That evening, six p.m. arrives, and then seven, and then eight—yet no Mike. At nine, Marie prepares dinner—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on stale white bread.

As she, Pete and Steve eat, the radio plays softly. There is no conversation—just wrenching disappointment in the pits of their stomachs.

Ten p.m.—bedtime. Marie tucks her boys in and kisses them goodnight.

It's well past midnight when Mike finally arrives home.

Peeking through the small opening in the slightly ajar door from his bedroom, Steve, whose anger kept him sleepless, sees his dad's face contorting into anguish vacillating with rage.

After stumbling about the living room and putting on the black and white TV, his dad sits in his armchair—the TV light shining onto his face, accentuating its awful gray-white pallor. He just sits there staring blankly. Then, quietly, in comes Marie. She sits down on the carpet beside her husband's chair. She looks up at him and she knows, and he knows, but still she says it mournfully, over and over again. "You lost your whole pay. You lost your whole pay. You lost your whole pay..."

* * * *

The summer Steve turns ten, his parents have their twelfth anniversary. In addition to a dozen roses, Marie receives the following original collection of words from her husband.

It's Still Really There, 8/29/60

Me and Pete are on the porch resting our feet.

Where is strong Stevie? Oh, I hear him

Cheering for the lousy Yankees on the TV.

He's lost in his dream, a damn Yank he'll be.

Marie, you're in the kitchen making something sweet.

I'm wondering what you're making, what special treat.

"Look! There's a moon up there," cries our little Pete,

As he points to the hazy white globe out tonight.

A soft puffy cloud in silvery moonlight

Is peacefully rolling along without any will.

Rolling along, this cloud eases the moon out of sight,

Creating darkness.

"Where go?" says little Pete.

"Did it disappear in thin air?" I inquire.

"Where go?" asks Pete once again.

"Somewhere out there," I say,

"Somewhere high, high, high above that cloud

The moon's still really there, though you can't see it anywhere."

"There it is!" cries Pete, as it eases out again.

The moon—symbol of love and warm passionate romance.

I can see you, Marie, in my mind;

You and I under the softly lit sky;

You and I lost in each other's arms.

Love is like the moon easing in, easing out;

Though sometimes it can't be seen anywhere,

Marie, I want you to know,

My love for you is still out there.

Even when you can't see it anywhere,

And though it doesn't always seem very fair

When you want to see the moon and it's not there,

I go on loving you, beautiful you,

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful you.

"Look! There's a moon up there," cries Pete.

"Come on," I say. "Let's get your mom.

She likes to look at the moon too.

Let's show it to her and give her a great big hug.

Let's tell her we love her always.

Yeah, let's tell her there's a moon out tonight."

With all my love,

Mike

* * * *

Sitting on the stoop in front of his house with his mom, eleven year old Steve is clenching his fist. "How come we gotta move?" he wants to know.

"Well," answers his mom, "with your dad in prison, well, his bosses can't pay him if he can't come to work for six months. Even with my secretary's pay and Uncle Ricky helping out a little, well, we still can't afford to keep this place."

"I don't think it's fair that Dad went to prison," says Steve. "The guy he had a fight wit' broke Dad's nose and nuttin' happens ta him while Dad's gotta spend six months doin' time. It's not fair."

"The judge decided Dad started it Steve and it didn't help any that Dad got into three other fights in the few months before that."

Sitting there, feeling lousy, Steve thinks things over.

"Boy, I'm gonna miss this stoop, Mom. Where we're movin', in that big apartment buildin', they ain't got no stoop at all."

"You said you like the elevator."

"I'd rather have a stoop."

"Can't you play stoopball over a friend's house?"

"Aaaa, it's not the same as havin' your own, Mom. It's not the same."

* * * *

It's a few months later. Ricky pulls up in his pickup beside Steve's new brown brick apartment building, six floors high. "Do you like your new place?" he asks Steve, who is sitting next to him.

"It's nice and clean, but it's got just one step from the sidewalk to the lobby entrance, and anyway people are always coming in and out so you really can't play there."

Steve flings open the truck's door and begins to slide out, but pauses. He turns to his uncle and studies his face.

"Something wrong Steve?"

"It's just, when we're together, you never hit me."

"Do you want me to hit you?"

"No. It's just... did _Nonno_ use to hit you?"

"Now why would you ask that?"

"I... I heard Dad say his dad always said, 'A boy gotta be forced to do as he's told, even if ya gotta whip him ten times running.' Did _Nonno_ use to say that? I mean, he never hits me or Pete."

"I don't remember him hitting me either. But your dad, well your _nonno_ used to get pretty angry with him about the way he would try to bully people. _Nonno_ , he tried talking, he tried yelling, and sometimes he would blow up and... well... yeah he'd hit your dad. I think after he hit him and calmed down he'd feel guilty about it, so he would try to explain to the family why he did it. There was something in your _nonno's_ voice when he would say 'ya gotta whip a kid' that, well I don't really think he was all that convinced of it.

"In most ways your _nonno's_ the wisest man I ever met. But when it came to your dad... well... your dad wanted complete freedom and he didn't care whose freedom he stepped on to get it. People in the family would see how your dad was acting and they'd say to your _nonno_ , 'You better start beating some sense into that kid or he's gonna turn out bad'. Your _nonno_ tried, but it got so your dad, two minutes after he got a beating, was off doing the same stuff like nothing even happened."

"Why weren't you bad, like dad?"

"With me, Steve, I somehow got enough of what I wanted without always trying to show people they better do what I say or I'll rough them up."

"How'd ya do that, Uncle Ricky?"

"Well, let's see, um... well I'd find some friends by finding out what the kids in the neighborhood liked to do. I found that some of the stuff they liked to do, play ball, talk sports, I could dig also, and so I ended up doing the stuff we both liked to do together. Then we'd end up being buddies. Then, if one of my buddies needed something, we'd all chip in and help. If I needed some help, they'd be by my side, _senz' altro!_ It's like my buddies that I got now. We call ourselves The Brooklyn Barons."

"The Brooklyn Barons, Uncle Ricky?"

"Yeah. A baron is a man of great power. Like in the westerns, when they talk about a cattle baron, that's a guy who has great power among the ranchers.

"When I started working at the docks, I didn't know a whole lot of guys, but I found out a few of them liked to go bowling and also they liked shooting darts at a bar. So, one day, I suggested we go on Thursday nights to do that stuff and we started going, and now we're friends. I get enough from my friends, so I don't feel like I gotta bully people to do stuff to get my way. _Capeesh_?"

"I guess."

"Anyway, your _nonno_ , he didn't like your dad's bullying and he tried to break him of it, but he never really got through to him."

"He tried to stop dad from bullying other people by hitting him? He tried to bully dad into stop being a bully?"

"Well, I guess you can say that, but your _nonno,_ he didn't see it like that."

* * * *

Steve takes the elevator up to his apartment on the fifth floor and knocks on the door.

"Who is it?" cries Marie.

"It's me, Mom."

"Did you have fun with Uncle Ricky at the Statue of Liberty?" asks Marie as she opens the door to let her son in.

"We took this ferry to get there and when the ferry began to move the statue looked pretty big, but as we got closer, she started to grow and got bigger and bigger. Then when the ferry docked on Liberty Island she was a hundred miles high. It was really somethin' Mom!"

"I see Uncle Ricky took you for a haircut during your outing," says Marie. "You really needed one." Then she runs her fingers through the back of Steve's hair and pulls the back straight to see if it was cut evenly. "It looks like the barber did a nice job."

"Yeah," says Steve. "And when he was cutting it, Uncle Ricky got a shoeshine from this colored guy. There was somethin' 'bout him I liked, somethin' 'bout his smile. And I watched real careful how he did the shoes. I bet I could shine some shoes and make some money like that. I bet I could."

CHAPTER 9

When Seth Low Junior High's dismissal bell rings at three o'clock on this bright fall 1963 afternoon, most students are thrilled, but none more so than thirteen year old Steve Marino. "They got ya sitting too long," Steve complains to his friend, Nick Charo, as they bound down the exit's steps.

"You ain't kidding!" replies Nick.

"I told Jack and Eddie we'd meet them at the park after we changed our clothes," says Steve, as he and Nick head up Bay Parkway toward 82nd Street where they both live.

The Parkway is a wide thoroughfare with two lanes of heavy traffic in each direction. On both sides, brick apartment buildings stand six stories high. Some have light beige bricks, some, a dark red, and a few are multicolored. Upon the top of their entranceway, several have fancy names like Pershing Arms, or Belvedere Court.

As the boys begin to pass the Jewish Community Center on their right Steve looks over to it and then turns to his friend. "Listen, Nick. At lunch, why don't you lay off Benny? You start in on him, I'm sitting there, I like him, and it puts me in the middle."

Nick looks over to the Jewish Community House. "You're just worried because if I get Benny pissed at us he won't invite us to the 'J' to shoot hoops this winter."

"That ain't it. Besides, it gets dark early in the winter. The center's got a nice indoor gym, there's some damn good players that hang out there... what Benny do ta you ya gotta go piss him off?"

"Nothing. I just like goofin' on him. If it'll make ya happy, for Christ's sake, I'll lay off of him."

The next block, Nick looks down a side street and notices Saint Mary's, a girls' Catholic school, has just let out. "They got some pretty sweet babes over there," he says.

"My mom went there," Steve responds.

Nick had been all set to make a few lewd comments about the Catholic girls, but somehow, after Steve's comment, he's no longer in the mood.

The boys come to a red light. They are about to dash across the street but a '57 aqua-blue and white Dodge with large fins comes barreling through the intersection, followed by a huge black Buick with shiny silver side vents, a yellow Checker cab, a white Volkswagen Beetle, and a stream of other frantic vehicles.

As the boys wait impatiently, a couple of the Saint Mary's girls, Joanne and Teresa, arrive on the scene wearing their school uniform—a white blouse with the school's name patch, a predominantly blue-green plaid skirt, white bobby socks pulled up to their knees, and black shoes with buckles.

"You coming to the church dance Friday night, Nick?" Joanne wants to know.

"Maybe," answers Nick as he notices Teresa looking at Steve. "Teresa, this here is Steve Marino."

"Steve Marino," she says, "that's a good Italian Catholic name. How come we never see you at church?"

"I go sometimes, but over in Bay Ridge where my grandparents live," says Steve.

"Well ya don't have to belong to our church to come to the dance if Nick brings you," says Teresa smiling at Steve. "Why don't you come with him? It'll be lots of fun."

"I'm not sure I know how to dance," says Steve a bit embarrassed.

"Oh don't be silly," says Teresa. "We can teach you to do the Twist in three minutes." And then, with a twinkle in her eye, she continues, "I'll be glad to personally teach you to slow dance."

"Hmmmmmmm," says Steve.

The girls head north while the boys continue down Bay Parkway.

"They're cute," says Steve.

A couple of blocks further the boys again have to wait for a red light.

"Let me go!" yells some guy from a quarter block away.

Steve, looking over toward the yelling, sees it's Mordy Goldman from his health class. Da Bear, this big heavy bully from school, has Mordy in a headlock.

Steve starts toward Mordy.

"Where ya going, Steve?" Nick wants to know.

Steve continues to head toward Mordy.

"This ain't none of our business," says Nick who, reluctantly, is trailing behind Steve.

"Mordy's in my health class," says Steve to Nick as they get a bit closer to Mordy and Da Bear.

"Shit, Steve, what does that have to do with anything?" Nick asks.

"Hey, Bear," says Steve, "what ya doin'?"

"This ain't got nuttin' to do with you, Steve," growls Da Bear.

"Come on, let him go." Steve implores.

"Ya want me ta let him go," Da Bear says suddenly sounding polite. "I'll let him go." And then Da Bear, with his huge arm still around Mordy's neck, spins around, dragging Mordy, in a full circle and flings him toward the cement sidewalk. Mordy's books go flying in all directions, and his chin comes less than an inch from scraping against the sidewalk as he manages to get the palms of his hands out in front of him just in time so all that gets scraped up are his hands and knees. The pants he's wearing, by his left knee, are torn, and his knee is oozing blood.

Steve runs over to Mordy, "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, I guess so," Mordy answers, his voice a bit shaky.

Steve begins to gather up Mordy's books.

Nick eyes Da Bear, while he too begins to help with the books.

"This ain't none of your business Steve," growls Da Bear once again.

With Mordy's books all picked-up, Steve helps Mordy up.

Da Bear, a good four inches taller than Steve and probably fifty pounds heavier, takes a violent step toward Steve.

Steve braces himself. Although he's only an eighth grader and Da Bear is in ninth, Steve has filled out pretty nicely since we first met him as a scrawny five year old playing stoopball. He's still a bit on the thin side, but his broad shoulders and above average height, categorizes him as one of the bigger kids at Seth Low.

Da Bear takes another step forward while glaring at Steve. Then he eyes Nick who is not much shorter than Steve and built like a tank. With a nasty smirk, Da Bear halts. A few tense seconds pass, and then... and then... Da Bear decides to turn away. But after he takes a few steps, he turns and says, "I get you alone Steve, you're chopped meat." Then he continues off down the block.

_"Marone!"_ Steve cries as soon as Da Bear is out of sight.

"I thought we were dead for sure," says Nick.

The two friends quietly walk Mordy the block and a half to his apartment building. They go into the large dark lobby and as they reach the elevator, Steve presses the call button.

"You okay, Mordy?" Steve asks.

"Yeah," says Mordy. "Man, I hope I didn't get you in trouble."

"Nothing I can't handle," says Steve smiling.

When the elevator comes, Steve and Nick hand back Mordy's books.

"Thanks," says Mordy. "Thanks a lot, guys."

Steve and Nick nod good-bye and then exit the building, squinting as they re-enter the brilliant daylight.

"We could have been at the park by now," Nick complains.

"Yeah," says Steve.

"Ya think Mordy would have helped you out, Steve, if you were in a headlock?"

"I wouldn't want to count on Mordy being much help in that kind of situation. He ain't got the muscles. But... but I'm betting he's a bit more likely to help me out with other stuff after today."

Nick looks over to Steve and sees he's lost in deep thought.

Three more blocks down Bay Parkway, Steve and Nick turn left on 82nd Street. Suddenly Steve comes to an abrupt halt. He sees his couch on the sidewalk in front of his apartment building. His Uncle Ricky's midnight blue pick-up truck is double parked by the building's entranceway.

"Jesus, not again," cries Steve.

"Ya gonna move?" asks Nick.

Tears come to Steve's eyes.

Mike and Ricky come out of the apartment building's entranceway lugging the kitchen table. Steve's six year old brother, Pete, following close behind, is carrying a kitchen chair.

"Jesus Dad, why do we have to move again?" Steve asks.

"Get upstairs and help your mother pack some stuff," Mike orders.

"Why do we have to move again?" Steve asks again, now tears streaming down his face.

Mike slaps Steve hard, while screaming, "Ya think I got time now for a momma's boy! Get upstairs with your mom NOW!!"

"JESUS DAD!" Steve hollers holding his face. He notices Nick, Pete, and his uncle looking at him. "JESUS DAD!!"

_"Basta!"_ screams Mike, spittle shooting out from his mouth, spraying over Steve.

A hard glare comes to Steve's eyes.

_"Basta!"_ Mike screams again and this time he reaches back with his right fist.

Steve, against his will, finds himself twisting his body while covering his face with his arms. In bed at night, he had rehearsed standing up to his dad many times. He would imagine his dad hitting him and he would, in his mind, just stand there and glare back. And now his dad had reached back once again with his fist and once again Steve finds himself backing down.

At this same moment, Ricky, finds that his own hands have balled into fists, and he screams out, _"Piano,_ Mike!"

Mike shakes his fist menacingly, screams again, " _Basta!"_ Then he turns away from Steve and goes over to load a box of dishes onto the truck.

Disgusted with himself, Steve heads upstairs.

As Mike comes near, Ricky whispers to him, "Ya hit that boy in front of me again, we're gonna have some trouble."

"You better shut your trap," Mike flares. "This ain't none of your gad damn business."

"He's my nephew," says Ricky. "I'm asking ya to cut that crap out."

* * * *

When all the packing is done for the first load, Steve's mom and dad drive over to their new apartment together in the family's 1960 red Impala. Steve, little Pete, and their Uncle Ricky drive over in the pick-up truck.

"We're already to Ocean Parkway," says Steve. "How far we going?"

"Avenue U and East 12th Street," answers Ricky.

_"Marone!"_ cries Steve. "That means we gotta go to another school!"

"Another school?" says little Pete. "I just made friends wit' da kids in my class."

"You'll make new friends," replies Ricky.

"I don't understand this," says Steve. "Whenever we moved before we stayed in Bensonhurst. Why we moving clear over to Avenue U?"

"Well, ya know," answers Ricky, "each time you had to move before, well it was 'cause your parents couldn't pay the rent. One time your dad went to prison. A couple of other times your dad lost some money gambling. Then there was the longshoreman strike. Anyway, well, I guess all the landlords in Bensonhurst got the word out that it ain't such a good idea to rent an apartment to the Marinos. And, well, I guess your parents had to find an apartment where no one knows them."

"Is it nice, Uncle Ricky?" Pete asks.

"It's gonna take some fixing up before you could actually say it's nice. But it's only two blocks from the train station, and both your parents are gonna be using the subway after tomorrow.

"What about Dad's car?" Steve asks.

"Tomorrow he's gotta give it up to a loan shark. Listen, boys. For a while you better stay clear of doing anything that might upset your dad. He's in a pretty bad way."

The Impala and pick-up arrive on Avenue U—a basic Brooklyn shopping street with parking meters and, on both sides, a long strip of connected two story brick buildings with shops on the ground floors and apartments a flight above. Their apartment's entrance is a beat-up doorway between the Avenue U Deli and a Buster Brown shoe store.

Steve goes up the flight of stairs to see the apartment for the first time. Dirty yellow paint is peeling off the ceilings and scraps lay all about the torn up linoleum floor. In the kitchen you can see there must have recently been a bad leak because on the wall behind the sink are ugly water stains. A nasty musty smell is oozing out of every creepy corner. There's one bedroom—their last apartment had two.

* * * *

After the first unloading of Ricky's truck and Mike's car, the family goes back to the old apartment to load up again. Most of the neighbors are home from work now and several peek into the hallway to see what's going on. The young couple that has been living next door, noticing what's happening, wishes the family well.

When the second unloading is completed, it's getting pretty late for supper. Ricky takes the family into the downstairs deli and buys everyone some hotdogs, potato knishes, and sodas.

"Alright, we better get going," says Mike.

"Thanks for dinner, Uncle Ricky," says Steve as he begins to get up from the table. "Boy, I sure was hungry."

"You're welcome, Steve."

Marie looks up at Ricky, smiles, and pats his back.

Pete runs over to a gum machine in the front of the deli. "Dad... Dad, could I get one."

Mike grabs Pete's arm, and shoves him out the front door.

* * * *

By the time the family moves all of their possessions up the stairs and into the apartment, everyone is exhausted. Steve's mom and dad go into the bedroom, close the door, and collapse on their bed. In the living room, Steve and Pete prepare their couch for bedtime. It's one of those that open into a double bed, and Steve and Pete will have to share it.

When the couch is ready, Pete gets in and starts to flip through his comic book collection looking miserable. Neither Superman nor Batman can help him now.

Steve goes into the kitchen, sits at the table, and gazes out the window. The window looks out onto Avenue U. Its cement sidewalks are lined with an assortment of shops. Its roadway has one lane in each direction and traffic is fairly heavy even though it's well past rush hour. The cars parked parallel to the traffic have silver meters beside them that require feeding until six PM. Across the street from where Steve is sitting is a grand old movie theater; on the marquee in big black letters, it says:

PALM SPRINGS WEEKEND

Starring TROY DONAHUE and CONNIE STEVENS

A few stores down from the theater there is an 1890 style ice cream parlor with lots of Tiffany lamps. Teenagers are out with their friends laughing and having a good time. They remind Steve of how he's left all of his friends back in his old neighborhood. A dark, cold wave breaks over him. He puts his head in his hands and tries not to cry because he doesn't want to upset the family any more than everyone already is. Just when he feels things can't get any worse...

"It's all your fault!" his mom screams at his dad. "It's all your fault we have to live in this awful place! It's all your fault!"

"Hey, we just had a bad run of luck, Marie! That's all there is to it!"

"A bad run! With your lousy gambling, with your lousy drinking, and your boys without decent clothes! That's not bad luck, Mike!"

And then Steve hears a smack. His back and shoulders involuntarily shoot upward, and blood pounds through his veins. He runs to the bedroom. Marie's holding her face, her eyes bulging, her mouth agape.

"SCREW THIS!" his dad screams and he picks up his suitcase, which he hadn't unpacked yet, and storms out of the apartment.

Steve's mom runs after him.

Through the kitchen window Steve watches his father climb into the red Impala and slam the car door closed.

His mother runs out into the street and screams, "Don't leave us here!" and she tries to open the driver-side car door. It's locked. Desperately, she punches and kicks the door. "Don't leave us here!" The Impala tears away. His mom sits down on the curb where the Impala had just been, and she's crying, "No! No! No! No! No!"

Pete, who was watching from the living room window, comes running over to Steve and bursts into tears crying, "Did you see that? Did you see that? Daddy's left, an' tomorrow I gotta start a new school, an' I don't know anyone an' I hate it here," all the while he's swinging and punching Steve.

Steve, at first, blocks the punches. When Pete begins to tire, Steve gently puts his arms around him. Pete, continuing to cry, buries his head in Steve's chest.

A few minutes pass. Then Steve leans back, takes Pete firmly by the upper arms, and looks squarely into Pete's eyes. With great strength, yet with a choked up voice, Steve says, "You and me, Pete, we're gonna make it. You'll see." Then Steve again holds Pete close in his arms.

"I'm scared, Steve. I'm scared."

"Me too, Pete. Me too."

They look around the kitchen and shudder. Standing there with Pete in his arms, Steve thinks to himself, How can I start all over. I put everything into making things work right in Bensonhurst. I've lost everything.

"Come on, Pete. It's late," says Steve, and he takes Pete into the living room, tucks him into the sofa bed, shuts the light, and lies down beside him.

* * * *

Marie returns to her new apartment door. Before entering she wipes her eyes, straightens out her blouse, and does her best to turn her expression from complete despair to firm determination. When she enters, she sees her boys are in bed with their eyes closed. As she tip toes by them, Steve whispers, "You okay, Mom?"

"Sure, Steve," she answers in as strong a voice as she can muster. "Things will look brighter in the morning, I'm sure. Get some sleep now."

"I love you, Mom."

"Thanks, Steve. That means a lot to me, especially right now. I love you too." She then enters her bedroom, shuts the door behind her, and sits on her bed.

Dear God, what is to become of us? she asks herself. When I was young, I turned to Mom for answers. As I got older I found that somewhere inside of me there were feelings that I could listen to and I came to rely on myself. I'd just listen to the inside of me and I'd know what to do. But now, look where it has all led. Dear God, if I can't rely on myself, who can I turn to? And with this question, Marie buries her face in her pillow and does her best to keep her weeping from seeping out into the next room.

* * * *

Steve listens to Pete's raspy, rhythmic breathing and the soft sobs of his mother. The street's lamplight is shining into the otherwise dark apartment. Suddenly his hands clutch his stomach. Something inside of him has grabbed a hold of it, twisting it like an old soaked rag. A whisper of a cry of "Oh," involuntarily escapes his lips. Keep quiet. It'll pass! Please! Please! There! It's starting to ease. It's starting to ease.

Ever so quietly, he gets up out of bed and slides into his blue jean jacket. Quietly as he can, he pulls the apartment door open, steps into the hallway on tip toes, turns, and gently, very gently, pushes the door closed. The dimly lit flight of stairs has a strong, musty odor. Down in the street, the cool night brushes up against his hot face. Up on the corner, a young couple is climbing into a yellow taxi.

Steve starts to run in the other direction, down toward the Avenue U Diner. He passes a brightly lit gas station with an old man in overalls filling the tank of a big white Cadillac. A black mutt, with its tongue hanging out, is panting out the back window.

Sneakers slap pavement. The streetlights are rushing by.

When he reaches the diner, four men wearing bowling shirts are talking together in the parking lot. Is the big guy Dad?! It looks just like him. Na, his nose ain't all broken up.

At Neck Road his mind flashes on his dad screeching away. Good! I'm glad he's left! I hate him! We're better off without him!

At Avenue X, images of he and his dad throwing around a baseball in the park flash through his mind. He's tried to be a good dad. When he had a little money, no one was ever more generous.

Across the road, all is dark at Juliet's Hair Salon. I wonder if that's where Mom's going to get her hair done now that we live in this neighborhood. I hope she gets some sleep tonight.

Shore Parkway and Neptune Avenue whisk by as Steve lengthens his stride.

Reaching the beach, huffing and puffing, Steve drops to his knees by the water's edge, his forehead dripping sweat. Looking around, he sees no one is here but a seagull taking quick little steps, leaving little footprints in the sand. Oh, that salty breeze sure feels good. That seagull is looking at me. There he goes, squawking and flying away. _Marone_ , I sure wish I could fly away!

A crashing wave hits the shore, swirling and tumbling. Steve's heart pounds. Another crashing wave. His heart pounds harder. "It's not fair!" he screams up to the purple sky filled with flickering stars. "I can't start over! I won't!"

The ocean glimmers in the darkness, ignoring his cries. Another wave crashes on shore, followed by another, and another, and another. After a while, tears come to his eyes, roll down his cheeks, and fall to the sand.

CHAPTER 10

The first light of dawn arrives. Marie sits up. She begins to whisper to herself. "That lousy bum! How could he have left us here! If he comes back now I'll scratch his eyes out! Oh God, oh God! Listen, please, Mother Mary, what am I to do? Dear God, what am I to do? Dear God, what am I to do?"

Suddenly, she reaches for her black leather handbag. Ruffling through it with quick, jagged motions, she shakes her head as she takes inventory: six dollars, forty three cents. "Friday, I'll get a check from my secretary's salary. Quiet! Stop whispering, the boys will hear me in the next room."

The words come silently now. And what if someone gets sick? Oh God! What about Little Pete's dental work? It's almost winter. Steve's dungarees have a hole in them. I can't ask Mom for help. Ever since Daddy died, Mom's been struggling so to maintain some dignity as it is! When she finds out that Mike left me, she'll die. Oh God! She's gonna die. Oh Sister of Mary!"

Marie grabs a pillow to muffle a sob, and with her face pressed against it, she smells Mike. I shouldn't have opened my mouth last night. With a horribly wrenching effort she muffles another sob. She begins to kick her feet and pound her fist into her mattress. Stop it already, she screams silently to herself. You've got to stop this already!

Finally, she sits up and blows her nose. Well, I'll just have to go down to the welfare agency and sign us up. There! It won't be so bad. I'll just go downtown and sign us up, that's all. Welfare! Welfare! Oh God, oh God!

There's just no way around it. I'll just keep Steve home from school and take him along and we'll pretend we're just gonna do some shopping downtown. We'll make a day of it.

I can't go down there alone. I just can't. Even though Steve's sensitive and maybe he does cry a bit too much, in difficult times he's great to have around. Uh oh! What about Pete! When Pete hears Steve's gonna get the day off, he's gonna want the day off also. I guess I won't force him. This has gotta be as hard for Pete as it is for me. I just don't have the heart to force him.

* * * *

A few hours later, streams of yellow sunlight are slanting through the curtainless windows and onto the couch-bed where Steve and Pete are sleeping.

"Come on, boys," says Marie in her long pink robe, her eyes, puffy. "It's time to wake up."

Steve rising onto his right elbow looks at the black Emerson clock radio beside him. "It's nine-twenty, Mom. We're late for school."

"Where are we?" asks Pete, sitting up, looking around the room.

"We're in our new apartment," Marie answers. "Listen boys, I decided to take the day off from work and to keep you both home from school."

"Our new apartment?" asks Pete still very much confused.

"Yeah," says Steve. "We moved here yesterday. Don't you remember?"

It begins to come back to Pete. His face darkens. "Did Dad ever come home, Mom?"

"No. He hasn't."

"Well, when is he?" Pete asks looking fearful at what the reply might be.

"I really don't know, Pete," Marie answers. "Instead of going to school today, we have a little job to do."

* * * *

On the rumbling train heading toward the welfare agency, Marie sits with her two boys. The car is nearly empty. There's an elderly couple at the other end, both reading. With the train rumbling and screeching, voices won't travel. The train provides a kind of semi-privacy.

"Dad might not be coming home for awhile," Marie says.

Little Pete's eyes begin to turn watery.

"You're sad, Pete, because you miss Dad," says Marie.

"No I don't. I hate him. He didn't even tell me he wasn't comin' home. He doesn't care 'bout me. I hate him!" Then, softer, he repeats, "I hate him."

Marie takes out a tissue, hands it to Pete, and tells him to blow his nose. Then she says, "Part of Dad loves you very much. That's the part of Dad that we love. Don't ever forget that part. There's also a part of Dad that we hate. Everybody hates part of their dad. I'm beginning to understand that now." Quickly, Marie takes out another tissue and this time she blows her own nose. Then, in a choked up voice, she adds, "But don't ever forget the part of Daddy that we love." Once again she blows her nose.

"Hey," says Steve, "I thought I'm supposed to be the cry baby in this family."

Everyone laughs through tears.

CHAPTER 11

The next morning Steve wakes up to the sound of wind rattling the apartment's windowpanes. Marie is in the kitchen sipping hot tea, warming her hands on the large ceramic mug, her face showing signs of another long and grave night. Softly, the radio begins to play Ruby and the Romantics' _Our Day Will Come._ As Marie listens to the song's words, an exceedingly faint smile begins to form around her eyes and lips—just perceptible enough to light up her pale complexion, a light like a thin ray of moonlight softly falling upon a prison's wall. When Marie spots Steve with his eyes opened, her reverie flees.

"Steve, better get going. It's getting late."

"Mom, let's take another day off."

"I'm afraid there's no getting around it Steve, you and Pete have to start your new schools today and I have to go back to work or my boss is going to fire me. As it is, I'm going to be late because I have to get you both registered all official-like."

Languidly, Steve heads to the shower. As he dries himself off with a large white towel, he hears his mother cry out, "Put on your one new shirt, the one Uncle Ricky got you for your birthday. It's in the second drawer from the top. The first day in a new school you should try to make a good impression."

As he dresses, Steve wakes Pete.

"Mom says we gotta go to school today Pete. Better get going while the bathroom is open."

"School? Come on Mom!" Pete calls out to the kitchen while rubbing his eyes. "Just one more day off! Please Mom! I'm begging ya. Please!"

"Let's get going, Pete, and I mean now!" Marie responds.

Pete looks up at the peeling paint on the apartment ceiling and cringes.

* * * *

After a windy five block walk, the family steps into Pete's elementary school—a six story, red brick building. When the paperwork is done, Pete anxiously looks up at Marie and Steve.

"Come on, Pete. It'll be okay," says Marie. "You'll meet lots of new friends."

"So, we're going to have a new student here," says the principal, greeting Marie with a warm smile. As he leads the Marinos out of his office to take them to Pete's new first grade class, he spots a boy sitting on a wooden bench beside his secretary's desk. "I'll deal with you when I get back!" he says sternly.

The hallway is dimly lit. A large banner on the left wall encourages everyone to join their General Organization and to vote for their G.O. officers. Opening the classroom door, the principal says hello to the teacher and her class.

"I don't know anyone," says Pete, clearly frightened.

Steve gets down on one knee in front of Pete, and looking eye to eye with him, says, "Pete, if we're gonna get out of that dump we're in now... well... well, it's gonna be a whole lot easier if we get a good education. Get in there now and show 'em what you can do!"

"Okay, Steve," says Pete. "But Steve... Steve... after school, could you... I'm scared ta go home ta da new place an' be by myself. Mom, she don't get home till late. Could you come home right after school an' meet me there? Could ya, Steve? Could ya, Steve?"

"Sure, Pete. In fact, right after school I'll run home and I bet I'll beat you there."

Pete smiles and gives Steve a hug. Then he hugs his mother, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and walks into the classroom.

CHAPTER 12

After Marie signs some papers and dashes off to work, Cunningham Junior High School's secretary looks Steve over. "Better take a seat over there, young man," she orders as she points to a wooden bench. "It's going to take a little time to figure out what classes you'll be taking."

Suddenly, two police officers and several parents show up. As the principal steps out of his office to greet them, one of the male parents walks right up to him and starts hollering in his face, "Who's gonna be the next to die!? Huh!? Who's gonna be next!? Answer me! Answer me!"

The principal glances over to Steve, and then firmly ushers all those involved in the commotion to his inner office and shuts the door leaving Steve and the secretary wondering what's going on.

* * * *

"I'd like you all to meet the newest member of the Cunningham Junior High Community, Steve Marino," says Mrs. Vogt, his new teacher. "Please make him feel welcome." Then, on the long blackboard in the front of the room, she writes Steve's name in large curly letters.

There are two big kids in the back of the room. Upon hearing that Steve is new, both smile at each other. The bigger of the two whispers something into the ear of the other and the smaller guy breaks out laughing. Steve begins to feel uneasy.

"Steve," says Mrs. Vogt, "please take the open seat in front of Tom Giordano and Ron DeFelipo," and she points in front of the two big kids.

Christ! Steve says to himself as he heads to his assigned seat.

"Tom, Ron, I can tell from your last names you're fellow _paesanos_ ," says Steve with a smile, his mind racing, struggling to find some way to make some personal connection with these guys. They nod hello and then look up to the ceiling and begin to softly whistle. Steve sits down with his back to Tom and Ron.

Whispers and giggles begin to come from behind him. Glancing back, he observes the whispering ceases. When he turns back around to face the front blackboard, there's a burst of laughter.

A couple of students throw paper airplanes as soon as Mrs. Vogt's back is turned. Their classmates laugh. The students sitting in front of Steve are whispering about what TV show they watched the night before. Steve thinks to himself, this is one of those teachers who don't got no control over her class! I'm screwed!

Suddenly, a sharp pin is poked in Steve's butt. Steve leaps up, spins around, and screams, "Who did it?"

Tom and Ron's wide smirks quickly fade as they see Steve's eyes throw flaming daggers at them. Neither answers.

"If it happens again I'm going at you first," Steve screams, pointing to Tom, "and then you," pointing to Ron. "And I don't care if you can take me. I'm going at you and I'm going to keep going at you. IT'S A STUPID JOKE! IT'S A STUPID JOKE!!"

All the time that Steve is screaming, Mrs. Vogt is hollering, "What's going on back there?!"

Steve spins around and sits back in his seat, the fingers of his left hand are tapping hard on his desk, and the fingers of his right hand are curled in a fist.

"If you boys think you can do whatever you want in here," shouts Mrs. Vogt, "you have another thing coming. Another outburst like that and you're all going down to the principal."

As Steve sits there his heart is pounding, his fury building higher and higher. He almost wants Ron or Tom to stick him again. Just let them dare. "I'll kill 'em! I'll kill 'em! I'll kill 'em!"

Mrs. Vogt continues with her lesson. He tries to listen. "In French, the word 'aller' means 'to go.' It is a verb. This is how we conjugate it..."

At the same time he's focusing on what she's saying, Steve's straining to hear if anything is going on behind him. At one point, he hears some movement back there and he spins around ready to fly into Ron and Tom with everything he's got, but Tom had just dropped his pencil and he's innocently picking it up.

Finally, the lunch bell rings. As the class lines up, Steve hears Tom arguing with Ron. "You better tell him you did it," says Tom.

"Quiet," whispers Ron, "da new kid will hear ya."

"If you don't tell him," Tom replies, "he's always gonna suspect it might have been me. Tell him! Tell him or I'll tell him!"

"Okay already!" Ron cries. He turns to Steve. "Listen, new kid, it was me who stuck ya, okay?"

"It's a stupid joke!" Steve yells.

"It kinda seemed like it would be funny at the time," says Ron, "and when you leaped up with your eyes bulging out it was kinda..."

"IT WAS A STUPID JOKE!" Steve hollers.

"ALL RIGHT!" Ron hollers back.

"Ron, that'll be enough out of you!" Mrs. Vogt says. Then, turning to Steve, she says, "Young man, when you get down to the lunchroom, you're to report to the vice principal, Mr. Lantern. You can't miss him. He's the red headed man down there. He'll assign you a place to sit."

CHAPTER 13

Steve scans the lunchroom. There's no grownup with red hair over there by the food line. There's some steam coming out of that big gray pot. I bet it's some kinda soup. It smells pretty okay, but I ain't really hungry, my stomach's not quite right. There's a guy with red hair by that table. _Marone_ , it's noisy down here.

"You're Mr. Lantern?" Steve asks over the roar of several hundred students trying to be heard.

"That's me, young man. You must be the new member of our team." He glances at a clipboard he's holding. "Steve Marino?"

"Yeah. I just moved here."

"Welcome," says Mr. Lantern with a smile and a hand shake. "Follow me."

They walk past rows of long rectangular lunch tables until they get to an empty spot right across from Ron DeFelipo.

Mr. Lantern, pointing to the empty spot, says, "Why don't you have a seat right here? This is where the students in your homeroom sit."

Oh no, Steve says to himself. Well, I better not say anything. Ron will think I'm scared of him. "Here, Mr. Lantern?"

Mr. Lantern nods.

"Okay," says Steve, attempting an air of nonchalance.

Mr. Lantern smiles and walks away.

As Steve begins to sit down, this very pretty girl who is sitting just to the right of where he has been assigned leaps up screaming. "I can't believe this! I can't believe this!"

Steve checks her chair and then his for any sharp objects but doesn't see anything. He looks around for some answer to this crazed girl's actions.

"I can't believe this!" she screams. "I've never sensed such power! It's incredible!"

Steve sees that she's talking to him while intensely staring at him.

"You must have a very old soul," she continues, "an ancient soul of some mighty leader. I've never sensed such power! This is incredible!" Then she touches Steve and her shining, green feline eyes drift up as if leading her to another dimension and she swoons, "Ohhhhhhhh!"

Steve, shaking his head, sits down, looking bewildered.

"Don't mind her," Ron says. "You'll get used to Mysterious Jane."

"Mysterious Jane?" Steve asks.

"Yeah. We call Mysterious Jane, Mysterious Jane, because she's strange," Ron responds while pointing to his head and making little circles with his finger."

Steve looks over the situation. He and Ron are sitting at the end of their lunch table. Directly to Steve's right sits Mysterious Jane, with her long glimmering black hair, lovely green eyes, strikingly beautiful facial features, and, even as a thirteen year old, her curves are hard to ignore.

Ron points to a guy on his left. "This here is Jerry Miller, the best athlete in eighth grade." Jerry is wearing a thin gold chain around his neck with a Star of David hanging from it resting just below his throat.

Steve straightens out his pointer and middle finger of his right hand and puts them close together while curling his other fingers close to his palm. Then he brings the two straightened fingers up to the right side of his forehead and gives Jerry a respectful salute.

Jerry returns the gesture with a nod and then begins to check Steve out, his height, his broad shoulders, the quickness of his eyes, and finds himself taking a deep gulp.

"You see those kids over there?" says Ron to Steve, referring to the table two feet away. "They're the SP kids, the biggest wimps at school."

We had SP students in my last school, Steve thinks to himself. SP means special progress. That's for extra smart kids.

At the SP table is a blond haired, blue eyed kid who, upon hearing Ron calling SP kids wimps, turns to Ron and calls him a pussy.

"Come on, you wimp!" Ron hollers leaping up. "Right here!!"

"Fine with me pussy," the blond kid hollers back while also leaping up. He's nearly a foot shorter than Ron.

Before a single punch can be thrown, Mr. Lantern comes racing over, hollering, "Both of you guys, you either sit down and lower your voices or we go upstairs to my office and call your parents."

Ron and the other guy continue glaring at each other, but slowly sit down.

When Mr. Lantern walks away, Ron says to Steve, "Ya see what I mean about SP kids? They're the biggest wimps around."

Just as the SP kid is about to return the insult, Steve says, "Personally, I like some of the kids that got school smarts. I like to have a couple of them as my friends 'cause I'm not all that great with school stuff, _capeesh?_ The way I got it figured, their smarts, at times, well ya put their smarts together with mine and ya really got something. And, say someday ya might need a lawyer. Ya don't want ta have ta come ta somebody like me for somethin' like dat, now do ya?" Steve pauses here grinning broadly.

Many of the kids around him break out laughing.

"In my last school," Steve continues, "a couple of SP kids helped me out a few times."

"I don't need no help from any wimpy SP kids," says Ron.

"We wouldn't give you any," the blond kid bitterly responds.

"The cool thing about SP kids," says Steve, "is that because they're good with school stuff, well that means they usually know that they're good in at least something. Sometimes they have enough confidence so I can let on with what I'm good at without worrying that they're gonna feel like I'm putting them down."

"Ya wanna be friends with those jerks, ga' head," says Ron.

"I'm not saying you have to be a school wizard to be my friend," says Steve. "I like to know kids with different kinds of talents."

"So you're a new kid here," says another kid sitting at the SP table.

"Yeah. Today's my first day."

"Well, I'm Cliff, Cliff Schweitzer, and this blond guy sitting across from me who is always arguing with Ron; well the guys call him Brainy George."

During these introductions, Ron curls his eyes upward.

"Your real name 'Brainy George'?" Steve asks.

"Na. George Beck."

Steve looks him over. His fine blond hair is sloppily combed mostly to the right, but some haphazardly falls over to the left. Thick black-rimmed glasses magnify his pale blue eyes.

Steve turns to look at Cliff. Even though he's in the SP program like George, Cliff hardly looks like an intellectual. Dark and athletic, Cliff is quite a contrast to his buddy, Brainy George.

"Just because these guys are in the SP program, you don't like them, Ron?" Steve asks.

"Aaa, they're a bunch of loser Jews," Ron responds.

"What did he say?!" asks a kid who is sitting to Cliff's left.

"Shut up Abramowitz!" Ron hollers.

"I'm a Protestant," says Brainy George, his foot tapping wildly.

"I don't like that kind of talk," hollers a girl sitting next to Mysterious Jane.

"Me neither!" hollers Jerry Miller, his gold star of David glimmering reddish blue, as if it's reflecting an igniting flame.

"I'm Joey Pirrello," says a kid who's sitting a little further down the SP table. "I'm Italian and Catholic."

An Asian girl, with a twinkle in her eyes, is sitting across from Joey, and a smile is playing about her lips. After a few seconds, she says, "I'm not Jewish either," and she lets out a high-pitched laugh that she muffles with her two hands covering her mouth.

Mr. Lantern points to Steve's section of the lunchroom.

"That means it's time for us to get in the lunch line," says Mysterious Jane to Steve touching his arm and smiling into his eyes.

As Steve begins to get up, he feels an intense anxiety pang. Great, he says to himself. I just managed to make this Ron guy, one of the biggest guys in my new school, hate my guts. And now I gotta get on this lousy lunch line and use this damn free lunch pass me and Pete got at the welfare agency.

* * * *

At about the same time Steve stands up to get in the lunch line, his little brother, Pete, back in his new elementary school, has picked out what he wants for lunch. He shows the cashier his free lunch pass. Then, the kid behind him laughs and begins to taunt Pete saying, "Get a load of dis, guys, the new kid got a free lunch pass. Whatza matter, yer parents can't afford ta buy ya lunch?" Then the kid laughs again.

Pete turns around and takes his lunch tray filled with a bowl of hot, gloppy chicken soup, a sandwich, and a carton of milk, and dumps it on the guy. Then Pete jumps on him, wrestles him to the ground, and starts pounding until a pair of lunchroom aides pull him away. Both students are dragged down to the principal's office.

**"Alright, Glen, what do you have to say for yourself?!"** the principle hollers at the guy Pete just roughed up.

"I didn't do nuttin! He just jumped on me."

"Five students reported that you were teasing him about his lunch pass!"

"That ain't no reason ta jump on me. My big brudduh's gonna get him good."

"I got a big brudduh too!" Pete replies.

**"That's enough out of both of you boys**! **"** the principal yells. "Now, Pete, I'm not saying Glen was right for what he did, he was wrong and he's going to be punished for it. But you're going to get teased at school about a lot of things. Every boy gets teased in every school. You're going to have to learn to figure out some other way to handle it than fighting.

"As punishment, both of you boys are going to sit silently in my outer office for an hour. If I hear a peep out of either one of you, we'll make it two hours, and then three. If you want to go home today after school you better keep your mouths shut and think about what you're going to tell your parents. I'm going to call them now and let them know what happened!"

* * * *

Back at Cunningham Junior High, Steve gets in his lunch line. The aroma of chicken soup, peanut butter sandwiches, and fried fish cakes drifts into his nostrils. He picks out a peanut butter sandwich, a container of milk, and some ice cream. Then he shows the cashier his free lunch pass. Ron DeFelipo, standing right behind Steve, starts to laugh and says to Mysterious Jane, "Look at this! This is the guy with all the power! He can't even afford to buy himself lunch! What a joke!"

When Steve hears this, it feels like a knife has been stuck in his gut. His face becomes hot, he pleads with himself not to have tears well up in his eyes, and he looks down avoiding everyone's eyes.

Jane looks at Steve, then turns to Ron, shoves him, and says, "You have no brains."

"Don't ya get it?" says Ron smirking uncontrollably. "He's got all this power and..."

"Lay off. It's hard enough," says Brainy George, who's standing nearby.

When Steve gets back to his table, his appetite is gone. He picks at his food for a while, thinking he's not going to be eating again until past six. But he has a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a few moments he accepts that he isn't going to get any food down right now so he pushes his tray away and begins to listen to George and Ron antagonize each other. Back and forth...

"You're a pussy."

"Maggot!"

"You're a pussy. I can take you with both hands tied behind my back."

"You're full of it!"

"YOU'RE FULL OF IT!"

At one point, Ron turns to Steve and says, "Can you believe this? This ugly midget George thinks he can take me. Do you believe this?"

"Personally, I don't care who can take who," says Steve. "You guys remind me..." Steve's voice suddenly trails off. He looks into George's eyes and then Ron's. Softly, Steve continues. "You guys remind me of my father."

Now Cliff, who up to this point has been quietly reading the _Daily News_ sports page while eating, decides to put in his two cents. "If it's important to you two to be good fighters, Ron, George, why don't you join a wrestling or karate club? Or learn to box. There's a boxing club not too far from here where the former world heavyweight champ, Floyd Patterson, trained when he was growing up. Join one of those things. You'll learn that, compared to people who train regularly, both of your skills are awful. With training you can both develop them and test them respectfully against other people who are also skilled."

"I don't need no training," says Ron. "I can take anyone around here."

"Anyone?" Jerry Miller asks.

"Well, maybe not you, Jerry," Ron comes back, "but pretty much anyone."

"Look," says Cliff, "all I'm trying to say is, no matter how good you get at fighting, it's not gonna prove who's a man and who isn't. Patterson was the champ. Sonny Liston beat him and now he's the best fighter around. He can take all of us. Does that mean he's the only man around and the rest of us are wimps? And what happens when someone finally takes Liston? That's what happens sooner or later to all great fighters. Does that mean that one day Liston's a man and the day he loses suddenly he becomes a wimp?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," mutters Ron, but he then quiets down for a while.

Steve once again begins to wrestle with his food and this time he gets some of it down, though it tastes like sawdust.

CHAPTER 14

After lunch, Steve has English class with Mrs. Kreetch, a no nonsense teacher who is finishing up a unit on the novel _Johnny Tremain._

My class in Seth Low was reading _Johnny Tremain_ also, Steve thinks to himself. At least I won't be completely lost in this class.

"Okay, class, what have we learned about the American Revolutionary War from reading this novel?" Mrs. Kreetch wants to know.

A few hands go up.

"Yes, Miss Flax."

"We learned that the Confederates were really bad."

"You're thinking of the Civil War," Mrs. Kreetch replies. This novel is about the Revolutionary War."

A few kids giggle.

"Now that'll be enough of that!" Mrs. Kreetch screeches.

* * * *

In gym, basketball is the name of the lesson and Steve gets to see Jerry Miller in action for the first time. The P.E. teacher, not knowing Steve's athletic ability, puts him on the same team as Jerry. He soon discovers his mistake as Steve and Jerry put on a dazzling display of talent. Despite their efforts to not humiliate the group of guys they are up against, their team ends up winning with little effort, 11 to 3. Sides are rearranged, this time Steve and Jerry are placed on different teams.

Now Jerry dashes for the hoop, trying to pass Steve who is covering him. Steve turns his shoulder and gets his legs going in overdrive. Jerry discovers Steve is right in front of him as he goes up for a layup. His only chance at this point is to try to out jump Steve and he leaps up with everything he has, but so does Steve and Steve manages to get his fingertips to brush aside the ball just as Jerry releases it. The ball misses the rim and a guy on Steve's team gets the rebound.

With Steve covering Jerry so closely, other players on both teams get to show more of what they can do and a much better game gets played out.

"Hey, Jerry," says Steve as they change in the locker room, "Ron was right, you're a pretty decent athlete."

"You ain't too bad yourself," Jerry replies with a frown.

"I'm new to this neighborhood. What do you and your friends like to do around here?"

"Handball, bowling on Saturday nights, stuff like that."

* * * *

As Steve arrives at his last period class, mechanical drawing, he's surprised to see Mysterious Jane. In his last school, there were no girls in his mechanical drawing class, and she's the only one in this one.

Steve decides to take a seat next to her. As he sits down, he hears a kid to his right whisper to another, "Hey, the new kid's picked the seat in front of Godzilla. This should be interesting!" Several kids start to laugh.

Steve glances back at who is sitting behind him and sees this monster of a student. Left back twice, and a grade ahead of Steve, Godzilla is well past his sixteenth birthday and huge for someone that age. Steve gives him a smile and then turns to Jane. "Hey, how'd you get in a class like this?" he asks her.

"Well, my class advisor didn't want me to take it. He wanted me to take cooking instead. But I insisted. You see, I'm rather strange. I have two souls. That's kinda rare. One is from a powerful spiritual leader—though nowhere as powerful as yours. The other is from a great engineer. I even figured out that John Roebling, the guy who designed and supervised the building of the Brooklyn Bridge, had my soul once. The way I figured it out was that whenever I go by the Brooklyn Bridge, with its magnificent cathedral arches and great sweeping cables, I have this incredibly proud feeling. Not just the proud feeling that many people feel because the bridge is an enduring inspiration to all who strive to achieve something that others are saying is impossible. It's more than that... something deeply personal. So, anyway, part of me wants to develop the spiritual side of me and to have a family and to develop spirituality within my children. The other part of me wants to create great engineering achievements. That part of me is the reason I'm taking this class."

"Jane, if you're through," says Mr. Carmello, the classroom teacher, "maybe we can get this class underway." Mr. Carmello is a big man with large shoulders and a slightly bent back. There are some deep horizontal creases in his forehead. A small moustache, dark and well trimmed, decorates his thin lips. After giving the class an assignment—they have to draw an engine block using a pencil, ruler, T-square, and protractor—Mr. Carmello pulls on the lapels of his well-worn gray sports jacket and asks, "Does everyone understand what they have to do?"

Nobody appears to have any questions.

"Good," says Mr. Carmello. "Then get your pencils out men and get to..." Suddenly pausing, Mr. Carmello looks over to Mysterious Jane. "I guess, instead of saying, 'get your pencils out men,' I should say, 'get your pencils out students.'"

"That's sweet of you, Mr. Carmello," says Jane.

"Okay class, now let's get to work," says Mr. Carmello, clapping his hands like a baseball coach.

As Steve works on his project he bites on his lower lip. Aaaa, that angle looks pretty shoddy. I better erase it. Okay, slow up and get it right. Aaaa, it still looks like crap. Again he erases it. This time, ever so carefully, he tries again. Hey, that's better. He looks over at Mysterious Jane's drawing and sees his looks almost as good. She notices him looking on, and smiles.

About halfway into the class, someone in the hallway knocks on the door.

"I'm going to have to step out for a minute," says Mr. Carmello. "I expect everyone to act like adults."

As soon as he leaves, Godzilla, the huge kid sitting behind Steve, reaches out and grabs Steve's pencil. Upon the initial grab, the pencil digs into Steve's paper. As Godzilla yanks the pencil toward his own project, Steve's paper tears in half. Steve spins around and quickly sizes up Godzilla. If he goes right at him, he would be a feather colliding into a mountain. Steve screams in frustration, "Why did you grab my pencil?"

"Because da point broke on mine," says Godzilla with a nasty smirk.

"There's a pencil sharpener right over there!"

"Your pencil was closer," Godzilla says, laughing.

Steve leaps up preparing to go at Godzilla. Godzilla leaps up, ready to counter-attack.

Steve, seeing Godzilla towering over him, becomes so frustrated he feels he's going to explode. "I know I can't take you in a fist fight," Steve hollers, "but if you grab my pencil again I'm gonna hassle you for twenty-four hours. And I don't care what you do to me—I'm gonna hassle you for twenty-four hours any way I can. I'm not looking for any trouble with you but I'm not gonna just sit here and take your crap!"

Then Godzilla spits in Steve's face.

Steve grabs Godzilla's assignment and begins to crumple it while attempting to dart down the desk aisle. Godzilla reaches out with his long arm and grabs Steve by the back of his neck with his huge hand.

Steve yanks his neck free, leaving two deep bloody scratches.

Several kids begin to yell, "Leave him alone, Godzilla! Mr. Carmello!!"

Steve runs down the aisle, leaping over one desk and heading toward the classroom door with Godzilla lumbering after him.

Just as Steve gets to the door, in walks Mr. Carmello who begins to scream, "What is going on in here!?"

* * * *

Vice Principal Lantern, with his bright angry red face that matches his red hair, escorts Steve and Godzilla to the principal's office. "You two are lucky I'm not going to handle this myself!" he hollers. "Since that student was killed, Mr. Imperiale insists on dealing directly with anyone who gets into a fight."

"A student was killed?!" Steve exclaims.

"Quiet!" shouts Mr. Lantern. "Students are trying to learn."

"A student was killed?" Steve repeats in a whisper. "What happened?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss it." Mr. Lantern replies.

Oh, this is just great! Steve thinks to himself as he's walking down the long hallway. It wasn't bad enough to get Ron pissed at me, now I got this Godzilla guy after me, and some kid got killed. Great! Just great! _Marone_ , my neck is killing me!

When they arrive, the principal is in his inner office busy with someone. His secretary, as she adjusts a bobby pin in her hair bun, tells them to have a seat until he's through.

"Excuse me," says Steve to the secretary. "I have to go to the bathroom to wash my scratches." Upon showing the secretary his bleeding neck, she grimaces and gives him permission.

When Steve gets to the bathroom, he takes off his one decent shirt. Spotting dried blood all over the collar, his face contorts. "It's ruined. It's ruined." He turns the sink water on, looks at his neck in the mirror and begins to think about his first day at school—getting stuck with a pin in his butt, being put down at lunch because he's on welfare, now this... and his friends were all in Bensonhurst... and his father... Well, Steve just can't help it. He begins to cry.

CHAPTER 15

Steve doesn't cry for long, but it's one of those cries that pours out of you leaving you feeling like something awful was released.

When Steve looks up, he gazes into the bathroom mirror for a long minute. Come on, I gotta get going, he says to himself. He shakes his head and begins washing. The warm water burns and the brown paper towels feel like sandpaper as he washes off the blood.

Slowly, Steve twists and turns to slip his shirt back on, struggling against the wrenching sharpness of his neck scratches. When his shirt is buttoned up, he sets his eyes for strength and determination.

Walking down the hall on his way back to the principal's office, Steve spots a custodian's closet door ajar. He peeks in. In addition to a mop and broom, there are several steel pails and a sink. What I ought to do, Steve says to himself, is fill the pail with ice-cold water and dump it on Godzilla. So far I tore up Godzilla's project, got him in trouble with the teacher and the principal. Now I'll...

Just then the custodian, coming down the hall, shouts, "Hey you! No students allowed in there! Get out of there!"

* * * *

Arriving back at the office, Steve sees that Godzilla is already in with the principal. The secretary tells Steve to have a seat until he's called.

"Not this hard bench again," says Steve to himself as he sits down. "I had to sit here for over an hour this morning."

After a few minutes it gets pretty uncomfortable. When fifteen minutes go by it gets even more uncomfortable, especially when the dismissal bell rings.

All the other students are heading home and I'm stuck here. Pete! Damn! I was supposed to go straight home after school!

The clock creeps slower than ketchup from a new bottle. Steve goes over to the secretary and explains why he has to go.

"The principal will be with you soon. If you had to go home, you should not have got yourself in trouble. Now you sit down and behave yourself!"

With head pounding and feeling trapped, he cries out, "This is torture!"

"You hush now!" the secretary hollers with glaring eyes.

Sitting down and holding his head in his hands, Steve says to himself, I'm waiting five more minutes, that's it!

Five minutes pass. Damn! All right. I'm waiting one more minute, damn it! He goes over to the door separating the principal's waiting area with the school's classroom hallways. He puts his forehead on the doorframe. One more minute, damn it! The clock creeps. His clenched fists squeeze. His knuckles turn white.

Finally, Godzilla comes out of the principal's office. As he passes Steve he whispers, "I'm gonna fix you good for this."

"I ain't looking for any trouble with you," says Steve looking firmly into Godzilla's eyes. "You leave me alone, I'll leave you alone. But every time you fix me you're gonna have to pay the price. Twenty-four hours. I'm gonna hassle you twenty-four hours. And I don't care what you do to me. I'm not gonna just sit there and take your shit!"

"You watch your language young man!" the secretary hollers.

Godzilla, just about to respond to Steve, spots the principal coming out of his office. Quickly he puts on a smile and lumbers away.

* * * *

"Step in here, young man," the principal says in a deep voice as he points to the entrance of his office.

Steve slides his hands through his hair and complies.

"My name is Mr. Imperiale," says the principal as he puts out his right hand. A heavy five o'clock shadow is already sprouting from his jowls, chin and upper lip even though it's only a little past three.

"Mine's Steve Marino," Steve replies as he shakes hands with this symbol of authority.

"What happened in Mr. Carmello's class?" Mr. Imperiale asks, examining Steve's neck, his face contorting.

"I was working on my mechanical drawing assignment when the teacher had to go out in the hall. Then this Godzilla character, he grabs my pencil, and he just doesn't grab it, but he digs it into my drawing, ruining it."

"First of all," says Mr. Imperiale, "the boy you had a fight with, his name is Warren, not Godzilla. He hates it when the other students call him Godzilla. Is that what you called him when he started in with you?"

"No!" answers Steve. "I just heard the other kids call him that when I was trying to get away from him."

"Well, I don't want to hear you referring to him anymore in any other way than Warren. Do you agree to that?"

"Sure, Mr. Imperiale. I ain't looking for any trouble with anyone."

"Go ahead, Steve finish telling me your side of the story."

"Well, when he ruined my assignment and I asked him why he did it, he says it was because his pencil point broke. The way he said it and all, well, he had this smirk and I knew he was giving me a pile of..."

"Watch it young man!"

"Sorry. Anyways, I told this here Warren guy that if he hassles me again, I'm gonna hassle him for twenty-four hours any way I can, and then we'll start over like nothing happened, even if I get the worse of the deal. Each time he hassles me, I'll hassle back for twenty-four hours. I guess he didn't like what I said because he spit in my face. So I grabbed his assignment and tore it up, and as I was trying to get away, he grabbed my neck."

Mr. Imperiale scratches his chin. After a few moments, he says, "Where'd you get this idea about hassling someone for twenty-four hours and then letting the argument drop even if you get the worse of the deal?"

"It started with this motto I'd hear in the streets every now and then. It goes, 'It doesn't matter if you win or lose a fight as long as the guy who started it ends up knowing he was in one.' I got the rest kinda from this cartoon I saw and from trying to deal with my brother Pete. In this cartoon there were these two families—the Hatfields and the McCoys. They lived in Appalachia and they were fighting for years, for generations even. Nobody even remembered what started the feud. But they kept fighting anyway—mothers, fathers, and children, generation after generation would be blown away. At some point you gotta stop. I figure twenty-four hours seems like a fair amount. Every time you try a truce, maybe the other guy goes for it. It's worth a try. I mean even if you get the worst of the deal while you're feuding, it's worth a try because, well, first of all, by then the guy who started it knows you gave him some trouble—and also because I personally got better things to do than feud, _capeesh?_ "

"I _capeesh,_ " says Mr. Imperiale.

"Another way I got the idea was from my brother, Pete. Even though I'm a lot bigger than Pete, I learned it pays to get along with him because he can do little things to me that's more of a hassle than a punch in the nose. Like, he'll start screaming when I'm watching my favorite TV program and if I beat him up and twist his arm till he swears he'll stop, two minutes later he's making a racket with his train set. Before I know it, I've missed my whole show. Anyway, I've learned that being a lot bigger than a guy doesn't mean you don't have to get along with him."

"Hmm, very interesting," says Mr. Imperiale. He gets up and walks around his office, stopping to straighten out some papers on his fine oak desk, then to look at a picture on the wall of himself as a young Fordham University halfback, and then to look out his window. Standing in a courtyard is a sturdy maple tree with its mostly bare limbs blowing in the late November breeze. Very recently it had been ablaze, but now it looks so dreary.

Returning to his seat beside Steve, Mr. Imperiale sits down, scratches his chin, and says, "Steve, your plan has some merit to it. But it also has an element of serious risk. There are some people who would seriously hurt you—even kill you—rather than settle peacefully. The sacrifice you make in waging a conflict might not be worth a fair settlement. Choose your fights carefully, Steve. Choose by weighing the good things and bad things about one plan and then contrast these with that of other plans. For example, your plan, in some ways, is kind of a 'get back' plan. That is, if a guy does something bad to you, you try to get back at him by doing something bad to him. Your plan does have two rather original elements. You let the other guy know you'll leave him alone if he leaves you alone. You then let the other guy know you will only hassle him for twenty-four hours and then you'll return to peace. Let's look at the pros and cons of this."

Then Mr. Imperiale pulls his seat around so it is side by side with Steve's. He takes out a pen and begins writing.

PLAN 1 (Steve's 'get back' strategy)

Pro

1. Steve can bring about a desired change even with kids much bigger than him.

2. There is a chance of peace every twenty-four hours.

3. Some kids will be discouraged from hassling Steve because they wouldn't want to pay his price.

4. Some kids will respect Steve because he stood up to somebody much bigger than him.

Con

1. It takes time and energy to do bad things to someone for twenty-four hours.

2. Steve got spit on.

3. Steve got his neck scratched.

4. Warren can do other bad things to Steve in the future.

5. Some people, when threatened, would seriously hurt Steve, maybe even kill him.

After making this list, the principal says, "Let's consider another plan. I think Warren started in with you because he knew you're new here. Without friends to back you up, he thought he could get on your case without any problems. What do you think might have happened if you would have waited until you made friends here at Cunningham before taking any action to deal with Warren?"

Mr. Imperiale and Steve make a list that looks like this.

PLAN 2 (Put off action to deal with Warren until Steve makes friends.)

Pro

1. Steve's neck probably wouldn't have been scratched.

2. Steve might not have gotten spit on.

3. Steve would be home now instead of staying after school.

4. In time, Steve could get enough friends to discourage Warren from hassling him.

Con

1. Steve would have still lost his pencil.

2. Steve's project would have still been ruined.

3. Warren could do other bad things to Steve.

4. Steve wouldn't get as much respect from kids as a 'get back' strategy. (Though some kids might have lost respect for Steve because they might have thought he was pretty stupid to start a fight with Warren.)

"I'm not going to ask you to decide now which plan is the better," says Mr. Imperiale. "Just think about it over the next few days, okay?"

"Sure."

Now Mr. Imperiale turns very serious. "Steve, students who need to prove they're real men by starting fights with other students don't stay long in this school. I'm not going to put up with that kind of behavior. The community has decided that this school is to be for students who want to get an education. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Steve nods. Then Mr. Imperiale smiles and shakes Steve's hand.

CHAPTER 16

As Steve leaves the principal's office and hurries down the long hallway of Cunningham that leads to the exit closest to his apartment, it flashes into his mind that Warren might be waiting for him out on the streets. The image of Warren, heavy and lumbering after him, comes to Steve. Hey, I gotta be faster than him. I was the fastest guy in my last school. If I see Warren, I'll just scram. Yeah, that's it, I'll just... Uh oh! What if he manages to grab me by hiding somewhere and suddenly jumping out, like from an alleyway? Well, in that case, I guess I'll have to try out some of those "breaks" I learned in the self defense classes I took the last couple of summers. They're supposed to be good for breaking free if someone grabs you. Let's see if I can remember them. Well, one of them you press that spot right behind the ear. Then there's that one where you bend the guy's pinkie. Most of them you just yank away from the weakest point of a hold. As long as I can free myself, I can run away. Maybe I'll get a few more scratches, but I guess I can handle that.

Steve peers from the exit door. There are a few alleys over to the right. I better stay alert as I pass them. Okay, the coast looks clear. Here I go.

Dashing out the exit, a twisting in his stomach accompanies his thoughts of Warren sitting behind him in shop class all year, his back facing the monster, day after day.

Hurrying home and then bounding up the steps to his apartment, Steve comes to his brown door. He searches his pocket for his key, finds it, and before opening the door, he takes a deep breath and lets it out. After what I went through in school, he says to himself, I don't know if I can handle it if Pete gives me a lot of crap about being late.

He inserts the key, turns the tumbler, and as he enters the doorway, Steve sees Pete sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window.

"How'd it go, Pete?"

Pete ignores him.

"Come on, Pete. I'm sorry I'm late. Tell me how your day went."

"Terrible! This kid, Glen, made fun of me for havin' a free lunch pass and I lost my temper and I got sent to the principal's office. Then when I got out of there, Glen got his big brudduh aftuh me. He says if I don't watch it, he's gonna clobber me. And then aftuh his brudduh left, Glen starts ta hassle me saying I gotta take it or his brudduh's gonna do me in. I said, 'Yeah, well I got a big brudduh, too.' Steve, ya gotta go straighten 'em out for me."

As Pete is saying this, he begins to notice Steve's bloody neck.

"What happened?"

"Aaaa, this big kid grabbed me by my neck, and when I yanked it free, it got all scratched."

"Hey, Steve, don't you worry 'bout me. I'll play along with Glen for a while until we get our strength back. In Bensonhurst, no one would touch us. You'll see. We'll be on top again. We'll be da biggest, da toughest."

Steve smiles. "I'm not so sure I wanna be the biggest. Ya gotta pay an awful big price for the kind of respect you're after, Pete."

As Steve is saying this, he attempts to get Pete a drink of milk for some nourishment. "Look at this," he yells, "the stupid refrigerator isn't working! _Marone,_ the milk turned way too sour."

"Yeah, I know," says Pete, "and I ain't eaten nuttin since we finished up the container of orange juice at breakfast."

Steve looks around the kitchen. It's awful, with water stains that run up from the sink to the ceiling. All over the rest of the kitchen, paint is peeling, cracked, and dirty. Steve gets up, goes to the closet, gets out all of the shopping bags his mother has saved, writes a note to her to let her know where he and Pete are heading, and then says: "Come on, Pete, we've got something we gotta go do."

"Do? What do we have to do? Where we goin', Steve?

"We're gonna go make some money."

"Ya got us a job, Steve?"

"Uncle Ricky once took me to Battery Park in Manhattan," Steve explains on the way to the Avenue U Train Station. "From there, we caught the ferry to Liberty Island where the Statue of Liberty stands. Anyway, as we walked through the park toward the ferry, I noticed it's a great spot for finding empty deposit bottles. I'm hoping we could earn some money by collecting them."

When they get to the station, halfway up the steps that lead to the El, Steve stops and grabs hold of his little brother. "Listen-up, Pete. We ain't got no money for tokens, so here's what we're gonna do. When the train is almost pulling into the station, we gotta make a run for it. We gotta run past the guy in the token booth. He might start yelling and stuff, but just follow me, okay?"

"Sure, Steve! Sure! Don't worry about me! I'll just keep running!"

"As soon as we get past the token booth we gotta dive under the turnstile, then run up the other stairs, and then into the train. Follow me when I say, 'Go'. Okay!"

"When you say go, Steve, I'm gonna go like crazy!" Pete goes into a crouched position, as if he's preparing for a sprint. His eyes are wide open, and his fingers are wiggling wildly.

As Steve attempts to hear the rumbling of a coming train, a truck below the El is growling, belching and screeching. Steve turns his ears up toward the tracks trying his best to distinguish the street noise from the rumbling of a coming train. Not yet. Uh oh, there's a police officer down the block.

"Not yet, Pete. It's...wait, now I hear it. Let's give it a couple of seconds to get closer...Ready. Set. Go!"

As they run past the token booth, nothing is said. When they cut in front of a man in a business suit, he hollers, "Hey! You two! Where do you think you're going over there?!" When they dive under the turnstile, the yelling gets louder.

Steve keeps running. Pete is close behind. They hustle up the last set of stairs, and just manage to slide through the closing train doors. Huffing and puffing, they grab a hold of a pole and look around to see if anyone is after them. As the train pulls out of the station, they breathe a sigh of relief.

* * * *

When they reach Whitehall Station in lower Manhattan, they get off the train with a few other passengers. Hundreds of other people pile into the car they were in, and it is packed pretty tightly as the doors close.

"I ain't never seen so many people," says Pete.

This part of the train system is underground. Dark tunnels stretch out toward mysterious places, and black and white tiles make bland patterns on dirty walls.

From the train platform, they go up a set of stairs and slide through a heavy turnstile with a crash and roar. Off in a darkened corner a derelict sleeps with an empty pint bottle behind his head, dried blood and spittle on his cracked lips and his fly is wide open. People walking by completely ignore him.

Walking up a set of steps that smell of urine, the boys emerge back in daylight on a street with a stream of taxicabs rushing by. When the corner traffic light turns green, they cross a large thoroughfare and enter Battery Park.

From this long narrow park on the edge of New York Harbor, one gets a beautiful view of the Statue of Liberty. In addition to a ferry that goes to Liberty Island, there's also one that goes to Staten Island. Because of the view, the nearby skyscrapers, and the ferries, thousands upon thousands of people pass by every day, sometimes stopping long enough to sit on a bench and drink a soda. For many of these people, the two-cent deposit that one gets for returning soda bottles these days means nothing. Consequently, they either leave them by their bench or throw them away in the trashcans scattered about the park.

Steve opens up one of his shopping bags and begins picking up bottles by some benches. When he gets to the first garbage can he begins to rummage through it.

"Ugh!" says Pete. "Gross! What are ya doin', Steve?"

"Remember how I taught you to shine Dad's and Uncle Ricky's shoes?"

"Yeah. That was fun."

"Well, Pete, I'm betting we could go on the boardwalk on weekends and shine shoes and make some money doing it. If we make enough dough we could paint the kitchen. I can't eat in that kitchen the way it is. It makes me gag."

"But goin' through trashcans? People are lookin' at us, Steve."

"We gotta get the money for the shoe shining materials doing this just for a couple of days," says Steve, and he proceeds to collect the bottles. Yes, he notices the people staring at him through the corner of their eyes. Yes, his forehead is burning in the chilly November air.

* * * *

By the time Steve finishes filling up one shopping bag with bottles and begins opening up a second, Pete starts to open up a bag of his own. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and sets off in his own direction, working fast, trying not to catch anybody's eyes.

As Steve gets in the rhythm of checking behind benches and rummaging through trash cans, his mind begins to examine his day at school. Images of the lunch line and free lunch pass, getting his neck grabbed, the principal, all seem to migrate up from his bitterly sour stomach to his confused mind. Shaking his head, he finishes a trashcan, spots another past a row of trees, and heads over, his mind continuing to wander through the day's events.

Wow that Mysterious Jane, the way she jiggles when she walks, _Dio mio!_ Passionately they embrace, their bodies merging, knee and crotch, breast and chest, their mouths moist and sweet, their souls filled with power...

Just then, from the corner of his eye, Steve notices Pete reach into a garbage can, pull out a half-eaten hot dog in a bun soggy with hot sauerkraut and mustard. Pete looks carefully at it and then takes a bite. Aghast, Steve runs over, grabs the dog from Pete's hands and throws it back in the garbage.

"You don't know who was eating that and how long it's been sitting there!" Steve exclaims. "It could be spoiled."

"That family right over there just threw it out," says Pete. "I saw them. Look how well dressed they are. They could be friends of our family offerin' us a bite of their hot dog. I ain't eaten since breakfast, and I figured if I eat it there'd be more food tonight for Mom."

"Pete! Pete! I know you didn't mean anything wrong. It's just, well, no matter how down people get, well they always try to maintain as much dignity as they can. If we have to, we'll eat out of garbage cans. But let's see what happens first with my shoe shining plan."

Pete looks at the garbage in the can. His eyes tear up, his face twists into horrible anger, and then he explodes. "I can't believe this! I'm eatin' out of garbage cans! It's all Daddy's fault! I hate him! I hate him!"

Pete throws his bottles down, breaking some; kicks over the trash can and starts running.

Steve puts his bags down and runs after him.

The two run side by side for a while until Pete is exhausted. He sits down on a street corner with his feet in the gutter, holding his head, breathing hard. Steve sits beside him. Some drivers honk their horns as they speed by, registering their objections to the two youths sitting so close to the passing rush hour traffic.

Five minutes go by without either Steve or Pete saying a word. Hundreds of yellow taxis race by, along with a few fancy limousines and regular cars. Hordes of people wait for the light to change, and when it does, they walk across in unison. The sounds of cars honking, masses of people talking, a tugboat's whistle off in the bay, mark the passing of time.

Another minute goes by and then Pete stands up and brushes off his bottom. "Come on, Steve," he says, "let's finish gettin' our bottles."

CHAPTER 17

Marie leaves her job at the Metropolitan Insurance Building on Wall Street at 3:30, right at the rumbling beginnings of lower Manhattan's rush hour. She's wearing one of her favorite secretary outfits—gray wool sweater, black wool skirt that reaches just below her knees, and black leather pumps that actually don't hurt her feet.

On the elevator, a fine looking gentleman smiles at her. Marie fingers her wedding ring.

The elevator glides to a stop and the large metal doors slide open. The riders stream out into the building's immense art deco lobby with ultra high ceilings and splendid murals of powerfully built workers. As Marie heads to her exit, she notices how her office mate has discovered that her sweetheart is waiting for her. They throw their arms around one another and kiss.

Marie steps through one of the six sets of revolving doors, exits onto the street. At the corner she walks down the steps of the subway station and takes the uptown local to her business class at Hunter College.

Inside the classroom, Marie's eyes keep wandering out the window to the fancy stone facades of the massive apartment building across the way. Usually Professor Aresti has no trouble keeping Marie's attention. Even when presenting some of the more bland abstract ideas, he manages to spice them up with delightful stories such as his daughter's attempt to run her lemonade stand. But today, Marie finds herself checking the clock every few minutes. Pete's principal sure was angry when he called me out of my meeting. Just wait until I get home! I'll teach Pete to get into fights at school! And what about Steve! His principal called too. His neck got all scratched up! Oh God!

At 5:00, Marie heads home via a crowded downtown train. Not only are all the seats taken, but so too are all the straphangers. She maintains her balance, as the train shakes and screeches along, by the press of people on all sides of her.

About thirty minutes into her ride, her train pulls into Atlantic Avenue and her car begins to thin out. Fifteen minutes later she reaches Church Avenue and she manages to get a seat.

Six more stops. Six more stops and I'll be home. The train lurches forward. It won't be long now.

Finally the train roars into the Avenue U Station. As she exits the train and steps onto the station platform, Marie begins to walk faster and faster, taking care not to jostle anyone she passes in the station. Upon reaching the street, she begins to run, and then she bounds up the steps to the apartment. Entering the kitchen huffing and puffing, she gasps when she finds no one home.

* * * *

"Thanks for leaving a note for me, boys," says Marie as her sons enter through the apartment door into the kitchen close to seven p.m. "I heard from your principal today, Steve."

"Take a look at his neck, Mom," says Pete.

"Aaaaaaa!" cries Marie as she goes over to Steve and begins to see his scratches. "Did you wash that good! Come into the bathroom and let me put some medicine on that!"

"I don't need no medicine," says Steve. "I'm gonna go take a hot shower and let the water really clean it out. I washed it out pretty good at school." Then Steve goes over to his dresser and starts to pick out a change of clothes. As he selects a pair of socks, he notices a white envelope way in the back of the drawer. He peeks into it, sees the Yankee soil, and smiles. "What did Mr. Imperiale say, Mom?"

"He called me at work and he didn't blame you for what happened. He did think you could have handled the situation a little better, but he didn't blame you. Then he says how he's taking strong action against Warren, the student who scratched your neck. Warren is suspended until Monday. Mr. Imperiale also told Warren that if he gets into one more fight this school year he's going to be transferred to the six hundred school. That's a special school for students with serious behavior problems."

Steve is relieved that he doesn't have to deal with Warren for a few days. Instead, he can begin to strengthen his power at school.

"What are we gonna do 'bout supper, Mom?" Pete asks.

"You shouldn't even have supper tonight, Pete. I should send you right to bed! Your principal called me and said you were very bad."

"That kid, Glen, he had it coming, Mom. I didn't have any lunch. I'm starving!"

"Uncle Ricky said he's going to be bringing something over a little after seven. Tonight and tomorrow morning should be our last really bad food days. When I get paid tomorrow I'll go shopping. The people at the welfare office said it will take a couple of weeks to process our claim. After that, besides those school free lunch passes that they gave us right away, we should be getting a check each week."

Satisfied with this, Pete goes into the living room and turns on the TV. Quickly, he finds a channel with a Popeye cartoon.

"How did things get to be so bad, Mom?" Steve whispers so his brother can't hear.

"Monday, some guys came over to Dad and told him that by nightfall he either comes up with the money he owed them or he sleeps with the fishes. He had to give them the rent money and everything else we own that's of any value. He still owes them two hundred dollars. He's lucky to be alive."

CHAPTER 18

The next day, Steve gets up a little early. When he leaves for school, he takes along with him a pink rubber ball known as a spaldeen.

When Steve gets to his schoolyard and sees Ron DeFelipo and Tom Giordano, his hand involuntarily starts rubbing the spot on his butt where he got pricked yesterday. Both are talking with Jerry Miller who is absentmindedly fingering his Star of David neck chain. Steve walks close enough to them so that they can easily see him. Then he begins to bounce the spaldeen. After a few bounces, he tosses it up against the school wall a couple of times. Steve knows that Ron, Tom, and Jerry pride themselves as being strong and athletic. It's just about impossible for such a Brooklyn kid to see a bouncing spaldeen without being magnetically drawn to it. First you hear the ball bouncing. Then your eyes instinctively seek out the sound. Spotting it, your body starts to stretch and your brain searches for a plan to get your hands on it.

After Steve bounces the ball for about a minute, he walks over to the guys and says, "Listen, I'm planning on playing in a handball tournament in Brighton Beach this spring and I need to practice. You know anyone around here who might want to play handball?"

Indeed they do. They quickly sit on the cement ground and put on the sneakers they brought for gym. Ron, Jerry and Steve tie the laces of their white canvas high-top Keds while Tom ties the laces of his P.F. Flyers, also canvas high-tops but mostly black.

"Me and Tom will take on you and the new kid," says Jerry to Ron. "You can serve first."

"Okay," Ron replies. "We'll play until the 'line-up' bell rings. Whatever team is winning at the bell wins."

Ron steps up to the serving line about fifteen feet in front of the handball wall, bounces the ball, steps into it, and slaps it hard down the left line toward Tom's left hand.

Tom hits the ball as hard as he can back to the wall.

Steve watches the spaldeen as it leaves Tom's hand, and anticipating where it's heading, he positions himself. When the ball bounces off the wall, Steve is standing where he can hit it with his right hand. And when Steve does hit the ball he wallops it and in a streak it passes to the left of his opponents before they can flinch—point for Ron and Steve's team.

Tom takes Jerry over to the side of the court out of Steve and Ron's hearing range. "Did ya see that new kid smack that ball?" he whispers.

"Yeah," Jerry answers.

"Well," says Tom, "I'd tell ya to start hitting the ball, if ya could, to Ron, except Ron ain't half bad himself."

"We'll hit to Ron whenever we can," Jerry responds. "As good as Ron is, he's not in the same league as the new kid. I got to see him yesterday in gym. He's real quick, and now, the way he just hit that ball, well, just hit it to Ron when you can. Listen, Tom, I played handball all summer long over in Manhattan Beach. I can't hit as hard as Steve but I worked on some shots quite a bit. Let me play the right side. Give me the middle too, and I bet we can take these guys."

"Okay," says Tom, and the two step back into position to receive a serve.

Soon, the dashing about, the hard whacks, and some dazzling saves begin to get the attention of some of the nearby students milling about. Cliff Schweitzer, the sports writer for the school newspaper, is one of them.

Suddenly, Jerry Miller smacks the ball on a straight line from his hand to the very bottom of the wall, and when it bounces off it rolls on the ground—a perfect killer.

When Cliff sees this shot he shouts out, "Nice killer, Miller." Others, watching, smile at the sound of this.

Because of Jerry Miller's killer, Steve gets to serve. Jerry and Tom move way back in the hopes of neutralizing his hard-hitting.

Steve, noticing this, steps a couple of yards in back of the serving line. He bounces the ball in front of him and begins to move forward toward the serving line, and just as he reaches the line he smacks a low line drive toward Tom. Jerry Miller, playing a hunch, had begun to move in and toward Tom's side of the court just as Steve hit the ball. The ball hits the ground and only takes a short skip before it's ready to hit the ground a second time. Jerry just gets to the ball in time and manages to slap it back to Ron.

It's a fairly easy shot for Ron to return. He positions himself and goes for a killer. The ball is hit a bit too high on the wall for it to roll off.

Jerry Miller steps in and puts the shot away with his second killer of the game.

"Killer Miller!" cries Cliff from the sidelines where the spectators are beginning to root for their favorite team.

It's now Jerry and Tom's turn to serve. Tom goes first, hitting a deep shot to Ron.

Sneakers scrape and slap on cement.

"Humph," cries Ron as he hits the ball back with all his might.

"Hit another killer, Miller," several kids cry out in unison.

"Yes!" replies the crowd when Jerry obliges.

The four players battle on for twenty minutes, at which point Steve and Ron are down by a point, 5-4. Jerry checks his watch and announces, "One minute till the line-up bell."

Ron sets himself to serve.

"We need this one," says Steve.

Ron nods, bounces the spaldeen, and serves deep to Tom, and then begins to take a step backward figuring Tom will hit the ball high off the wall like he has been doing all game.

Tom, noticing Ron is backing up, tries to drop the ball low down the left line.

Ron dives for the ball in such a way that he keeps his knees, with his school pants, from scraping on the ground, the toe-tips of his sneakers holding one side of him up while his right palm holds the other half up, and with his left hand he reaches out. From the corner of his eyes Ron spots Jerry racing over from his right toward the left side of the court. Ron, as best he can, swipes the ball in the opposite direction of where Jerry is moving.

Jerry puts on his brakes, dives to his right, lands on his left palm, taking care to use his toes to keep his knees from scraping on the ground, and reaches for the ball with his right hand. On his swing Jerry just gets a little piece of the ball with his fingertips, propelling the ball softly toward the wall. It falls a foot short. The game is tied, 5-5.

RING!

"There's the line-up bell!" cries Ron.

"Great game!" Cliff shouts while pumping his fist.

"Who's the new kid?" asks one of the spectators.

A few girls giggle and throw looks at Steve.

CHAPTER 19

Just about the time Steve finishes his handball game, Pete is in his own schoolyard standing off by himself looking over his baseball cards. From the corner of his eyes he spots Glen coming over.

"Hey, Pete, where's your big bad brudduh?" asks Glen. "At the welfare office?"

Toby Flatow, Marty Finkle, and a few other first graders are looking on.

"I decided ta handle you and your brudduh myself," says Pete, his shoulders up and his head pushed forward.

"What's zuh matter, Pete? Your brudduh don't care about you enough ta stick up for you?"

"I decided ta handle you and yer brudduh myself. I'm not dragging my brudduh inta this. You can say whatever ya want ta me an' I'm gonna let ya get away wit' it, see. But if ya touch me, I'm goin' at ya an' I don't care what your brudduh does."

"What's your name new kid?" asks Toby while fiddling with her long, brown, braided hair.

"Pete. Pete Marino."

Marty Finkle starts to look over Pete's shoulder to see his baseball card.

"I got this here Yogi Berra card," says Pete. "Ya wanna see it? It's my best card from the summer. I wannid ta get a Mantle all summer but I never got it. Still, I got this here Berra."

"Yogi Berra!" says Marty. "Sure! I'll take a look at it."

Glen and a few other kids begin to gather around Pete trying to get a peek.

* * * *

After their handball game, Steve and his fellow handball players get on line to enter the school building. They begin to hop on one foot making clumsy efforts to switch back from their sneakers to their school shoes.

"Let's play every morning," says Ron as they enter the school.

"Yeah," says Tom. "We'll keep a record to see which team is the all-time best."

The boys begin to mount the steps to their eighth grade homeroom. Mysterious Jane, a few students ahead of Steve, turns her head in profile to respond to something said by a girl walking beside her. He notices the sudden increase in his heartbeat and the swimming sensation surging in his head. The curve of her nose, the sparkle of her lovely green eyes, the sway of her voluptuous body strikes a whole new set of chords in him he has never previously experienced.

"Hold these," says Cliff to Jerry Miller as he hands him the books and sneakers he had been carrying to class.

"Are you shitting me?" Jerry asks in a strained whisper while glancing up to see if Mrs. Kreetch might overhear him. She's usually on hall duty up by the next landing. "Yuh know, I got a pretty heavy load of my own, you ass!" Nevertheless, he complies.

Cliff takes out a note-pad and pencil from his back pocket. "Steve, let me ask you a couple of quick questions for my sports column."

Steve shakes his head trying to clear all that is stirring inside.

"You hit the ball pretty hard on the handball court, Steve. You throw as hard as you hit, I mean when you're playing baseball and stickball?"

"I ain't no Sandy Koufax, or anything like that, Cliff, but I guess I got a good strong arm."

"Where'd you live before moving to our neighborhood?"

"Bensonhurst, by 82nd Street and Bay Parkway."

"How come you moved here?"

Steve pauses on this. He looks down at all the feet heading up the stairwell. Then he looks up to Cliff and smiles. "I guess it was just time for us to get to know a new neighborhood."

"What's your strongest sport?"

"Baseball!"

Cliff reaches his homeroom, which is just to the right of the stairwell. "Thanks a lot, Steve. It should appear in the _Cunningham Gazette_ next Friday—the back page. My column's called 'The Sport's Scene'." Then Cliff grabs his stuff back from Jerry, and turns into the SP Homeroom.

As Steve and the rest of the kids who haven't yet reached their homeroom walk on, they pass by a group of girls who start to giggle.

Steve—upon hearing the gigglers—stops, turns around, looks squarely into the eyes of the girl who appears to be the leader, and with a smile in his eyes, asks, "What's so funny?"

The girl turns red, and she, along with the rest of her friends, break out in hysterics.

Shrugging his shoulders, Steve goes on his way.

* * * *

By lunchtime, even though this second day at Cunningham Junior High is going fairly well for Steve, he's feeling tightness in his chest and rumbling in his stomach. Maybe it's because he had only a glass of orange juice for breakfast and he's hungry. Maybe it's because being around so many kids that are still strangers is wearing on him. Maybe it's because Mysterious Jane is sitting beside him. Or maybe it's because he's getting ready to use, again, his dreaded free lunch pass. He's really not sure why, but for some reason he's biting his lip.

In less than a minute after he sits down at his lunch table, Ron and Brainy George start going at each other, incessantly growling and snapping at each other.

"You're stupid," says George.

"At least I'm not a maggot," says Ron.

"Moron!"

"No. You!"

"Drop dead!"

Steve, feeling edgy, finally just can't take it any longer without saying something. He doesn't want to say something. He feels that he's just beginning to be friends with Ron and he best just stay out of it. But finally, he becomes so exasperated that words just leap out of his mouth.

"Listen! George, Ron. Listen! Last night on TV, I was watching this show and on it there were these two characters. They were arguing, over and over, who makes the best pudding. And I looked at them and tried to figure out why these guys were such wimps. And as I studied them, it came to me that it was mainly the way they were putting each other down. The way they argued. The way they were so desperately trying to impress the other guy. 'I'm the better pudding maker.' 'No! I'm the better pudding maker.' I mean, if you argue with someone, do it respectfully, and if you can't convince them in a reasonable period of time, for Christ's sake, get on to something else!"

Some of what Steve is trying to say gets through pretty quickly to George.

"You're saying me and Ron are wimps! That's what you're saying, Steve! That me and Ron are wimps!"

Steve gathers himself and with a strong voice and steady gaze, he responds, "The way you argue with each other comes across to me as... well I got a dad who's always putting people down, so maybe that's part of it. But I'm not saying you're wimps. In fact, some of the things I've seen you two do, don't come across that way at all. I saw Ron today play handball and he showed me plenty of heart out on the court. And as for you, George, sticking up for me in the lunch line when I had to use my free lunch pass—well..." Then, looking squarely at George, Steve gives him a nod.

* * * *

Things quiet down for a while. As they wait to be called to get in the lunch line, Cliff begins to read the _Daily News_ sports section. Ron starts to read a _Green Lantern_ comic.

"If you guys are going to read," says George, "I might as well too. I only got another week before this book report is due," and as he's saying this he takes out this huge volume, _Crime and Punishment._

Steve stares at it in bewilderment as if he is seeing the sunrise at midnight. "Why'd ya pick such a big book?" he asks. "I always pick a book as thin as I can find."

"This is the greatest, all time super-greatest book, ever," George answers.

Suddenly Cliff starts pointing excitedly at something in his newspaper. "Look!" he says to Ron. "They're really going to build a new Madison Square Garden!"

"No way!" says Ron. "Too many people would get pissed. The old Garden has such a super history. What's wrong with it anyway? It's great the way it is. Why, it would be sacrilegious. It'd be like building a new Yankee Stadium!"

Steve begins to listen to George with one ear and the Cliff/Ron discussion with the other. George, noticing this, starts to get annoyed. How dare a conversation about sports interfere with his conversation about _Crime and_ _Punishment_? Fed up, he starts to make vomiting sounds. He's getting louder and louder, trying to drown out Cliff and Ron's conversation. Ron, looking as if he's pleased that Steve can finally see what an ass George is, says, "You see what I mean?"

Steve's face muscles scrunch up his nose as he begins to rub his forehead. _Marone_ , he says to himself, I ain't got the stomach to hear any more of this crap. He turns to Ron and Cliff, "I hope we can discuss Yankee Stadium and Madison Square Garden together some other time," he says firmly. "George, if you don't mind, let's you and me go over to that table over there where we won't be distracted. I want to learn more about your book."

"Anything to get away from that jerk!" George says as he gets up from his table's seat.

"Good riddance!" Ron replies.

"Mind if I join you two handsome men," Mysterious Jane says while quickly leaping to her feet. "I won't bother you." Her lovely green eyes gaze into Steve's. "I'll just listen."

"Is that okay with you, George?" Steve asks.

"You have to be joking," George replies. "Mysterious Jane may follow me whithersoever I goest."

Jane smiles with delight and takes George's and Steve's arms, and the three of them glide off.

CHAPTER 20

After lunch Steve has English with Mrs. Kreetch. She is wearing a loose black jacket with deep pockets stuffed with papers. Dipping into one of these pockets she pulls out a mimeographed piece of paper with blue printed words. "This is the poem entitled, 'In Flanders Fields,' she says sternly. It was written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrea, a surgeon during World War I. "I trust you all did your homework and read it and then wrote a paragraph on what the poem means to you. Remember, Flanders is a cemetery where many who were killed in a major battle were buried. Listen carefully to the words."

Mrs. Kreetch lifts the paper she's holding and starts to read.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below...

As she reads these words her voice is solemn and her right hand stretches out to the students.

We are the Dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,  
Loved and were loved, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields.

Her outstretched hand now is curled into a fist and she pounds it into her chest. Her voice begins to rise as she reads on.

After her dramatic reading, Mrs. Kreetch looks around the room and then points to a girl with pigtails and says, "Miss Levy, what is this poem about?"

"Ummm..." The girl begins to squirm in her seat. "Ummm..."

"I see you are not prepared, Miss Levy," Mrs. Kreetch responds with a great display of disdain.

Who does she think she is? Steve asks himself.

A few minutes later she pulls out of her pocket another poem.

_"If_ , was written by Rudyard Kipling," Mrs. Kreetch says in her slow, distinct manner. As she begins to read the poem, her eyes gaze out into some unknown distance. And as she reaches the final verse her voice turns up a few notches in volume, and with great, deep resonances, she cries out:

If you can keep your head when all about you  
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,  
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you  
But make allowance for their doubting too,  
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,  
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,  
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,  
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise...

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,  
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!

She finishes up the poem with a firm pound of her fist on her desk. Steve thinks he can, on her stern, pale face, make out for the first time since he met her, a hint of a smile.

"What does Kipling's poem, _If_ , say to you, Mr. Marino?" she asks him.

"It's how Kipling felt about who's a real man. I like how he says that if you could trust yourself even when everyone else is doubting you, and yet make allowances for their doubting too, and if you could watch the things you gave your life to, broken, and have the courage to start all over once again, you'd be a man, my son. The poem, to me... well, it seems to me to be strong and wise."

* * * *

At the bell, Steve and Ron walk together down the softly lit hallway to their Health class. Just as they're about to enter the classroom, Steve spots a couple of girls talking amongst themselves.

"Hello," says Steve to one of them as he smiles and gazes into her eyes. "I like your long hair, the way you got it flipping under like that."

"You do?" she responds, fixing her eyes on him, a smile forming on her pretty lips.

"Very much."

"I just started wearing it like this. I'm glad you like it."

"It really does look good," says the girl standing next to her. She's wearing her hair bunched up in the back with bangs combed a little to the left.

Steve turns and gives her a smile.

She blushes while returning the smile.

"I'll see you girls around," says Steve giving both a friendly nod, and then he walks into the class.

Ron follows him in. "Pretty smooth with the girls, aren't you?" he comments.

"Actually, I was real nervous saying what I said."

"Well at least you were able to say something. When I try to say something to a girl it's like I'm a bubble and suddenly I burst," and as Ron is saying this he makes a roundness with his hands and arms and then his hands and arms suddenly go flying every which way. "I'm not kidding," Ron continues. "With girls I just completely burst."

* * * *

At the end of Health class, Ron hurries to catch Steve before he leaves the room. "Hold up a second, Steve. Listen, you ever go bowling?"

"I've always wanted to," answers Steve, "but I ain't ever gotten the chance."

"Well, me, Jerry, and Tom go a lot," says Ron. "We're gonna go Saturday. Ya interested in going with us?"

"Jerry goes with ya?" asks Steve a little surprised.

"Yeah."

"Ain't Jerry Jewish?"

"Jerry's okay," says Ron. "So ya gonna come, or what?"

Before deciding, Steve hesitates. I'll look pretty awful next to experienced bowlers, he says to himself. The image of Mr. Imperiale's list of pros and cons flash in his mind. If I go, I'll have to miss two of my favorite TV shows, "The Untouchables" and "Gunsmoke." Aaaa, I watch enough TV during the week. Money! Yikes! But it's a chance to make new friends, to increase my power like Uncle Ricky would. Biting his lower lip, Steve turns to Ron. "Yeah, I guess I'll give it a try. Money's a little tight at home right now but I think I'm gonna be able to raise enough money shining shoes on Saturday. In case I don't, Ron, whyncha give me your telephone number so I can call you if I have to bow out."

* * * *

Steve's Mechanical Drawing class, without Godzilla, is considerably better. But from time to time he touches his neck scratches, gets an anxiety pang, and thinks about Monday when Warren will return.

* * * *

The 3:00 dismissal bell rings. It marks the beginning of Steve's first weekend in his new neighborhood.

He gets home a few minutes before Pete and finds the landlord has fixed the refrigerator. Steve smiles as he sits in front of the kitchen window that looks onto busy Avenue U with its movie theater, ice cream parlor, and shops.

"Congratulations," says Steve as Pete enters the apartment. "You got through your first week. That boy, Glen, give you a hard time today?"

"I told him I was gonna handle him wit' out you. If he calls me a name I'm gonna let it slide. Then I told him that if he touches me I'm gonna go at him, an' I don't care what he or his brudduh does ta get even."

"How'd this Glen guy react to that?" asks Steve as physical unease shoots through him.

"We got ta talkin' 'bout baseball cards and I guess he ain't so bad."

"SHOO! I'm glad it worked out. With some kids that plan can backfire."

Yesterday, Steve's mother had bought some cookies and some fresh milk so the boys could have an afternoon snack. After downing a glass of some of the cool white beverage, they put a few cookies in their jacket pockets and head out to Battery Park.

When they get to the train station, Steve takes out some of the money he received yesterday from returning the bottles.

"Two tokens, please," says Steve to the man in the booth as he hands him a dime. Both boys look at the shinny tokens and exchange a smiling glance. With exaggerated dignity, they march over to the turnstile, slip the tokens into their slots, and push through its hindering arms.

* * * *

By six o'clock the sun has set. The boys have returned to their neighborhood and they're pretty excited.

"Okay, Pete, first we'll need two of these shoe shining boxes," says Steve in an isle at the Woolworth's five and ten cent store a few blocks from their apartment.

"Can we get one of these, Steve?" says Pete lifting up a steel coin changer. It has separate slots for pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. A spring loaded arm for each type of coin protrudes at the bottom and when pulled releases one coin at a time.

"Not just yet, Pete. When we're raking in the big bucks we can come back and get some stuff like this. Come over here by the shoe polish section."

"That will be four dollars and twenty three cents, young man," says a grandmotherly woman at the checkout line.

Steve looks dismayed. "I only got four dollars and twelve cents." He shows her all the money he's brought.

"You need eleven more cents young man."

"We just gotta have this stuff," says Pete, his eyes looking ever so sad.

The woman calls over some man and whispers in his ear. "You boys are in luck," he says smiling, "those shoe boxes just went on sale. They're six cents less than the ticket price. Here's a penny change."

The boys take their bag of supplies and sit down on a bench that's on a triangular island in the middle of Kings Highway and near Coney Island Avenue. Pete looks carefully at their investment: some brushes, cloth, different colored shoe polish, and two shoe shining boxes.

"We did it, Steve! We finished the first part of our plan!"

Steve makes a fist and punches Pete in the shoulder.

Pete swings back and the two begin swinging at each other, laughing wildly amidst the steady flow of people and traffic heading home for the day.

CHAPTER 21

The next morning Steve and Pete go to the boardwalk around ten. It's a beautiful fall Saturday in the third week of November: the sky, deep blue, the temperature, in the 50s. The boardwalk is modestly populated with joggers, mothers pushing carriages, a crowd of people watching handball games down in the West 5th Street park just beside the boardwalk, whole families strolling along—Asians, Blacks, Whites, Indians, and Latinos.

The boardwalk, which runs beside much of the area's white sandy beach, begins at the eastern part of Brighton. As you walk west there is no clear dividing line as you leave Brighton and enter Coney Island, but as you come closer and closer, its famous landmarks come more and more into view.

Nearest to Brighton is the thrilling wooden Cyclone, far and away the greatest of all roller coasters. At about the same time you begin to make out the Cyclone, an enormous Ferris wheel with rolling, swaying cable-cars also comes into view. And then, of course, is the sky scraping Parachute Jump resembling the Eiffel Tower, but on its top sits a majestic industrial crown of bent red steel girders. If you were to approach these structures, drawn by your inner-most sense of awe, soon you would find that you're in a world-class amusement area with an abundance of games, rides, sideshows, and food stands. But the morning Steve and Pete arrive, many of the summer attractions have closed for the season despite the mild weekend.

Hanging from shoulder straps, the shoe shining boxes are swinging off their hips. Within minutes Steve spots a well dressed man sitting on a bench reading the newspaper. Steve glances at his shoes and see they're a bit scuffed.

"He looks like he might have a little change to spare," Steve whispers to Pete. Then, bracing himself for rejection, Steve calls out, "Hey mister, a dime for a shoeshine?"

"I'm busy right now. Maybe some other time."

"You could go ahead with your reading," says Steve. "I could shine your shoes and you won't even know I'm here."

"I'm busy right now," the guy repeats more loudly.

"All right," says Steve. "Maybe we'll catch ya later."

A little further on, Steve spots a group of well dressed men standing on the side of the boardwalk farthest from the beach. There's a brown brick, six-story apartment building there that leans up against the boardwalk. On its eastern corner the brick abruptly ceases and yellow stucco forms the image of a castle with a turret jutting up a floor higher than the rest of the building. As Steve and Pete approach this edifice they discover that it blocks the wind and, with the sun out like it is, it feels almost summery.

"It looks like the Mets' new stadium will be ready for the home opener this April," says a balding man in a herringbone sports jacket as Steve and Pete walk over.

"I guess they're going to call it Shea Stadium," says another man, this one short and heavyset, wearing a brown air force leather jacket and a brown tie.

"Shoeshine, gentlemen? Just a dime." Steve inquires.

The short, heavyset man puts his hands in his pocket and jingles some change. He continues on with his conversation with the other men, but as he does so he sits down on a nearby bench, points to Steve, and then to his shoes.

Steve slides the strap off his shoulder and positions his shoe shining box while the man puts his right foot upon it. Going to work, first by applying some black polish, Steve waits for a break in the conversation.

"I went over to the site," says the heavyset man as he keenly observes Steve. "The stadium looks almost done now, at least on the outside. It's over in Queens by the World's Fair. Every few minutes they got these real loud jets flying overhead."

Here there is a pause. "Gentlemen," says Steve, "give my brother, Pete, a chance to do a pair of shoes. I know he's young, but he does a great job. If you don't like the way it comes out you won't have to pay and I'll fix it up for you for free."

"I'll give the boy a try," says a thin man with a broad grin who looks like he could be a rabbi, with his thick black beard, charcoal brimmed hat, and long black wool coat. He sits down on the bench beside Steve's customer. Pete immediately gets down to work.

Steve takes out a long brush and starts sweeping it back and forth on the black leather shoe, spreading the thick polish evenly.

"We hang out by this warm spot regularly on the weekend," says Steve's customer. "This is the first time we've seen you boys. Just getting started in the shoe shining business?"

"Well, we practiced a lot on our relatives," Steve answers as he takes out a long strip of soft white cloth and, with firm steady pressure, he begins to rapidly slide the cloth back and forth. A bright gleaming shine has begun to appear.

When Steve is done, his customer inspects the results and smiles. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a shining dime and an old buffalo nickel and hands it over to Steve.

"Thanks a lot, sir," says Steve.

"The name's Mersh Blumfeld," says the customer. "I admire your initiative. When I was a boy during the Depression I had to go out and earn money to help my family."

"Wow!" Steve exclaims. "I heard about the Great Depression. It really must have been hard back then."

"Hard? It was worse than hard! You shouldn't know from it, young man. Lines would form for blocks and blocks at the mere hint that someone might be hiring for a job. I went out and sold apples on street corners to help my family from starving."

Another gentleman sits down in Mr. Blumfeld's place and puts his right foot on the shoebox. Steve begins to apply some polish.

As the gentlemen continue to talk wistfully of their difficult childhoods, Steve listens intently. He likes hearing the stories of how others struggled while they were young and managed to learn something useful from the experience. Steve's interest in what these men have to say converts into nice tips.

As well as Steve's doing, Pete is doing even better. It's not difficult to guess why. Six-year old Pete is certainly cuter than Steve and it's his seriousness in this work, the pride he takes in a good shine, his reaction each time he gets paid, how his eyes dance. When he takes the money, he puts it in his pocket and jingles the change that's mounting there.

"Keeping the money in my pocket," he says, "it's only for this week. Next week I'm gonna buy one of those silver coin changers you wear on your belt. Me and Steve, we seen one in Woolworth's."

The men are so taken by Pete that one of them, encouraged by his friends, gives Pete a dollar tip just to see his reaction.

"Steve! Steve! Look! Look!" he yells, his face beaming.

Steve smiles and looks over at the generous customer and thanks him.

"Will you boys be coming back tomorrow?" Mersh Blumfeld wants to know.

"Yes."

"Well, in that case, I'll be sure to wear a pair of my particularly scuffed up shoes."

* * * *

As the boys make their way into Coney Island, they stop six times to serve customers. Then they come to the base of the two hundred and seventy-seven foot high Parachute Jump. It looks a bit lonely standing there, for it is closed until next summer. The hustle and bustle that had gathered around it during the long, warm days of May, June, July, August, and September is nowhere evident. Tilting their heads back to look up at its distant top, their mouths open wide.

"You ever go up in it, Steve?"

"Yeah—with Uncle Ricky."

"Was it scary?"

"Going up is pretty smooth and you get this great view of the ocean and you can even see the Empire State Building and everything. But when you hit the top... yipes! I noticed before I got on the thing that when you get to the top you get shooken-up a little. So I was expecting this sudden jerk-shake kinda feeling but I didn't think that it would be quite as rough and I thought something went wrong and I kinda kissed my life goodbye. Then we started to drop down real fast and then the parachute caught the wind and we were yanked into going slower. A few seconds later it was all over—we were back, safe, on the ground. Whew! I tell ya, I didn't exactly press Uncle Ricky for another ride on it like I did when we went on the Cyclone."

"I'd like to give it a try, Steve, you know, just ta say I did it."

Should we see if there're any customers out there?" says Steve pointing opposite the Parachute Jump. Jutting out at a right angle from the boardwalk, across the sand and out over the ocean, is the Coney Island Pier.

"There's no way the fishermen out there are gonna stop to get a shine, Steve."

"Yeah, but look. There's some folks out there relaxing, watching the fishermen. Let's check it out."

A mossy smell begins to enter their nostrils as they stroll out over the water. Below their feet, under the wooden planks, waves rush against the pier's pillars producing a pleasant swish, swish, swish....

"What are you after?" Steve asks a weather beaten man who is putting a chicken leg in a cage that's attached to a long string.

"Crabs," comes the low gravelly reply, and with it, the man points to a deep bucket. Steve and Pete look down to its bottom and see a few pearly white and brown clawed creatures crawling over one another.

"Interest you in a shoeshine?" Steve asks an observer with a splendid pair of scuffed shoes.

"Not today, young man,"

A few yards further down a couple of men are observing someone who has just pulled in a catch—a silvery fish about fifteen inches long. Again Steve's offer of a shine is rebuffed.

A few more offers—a few more rejections.

Then four men who are playing dominoes on a little portable table look up at Steve and smile. "Why don't we take a break for a few minutes," one of them says. "Our shoes can use a bit of a work over, don't ya think?"

"You gentlemen are all right!" Steve exclaims as he and his brother get down to work.

CHAPTER 22

"You boys, when you're done, you give me a call, hear," says Ron DeFelipo's father as he pulls up to the bowling alley in his brand new 1963 blue Dodge Dart GT convertible. "I know it's just a few blocks but I don't want ya walking home! They haven't caught the punks who knifed that boy!"

"I told ya three times already that I'll call, Dad!" Ron replies while his hands wave about.

"You make sure you do!" hollers Ron's dad while he begins to drive away.

"The kid who got killed," says Tom Giordano, "he went to our school. He was a pretty decent guy. It's that stupid Harold and Anita's gang, the Skull Bones, from East 16th Street that did it."

As Steve steps into the cavernous building, he hears the sounds of balls rumbling down the alleys, pins crashing, and people talking. Jerry Miller's leaning over the sparkling Wurlitzer jukebox that's playing the hit single, "It's My Party," by Brooklyn born Lesley Gore.

"Hi Jerry," says Steve while giving him a two finger salute. "How's Killer Miller doing?"

Jerry looks up and smiles. Seeing Ron and Tom, he asks: "Hey, ya got my money?"

"Steve," says Ron, "whenever we go bowling we always chip in fifty cents apiece so Jerry comes a little early to get us on the waiting list. If we don't, we'd have to wait over an hour for a lane."

"I use the money," Jerry says, "to play the tunes they got here while I wait. In my house, my parents only listen to classical music."

Steve looks into the jukebox and sees its got some great songs—"Louie Louie," by the Kingsmen; "Dominique," by The Singing Nun; "If I had a Hammer," by Trini Lopez; "Be my Baby," by The Ronettes; "Blame it on the Bossa Nova," by Eydie Gorme; "Blowin' in the Wind," by Peter, Paul and Mary; and dozens more. As he taps to the song, "It's My Party," with his left hand, Steve dips into his pocket with his right to get out the fifty cents he hadn't expected to lay out. Oh well, he says to himself with a smile as he begins to hand the money over to Jerry.

Jerry takes Steve over to the side. "Listen, Steve, you don't owe me nothing. I made the fifty cent deal with Ron and Tom."

"Well, shouldn't I chip in something?" asks Steve.

"I got plenty from Ron and Tom. I notice you had a free lunch pass at school. My father was out of work for over a year when I was ten."

Steve looks into Jerry's eyes, then down to the green carpeted floor, and then back into his eyes. After a few seconds, he says softly, "Thanks, Jerry."

* * * *

After their number is called, the boys go over to the counter, rent bowling shoes, and are assigned an alley.

Steve has never bowled before, and as he waits his turn, he watches carefully every movement of the three guys he's with who are obviously experienced bowlers. After Ron rolls one down the alley, Steve closes his eyes, and in his mind, goes through each step. He's not sure just when to begin to swing the ball back, so he opens his eyes and watches Tom step to the line.

I think I have it now, Steve says to himself, and he closes his eyes to go through the steps again.

"Whatcha sitting there with your eyes closed for?" asks Ron. "Ya look like a nut case. Grab a ball and take some practice before we get started."

"I was just trying something that this guy taught me in some self defense classes I took the last few summers," says Steve. Not wanting to hold the other guys up, he grabs a ball that fits his fingers, walks behind the line, turns to Ron, Jerry, and Tom, and says, "I've never bowled before."

"Well, now's your chance," says Ron.

Steve turns to face the pins. He takes a deep breath and slowly, with his cheeks ballooning, blows it out. He begins his approach to the pins, his right hand with the bowling ball in it, arches backwards, and then, while aiming at the head pin, Steve thrusts the ball forward. It rumbles along at an amazingly high speed, but as it gets halfway down the alley it starts to curve sharply to the left, and about five feet before reaching the pins, it rolls into the gutter.

Steve turns to the guys he's with and sees Jerry and Tom trying to hold back their laughter but not doing a great job of it.

Ron looks solemn. "Go ahead," he says. "Try again, and aim a bit more to the right."

Steve waits a couple of seconds for his ball to return, picks it up, returns to the line, and again rolls one down the alley, aiming this one more to the right. This time, his ball curves to the right and it doesn't get halfway down the alley before it's in the gutter.

"I guess Steve's not so great in everything," whispers Tom to Jerry with a smile.

"I don't think I'm gonna be able to do this," says Steve, his forehead all crinkled.

"You're turning your wrist too much," says Ron. "After you practice awhile you might want to experiment with a little curve. For now, try keeping your wrist straight. This way," and Ron gets up and shows Steve that as he releases the ball his fingers proceed to go straight up so, as he finishes his follow through, they are pointing straight up toward the ceiling with his palm facing right at his face. "Ya see what I'm doing?"

"Yeah," says Steve, and he copies Ron's movements without the ball.

"That's it," says Ron. "Now give that a try."

As Steve once again picks up a ball, he says to himself, Ron's being awfully nice to me. He's usually the first guy to put someone down. I wonder what's up.

Steve approaches the line, composes himself, and begins his approach. As he releases the ball, he focuses on not turning his wrist, and on his follow through. The ball races down the lane, and this time it reaches all the way to the pins and knocks five of them down. Steve breathes a sigh of relief.

"All right!" says Ron. "Good! Now we'll start a game and we won't play teams or nuttin'. We'll all just keep our own scores and get a little practice."

* * * *

By the end of the first game, Steve is starting to get the hang of this new sport. Not that he's anywhere as good as the other guys, but he's starting to lighten up and have some fun.

"Ready for a second game?" asks Jerry.

"You and Tom start without me and Steve for a few minutes," says Ron. "Steve, come over here for a second. I want to show you something." Ron takes Steve down about seven or eight lanes from where they were bowling. "You see those girls over there?"

"The one with the yellow sweatshirt and the one with the black sweatshirt?" Steve asks.

"Yeah."

"I see them, Ron. What about them?"

"Well, I got a thing for the one in the yellow sweatshirt. I see her on Saturday nights sometimes and I try to talk with her but I turn into a bubble and pop," and Ron, as he's saying this, goes through his hand and arm movements. "Steve, you're real smooth with the girls. You think you can get their numbers and we could double date? Her friend is real cute."

"Yeah, she is," says Steve as he looks over the situation. Both girls have braces on their teeth. The girl Ron likes, the one in a yellow sweatshirt, is waiting her turn, sitting at a seat next to a man and woman—probably one of the girls' parents. The girl in the black sweatshirt is going into her stride, reaching back, and flinging the ball down the lane. BOOM! Seven pins go crashing down. As she turns back toward the group she is with, Steve sees she has a nice oval face, short black hair, full black eyebrows, and a sweet laugh.

"Come on, Steve," Ron urges, "you can do it. Go get their numbers."

Steve, stretching his neck, looks over toward their scoring sheet that sits on a table in front of the girls. "They have three frames to go before the end of their game, Ron. Let's wait till their game is over."

"Whatever ya say."

Steve sits down at a snack table pretty close to the girls.

"You're really gonna do something?" says Ron excitedly, sitting down beside Steve.

"Maybe," Steve responds.

Ron takes out a pack of chewing gum. "Here Steve, ya want a piece?"

"Na. Listen Ron, tell me something. The first day I met you, when we were down in the lunchroom, you started to say some stuff about Jewish people, remember, and then I discover the next day you're friends with Jerry Miller. He's Jewish..."

"Jerry, Tom, and me, we've been best friends ever since I can remember."

"Your best friends with Jerry, and with him sitting right beside you, ya say that stuff about Jews."

"I was just trying to piss Brainy George off," Ron responds as he places a stick of gum in his mouth.

"George ain't even Jewish."

"Well I didn't know that."

"But you knew Jerry, who was sitting right beside you is Jewish," says Steve who is beginning to rub his temples.

"Don't you ever piss off your friends?" Ron asks smiling.

"Not if I can help it."

"Jerry's all right. Look. He's over there bowling, having a good time, all in one piece. After I said what I said about Jews, after lunch, he said I was a stupid idiot. I said I didn't mean anything about it and that was it."

As Ron finishes this statement, he notices the girl he likes, the one in the yellow sweatshirt, has just rolled a bowling ball that looks like it has some real potential. It's heading toward the center pin. Everyone she's with turns silent and fixes their attention to the path of this rolling sphere. As it crashes into the left pocket, all the pins tumble down but the one all the way to the left, which begins to rock back and forth.

"Nuts!" yells the girl in the yellow sweatshirt as she grabs a hold of her ponytail. She begins to turn away when, at the corner of her eye she notices the rocking pin suddenly plops down. "Yes!" she cries as she leaps up throwing her arms into the air.

Her friend and the two adults she's with rush over to her.

"Great shot, Arlene!"

"Way to go, Arlene!"

Ron smiles.

"She's pretty good," says Steve and then he grumbles to himself that he hasn't gotten a strike all night.

"That was a nice shot, Arlene," Ron calls out loud enough so the girl notices. She turns and gives him a smile.

After a few more minutes, the girls finish up their game.

Steve takes out a comb from his back pocket, slides its teeth through his golden highlighted brown hair, returns the comb to his pocket, and walks over to the two girls, his heart racing. First, he nods to the two adults that the girls are with, looks up into their eyes and smiles. Then he turns to the girls. "Me and my friend Ron over there," says Steve as he's pointing to Ron, "well we were hoping you'd join us for a couple of minutes."

"Who's this guy?" the man demands to know. Steve turns to him and notices he is large, stout, and looking rather stern.

"I'm Steve Marino," says Steve looking squarely into the man's eyes and extending his hand out.

The man looks at Steve's hand, hesitates, shrugs his shoulders, and finally reaches out, clasps his large hand around Steve's. As he does so, he says: "I'm Arlene's dad, Frank Murgola."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Murgola. And you must be Mrs. Murgola," says Steve turning and putting out his hand to the thin, pleasant woman in the group.

"Yes," she says smiling. Warmly, she takes Steve's hand.

"Me and my friend, Ron DeFelipo," says Steve, "we're just sitting right over there, and we'd like to talk to your daughter and her friend just for a couple of minutes. I know you're having fun bowling. We won't hold you up for more than a couple of minutes, if you don't mind?"

Mrs. Murgola smiles, and looks over toward her husband.

"If that's what they want to do, it's okay by me," says Mr. Murgola. "As long as it's just a few minutes. I'll go get some drinks and then we'll be ready for another game."

"Thank you," says Steve, and he leads the girls over to Ron by the snack table. "I guess," says Steve to Ron, "that this girl over here with the yellow sweatshirt is Arlene Murgola. That color looks great on you." Then Steve turns to the other girl. "I didn't get your name," he says to her.

"Fran Lobasso," she says looking a little nervous.

"Hello, Fran," says Steve with a disarming smile. "Me and Ron, we go to Cunningham Junior High."

"We go to Mark Twain," says Fran.

Steve, addressing himself to both girls, says, "Apparently, my friend Ron over here, for the past few months, has been captured by your beauty. When he pointed you two out to me, well I could see why."

The girls blush.

Ron is beginning to develop some sweat on his upper lip.

"You girls go bowling pretty regularly?" asks Steve.

"Yeah. It's fun," says Fran.

"I'm just learning," says Steve. "Ron is teaching me."

"I've watched him a couple of times," says Arlene. She turns to Ron. "You're real good."

"Well, I've been coming pretty regularly," Ron responds. "Mark Twain. I have a cousin, Phil Carchiolo, that goes there."

"Oh, I know Phil," says Arlene. "He's very funny."

"That's my cousin," Ron replies. "Funniest guy in the family."

"Do you girls like to go to the movies?" Steve asks.

Both Arlene and Fran nod enthusiastically.

"Well I'm a little short on cash right now," Steve says, "but I just got a part time job on the boardwalk and in a few weeks maybe we could go together. If you give us your numbers we could give you a call."

Steve has with him the pencil he was keeping his bowling score with and a scrap of paper. He lays them down in front of Arlene.

Arlene writes her name and number down on the paper and then Steve pushes it over to Fran. As Fran begins to write she says, "If money's kinda tight for you right now, why don't you boys just come over to my house next Friday and we could listen to some records?"

"That would be great!" says Ron.

"Well," says Steve, "I've been wanting to learn how to do the Twist. You think you could teach me?"

"Yeah," says Fran. "I could teach ya."

"Well, clear it with your parents and I'll call you later in the week to see if it's set," says Steve.

"Okay," says Fran.

As the boys and girls get up, Ron sheepishly says to Arlene, "I'm real glad we finally got to meet."

"Me to," says Arlene, and then she touches Ron's shoulder, looks up into his eyes, smiles, and returns to her parents.

* * * *

When Steve and Ron get back to Jerry and Tom, Ron excitedly shows them the telephone numbers.

"We were watching you two guys put the move on those girls," says Tom. "Pretty gutsy."

"Yeah," says Jerry, "pretty gutsy."

After Jerry and Tom finish the game they started while Steve helped Ron with Arlene, the boys all get back to bowling. Steve is meeting with some success. He throws a powerful ball that crashes into the pins knocking them to kingdom come, but he gets too many splits and is inconsistent at picking up spares.

"I bet this is the last time you guys are gonna invite me to bowl," says Steve as they finish up. "I'm just nowhere in your class."

"With bowling, it's not like basketball," says Jerry. "You can keep your own score and try to improve your own game. You weren't a problem to have with us."

"Actually," says Ron with a smile, "strange as it seems, the fact that I can beat you at something now, well I actually like you better."

* * * *

After taking off their bowling shoes the boys get on line to square things with the guy at the counter.

"Ron," says Steve, "why do you let Brainy George get to you so much?"

"It pisses me off that I beat him up easily three times and he still won't admit that I can take him," says Ron.

"When you beat him up, Ron, George doesn't believe he loses."

"No? I twisted his arm and he was screaming at the top of his lungs. _That_ doesn't mean anything? I beat him fair and square. Everybody seen it."

"To George," Steve says, "he doesn't lose. You'll never be able to beat George at fighting—not so you'll convince him. I was talking to him about this book _Crime and Punishment_ he's reading. The way George got it figured, if you break his arm, you'll suffer more because you'll be punished, both by the law and your own guilt."

"My guilt?" exclaims Ron.

"Yeah," says Steve. "George says that even if you kill him, he figures he'll have to die sometime while your life will be ruined worse than his. Even if you can outsmart the law at first, something in you will suffer so much that you'll either eat yourself up alive in the end or arrange for the police to catch you."

Ron, scratching his head, looks at Steve.

"Well, I'm not so sure I understand it myself," says Steve. "Just let it sit on your mind a bit and don't worry too much about it."

"Hey, look," says Tom, "there're those girls ya got their numbers from."

Steve and Ron look over and notice they're waving goodbye to them while heading toward the door. As Steve and Ron begin to wave back, the girls break into wonderful flirting smiles.

"Boy, they're really cute," says Jerry.

"Ya think so?" asks Ron enthusiastically.

_"Really_ cute," Jerry replies.

Steve checks out the line to pay and sees it's still gonna be a couple of minutes.

"Hey, Ron," says Steve, "mind if I ask you for a favor."

"What is it, Steve?"

"The SP kids, I want you to stop giving them such a hard time. You think you could do that for me?"

Ron doesn't say anything. A couple of minutes go by. The guy at the counter turns to Ron.

"Here ya go buddy," says Ron as he gives the counter guy his bowling shoes and pays his bill.

In return, Ron gets back his street sneakers and a thank you.

Now it's Steve's turn to pay. He turns over a couple of singles and gets some change.

As Ron starts to put his right sneaker on he says to Steve, "I guess I can leave the SP kids alone. I don't even know why I let them get to me." He pauses for a few seconds, begins again to tie the laces of his right sneaker, stops, and smiles. "I guess I just don't like to think of someone as smarter than me."

"There're different smarts, Ron," says Steve. "You got your kind of smarts and they got theirs."

"I guess so," says Ron. "Cliff, that guy who writes sports for the school newspaper, he don't bother me so much. It's just that Brainy George. He acts like a know-it-all."

"Yeah, he does. He seems to want to brag about being smart. I don't like it when he does that either. Still, he does know a lot of school stuff."

"I guess so," says Ron.

CHAPTER 23

Sunday is another sparkling, beautiful day. At the boardwalk, the seagulls cry out to anyone who will listen. Little children answer their cries with laughs and by pointing at their floating friends in the sky. One young boy in a blue sailor outfit tosses up pieces of bread, and in midair a seagull swoops down to make a fine catch.

Steve and Pete meet up with the heavyset Mersh Blumfeld and his friends by the brick building around ten. Mersh greets the boys with a big smile and puts his hand in his pocket to make sure he has some change. Then he sits down on a bench, points to Steve, and then his shoes.

There's a new guy with this group of older gentlemen who strikes Steve as somehow different from the others. He begins to study him. Mersh and his friends, they sound like your typical Brooklyn guys except for the gentleman over there they call Sol. Sol's got a strong Yiddish accent. This new guy's very distinguished looking, with white hair and an accent kinda like the guys on the news shows.

"So, Dr. Johnson, when are you going down to Florida this year?" Mersh asks the new guy.

"Right after the Christmas holidays."

Hearing this, Steve turns to Dr. Johnson and says, "Doctor, last night I went bowling for the first time and my thumb is all sore. Is it better to put ice on it, or heat?"

"Oh, I'm not that kind of doctor, young man. I'm an anthropologist."

"Anthro...anthro what?" asks Steve.

"Anthropologist. It's a scientist who studies human beings as they function in their culture."

"Oh," says Steve scratching his head.

One of the gentlemen is folding a second cuff on his pants as he prepares to put Pete to work. "Sol, ya think the 49ers got any chance against the Giants today?" he asks.

"With Y.A. Tittle, come on Bernie, what are you, _meshuga_?"

"Bernie, you look like a big guy," says Mersh, "You ever play football?"

"Na. Basketball's my game. When I was young, we played at Wingate. That's all we ever wanted to do. When it got dark, we moved the cars over and lit the court with headlights. Saturday mornings I couldn't wait to get up and run over there. I played basketball on court one, a privilege I got by being one of the best. It was three-man ball, one basket. Great, great games, great ball players. You played till you dropped. I remember how the girls, sometimes, would come down, and then, no matter how tired you were, you'd get a burst of energy and show off."

"What about gangs?" asks Steve thinking about the gang he heard about the night before—the one that Ron said knifed a kid. "Did you guys have gangs when you were young?"

"Gangs were popular in the downtown area," answers Mersh fingering his chin. "They were organized according to territory and neighborhoods. Gowanus had the Gowanus Dukes. The Kane Street Midgets were the kids twelve and under. The Kane Street Stompers were fourteen and older. Rumors said they were into stealing hubcaps—prank stuff."

"I lived on Taylor Street between Bedford and Wythe," says Sol. "The Hellburners were on one side of Bedford Avenue, and the Phantom Lords, they were on the other side. It was a guarding the turf thing. Sometimes someone got beat up, and then things would start to get pretty hot, but mostly it was a lot of talk and guys would rarely go out of the way to start something. So tell me Steve, why are you interested in gangs, if I might ask?"

"We used ta be in a gang in our old neighborhood," says Pete as he begins to rapidly swing from right to left to right his long white cloth against Bernie's brown shoe. "Steve was the leader."

"Yeah. The guys picked me 'cause I never told anyone what to do," Steve responds smiling.

"That wasn't the way it was," says Pete. "He was picked because he could take anyone in the neighborhood."

"My Uncle Ricky, the last couple of summers, signed me up for these self defense classes," Steve tries to explain. "When some of us guys from the neighborhood would go down to Brighton Beach to play handball, we'd cool off in the ocean, and then rest under the boardwalk, you know, because it was a little cooler under there with the shade. And then, before long, we'd start to roughhouse, and I would use a few moves I learned from the classes on the guys, and so they got to thinking I was a lot tougher than I really was. But the gang we were in, we were really just playing like we were a gang. We were really just some guys that said, 'Hey, we're the 82nd Street boys, so ya better watch out.'"

"Come on Steve," says Pete. "We were the toughest guys around. Nobody would dare mess wit' ya if they knew ya were in da gang."

"Some guys who might have got picked on otherwise," says Steve, "probably found that a few of the bullies were more likely to stay away from them."

"To get a reputation did you have to do a lot of mean things?" asks Dr. Johnson.

"Na," Steve answers. "The meanest thing we ever did was when we saw this group of guys hanging around a bench by Seth Low Park. About ten of us guys from the gang, for some reason, yelled, 'Let's get them!' and then we charged at these guys by the bench. They thought they were finished, but we pulled up and said, 'Aw, we're just goofin' on ya.'"

"Ya should have seen those guys," says Pete laughing, his eyes glowing. "They thought they were goners for sure."

* * * *

A little later, under a pavilion, Steve and Pete find a group of men talking politics.

"Hey, Bengy, what do you think about Nelson Rockefeller running for president?"

"I never liked him as our governor; I should like him better as president?"

"Shoeshine gentlemen?" Steve asks.

Several men check their shoes, put their hands in their pockets, jingle some change, and then signal Pete and Steve to go to work.

As they place their boxes under a couple of pairs of shoes, Pete and Steve listen to the men.

"Kennedy's a commie! He supports labor at the expense of employers."

"Yeah, he increased the minimum wage to a dollar fifty an hour."

"It's none of the president's business what an employer pays his workers."

"A good president should stay out of the lives of people. He's got us spending more and more on these gad damn social programs.

"What social programs?"

"What about his increasing Social Security benefits to several hundred thousand children?"

"This isn't the government's business? We should let kids starve to death in this day and age?"

"You start paying for kids when their parents can't afford to, pretty soon no one has to work anymore. They'll figure, let the government take care of the kids. Why should I go knock myself out? Now Kennedy's authorizing the selling of 150 million bushels of wheat to the Russian commies. I tell you he's as red as a hooker's lipstick."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

* * * *

Around noon Steve and Pete walk over to Nathan's Famous and buy a bag filled with hot dogs, French fries, and orange drinks.

Leisurely, they eat their lunch on the beach.

"Pete," says Steve, who has taken his sneakers off and is pushing cool sand between his toes, "this is where I come sometimes when I feel like being alone. I come here to listen to the waves."

"It's a nice place, Steve. Tomorrow we gotta go back to school. You worried about meeting up with that guy who scratched your neck?"

"A little."

"You can take him, Steve."

"He's pretty big."

After Pete takes the last bite of his hotdog, he carefully begins to work his way along the line of mossy breakwater boulders that are just a few feet from where Steve is sitting.

There is a row of the rocky breakwaters that begin near the water's edge and jut out about a hundred feet into the ocean every hundred yards along the beach. The irregular crags of massive black and silver stones test Pete's agility, and as he climbs further out, he finds some of the life formations clinging to the rocks fascinating to look at.

Steve, still munching his fries, nervously eyes Pete. "Careful over there, Pete!" he shouts out. "You're gonna kill yourself."

Soon Pete makes his way back from the far reaches of the boulders and returns to the safety of the sand.

As Pete picks up shells and skips them on the water, Steve relaxes. He gazes out toward the east and it's so clear he can see the silvery bridge that connects the end of Flatbush Avenue to the Rockaways. The ocean, the color of iron, sparkles like millions of diamonds.

* * * *

After their lunch-break, Steve and Pete return to work. Within a few minutes, they run into a small group of guys—Puerto Ricans—who are talking about their big dates the night before. When they spot the shoe shiners, they cry out,

_"Mira aqui!_ "

_"Oye!_ _Oye!_ "

_"Mira aqui!_ "

They all wear these pointy black shoes, and every one of them wants a shine.

"You should see the sweetheart I was with last night," says one. "She had _melones_ out to here," and as he says this he stretches his arms out in front of his chest as far as he can reach. "Man was she sweet."

"She was OK, I think, but the girl _I_ was with, oh she sent me to the heavens! _Dios Mio!_ "

* * * *

That evening after supper the boys' work for the day isn't quite over.

"How do you get these paint cans open?" asks Pete trying to pry a lid off with his finger nails.

"Don't open them yet, Pete," says Steve. "We have to scrape the old peeling paint off the walls and ceiling first."

"Wait until I finish the dishes and get them in the cabinet," says Marie. "This is going to make a terrible mess. You really shouldn't start until Uncle Ricky gets here."

Knock, knock.

"There he is now."

"Uncle Ricky, what's in the big shopping bags?" asks Pete as his uncle enters wearing worn overalls.

_"Buon giorno!_ I talked to the Brooklyn Barons and they lent me this painting stuff. It's _buon roba!_ I got some oil cloths to throw over everything to catch the paint chips and the drops of paint. These here white things with rubber bands are masks for you boys. Dollar Bill says young kids ain't to be scraping old paint without wearing them."

By the very end of Sunday, just about at midnight, Steve, Pete, and Marie go to bed exhausted, their kitchen clean and white.

CHAPTER 24

Monday morning, Steve wakes up from a dream in which a huge hand with long, sharp nails is reaching out to grab his aching neck. As he begins to realize it was only a nightmare it suddenly dawns on him that the day has arrived for him to face the monster again.

"You gonna give it to that kid who scratched your neck, Steve?" Pete asks while pouring milk into his bowl of cornflakes.

"We'll see," Steve replies.

"Don't you get into any fights!" Marie hollers.

* * * *

The chilly air during Steve's walk to school has him blowing into his hands. In the schoolyard, Jerry, Ron, and Tom run up to him.

"You ready for some handball?" Jerry asks.

Before long, the dashing and swinging during the game warms him up.

"It's a tie game," yells Ron as the line-up bell rings.

"The ball hit the line," says Jerry calmly, "we won 5 to 4."

"No way, Jerry, it was out by a mile!" hollers Ron.

* * * *

"Steve Marino," calls out Miss Minsk as she checks attendance. After a pause, she looks up from her attendance list and searches the class. There he is looking like he's off on another planet.

"Steve Marino!"

"Oh, I'm here Miss Minsk."

"Okay, class," Miss Minsk says after she finishes calling out the names of Linda Yesner and Judith Zeeman, "the Yearbook Committee needs a few more volunteers. It's a great way to meet some of the students in other classes. Pretty much any way you want to creatively express yourself can be brought toward creating the feel of what it was like to be a Cunningham student this year. Photography, drawing, painting, poetry, writing, the works! And when you apply to college it's helpful to put your participation on your application. Now who wants to help out on this very important project?"

"The Yearbook Committee," says Ron looking at Tom, "doesn't that sound like fun?" And with that, he breaks out laughing so hard he falls out of his chair.

* * * *

At lunch, Steve sits at his usual spot beside Mysterious Jane. Ron and Jerry are savoring their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

"Why aren't you eating anything?" asks Jane as she sticks a fork in some lettuce.

"I'm not hungry," Steve replies.

"Well your soul is hungry!" Jane cries.

* * * *

Steve gets to Mrs. Kreetch's class. He hasn't done his homework because of his busy weekend. She better not make a big thing about it, Steve thinks to himself. Mrs. Kreetch is the only teacher who gave us homework over the weekend. He looks into his assignment book and sees he was supposed to have memorized eight lines from a poem and written three paragraphs about what the poem meant to him. He bites his lip as Mrs. Kreetch tells the students to pass their assignments down to the front of the class.

"Mr. Marino, I count four assignments in your row. There are five seats in your row. I don't see your name on any of these papers. Where is yours?!"

"I didn't do it, Mrs. Kreetch."

"You didn't do it! You didn't do it! Maybe it was okay for you to come to class unprepared at your last school, but not here! You get out of my class and don't you _EVER_ come to my class unprepared! You're to go down to the office and give this note to the secretary!" After scribbling something on a sheet of paper and handing it to Steve, she yells, "Now get out of here!"

As Steve's leaving, he says with strained tones, "You know, Mrs. Kreetch, just because you're a teacher, that doesn't give you the right to treat students this way!"

Mrs. Kreetch, turning purple, screams: " **Get out! Get out!** "

* * * *

Mr. Imperiale frowns at Steve and asks him to take a seat. "You've been in my school for three days and you're sent to my office twice," he says firmly, but with a hint of fatherly concern.

Steve explains his current predicament.

"Steve, you'll have to do your homework in my office after school," says Mr. Imperiale.

"I gotta get right home because my little brother Pete, he has trouble being alone."

Mr. Imperiale scratches his chin. "Steve, if you were the principal, what would you do in this kind of situation?"

"Trust me. I give you my word that tonight I'll make up the assignment and I'll do tonight's assignment too."

"Okay."

"Thank you, Mr. Imperiale."

"You're welcome. Now, tell me this. How are we going to get you back into Mrs. Kreetch's class?"

"Ya got me there."

"Well, how about this as a plan. You apologize to Mrs. Kreetch in front of the class for what you said to her about the way she treated you."

"It's not fair! She has no right to talk that way to anyone."

"Steve, if you'd like to talk to her with me in a private place, I'll try to help you make your point. But telling her this in front of the class is wrong because she can't handle it. Everyone's not a saint, Steve. Many teachers can't handle it when students criticize them in public."

"Did you ever see John F. Kennedy during a press conference?" Steve asks. "He's criticized all the time. He keeps his sense of humor. He's got that great smile. Usually, he argues good if he feels he's right. Sometimes he's gotta admit he's wrong. Why can't teachers be like that? That's the kind of teacher I'd respect. And besides, who ever heard of a teacher giving homework on the weekend?"

"Steve, in my work as a principal, I'm criticized in public a lot and I'm expected to handle it with dignity and intelligence. It'd be nice if all teachers could do the same thing. I'll work on getting them to do that, Steve. But it's going to take some time. In the meantime, I want you to apologize for saying what you did in front of the class. You have to get on with your education. If you wait until you straighten out all your teachers before you get on with it you'll end up graduating when you're ninety-five."

"But..."

"I know I'm being simplistic, Steve. There's far more to these issues, but you and I both have some other business to attend to for now."

"Simplistic?"

"Well, what I mean Steve is, well first of all, to be fair to Mrs. Kreetch, she doesn't give homework on the weekend. Every Monday, students in her class know they have to have a poem prepared for her. You can prepare it any day of the week. If you don't do it early in the week, and you wait beyond Friday, well then you have to do it on the weekend. But that's your own fault."

"I just got to her class Thursday and she just told me about the poem being due for Monday, on Friday."

"Well, I'm just trying to make the point, Steve, that usually you won't be getting homework on the weekend from Mrs. Kreetch if you plan ahead. I can see your point that because you moved in the middle of the year and were told just on Friday that an assignment was due on Monday, you feel this wasn't right. Perhaps it would have been fairer to give you a week's notice as is provided to the other students in your class. Teachers have over thirty-five students per class. Mistakes are going to be made. Now let me say one more thing before I boot you out of here. It may not seem important to you right now to be memorizing poetry. But as you get older, when you are trying to express important but difficult ideas, you're going to be surprised how much better you're going to be at expressing yourself because of the experience Mrs. Kreetch is providing you. Now, no more. I have something urgent to attend to. Get back to your class and apologize. Please."

Steve lowers his head, puts his hands on top of it, and then looks up at Mr. Imperiale. "She treated me disrespectfully."

"Please, Steve."

"To apologize when she spoke that way to me..."

"Listen, Steve, I can change your class and put you with Mrs. Harney, but she has difficulty controlling her class. There, you can goof off, but you won't learn anywhere as much as from Mrs. Kreetch. I'd hate to do it because I sense that you have real leadership potential. To develop it you are going to have to get an excellent education. You want to goof off, or learn!?"

Steve thinks about the goofing off that goes on in Mrs. Vogt's class, the one in which Ron stuck a pin in his butt and paper planes fly around the room. He wriggles about in his seat, again puts his hands on his head, and finally, he says: "All... all right. I guess I wanna learn."

* * * *

When Steve returns to Mrs. Kreetch's class, she's in the middle of a lesson. She pauses as Steve enters the room. His temples are throbbing. Tightness clutches at his chest.

Mrs. Kreetch crosses her arms and her right foot begins to tap.

"It was a mistake to criticize you in front of the class," Steve says. "I'm sorry. I intend to do my homework from now on."

"Go take your seat, Mr. Marino," says Mrs. Kreetch huffily, and she then proceeds with her lesson.

* * * *

After class, one of Steve's classmates, this guy, Falco, comes up to him and says, "I really respected da way you stood up ta that bitch. And den when you came back to class and gave her that apology—m-a-a-a-n!"

"Well, ya see, I had this conversation with Mr. Imperiale, and I kinda like him, and... well he kinda thought it'd be a good idea if I apologized."

Steve's mind is only half in the conversation he's having with Falco. The other half is on the class he has after gym. His reunion with the guy that the other kids call Godzilla is now only fifty-five minutes away. Steve tries to remember what Godzilla's real name is. What is it? Damn! What is it? Warren! That's it! Warren! "Listen, Falco, I gotta go now. I'll talk to you more about this later."

In the gym, Steve finds himself frequently looking up at the round clock on the wall. When the bell rings, he bites his lower lip.

He goes down to the locker room, changes his clothes, leaps up two flights of stairs, and then hurries down a hallway lined with student art. When he steps into his mechanical drawing class, he eyes the situation. Warren is already at his seat. His teacher, Mr. Carmello, is by his desk rubbing his mustache.

"Excuse me, Mr. Carmello," says Steve. "Let me have a minute to talk to Warren alone out in the hall."

"I'm not letting you two alone. What? So you can get into another fight. You're crazy. Go take your seat."

"I don't want to fight him," Steve replies. "I just gotta talk with him, for a minute. Please."

Mr. Carmello fiddles with his moustache as he considers the situation. "Warren," he says after a few seconds, "Steve Marino over here, he says he wants to talk with you out in the hall. You want to talk to him?"

"I don't care," Warren answers with a tough snarl.

Mr. Carmello fiddles some more with his moustache for a few seconds. Then he pulls on the lapels of his worn gray sports jacket, clears his voice with a throaty—"Ah, hum," and proclaims his decision. "Steve, Warren, I'll let you two talk outside the classroom but with the door open. Both of you are to stay at all times in my sight. I'll be watching through the doorway, but you can stand far enough away so you can have some privacy. If I hear your voices shouting or you get into a fight, you'll just have to go immediately to the principal's office."

Outside in the hall, alone with Warren, Steve paces back and forth several times and then he looks up and says: "Listen, Warren, I'm stuck. My neck is still killing me. You're twice my size. What would _you_ do if a guy twice your size started to hassle you?"

Warren pulls his head back and his pupils, wide and open, glare into Steve's eyes. He firmly crosses his arms in front of his chest while his hands grasp his shoulders. "You askin' me?"

"Yeah, I'd like your opinion."

"I guess... well... well I guess I like yer plan a little," Warren answers haltingly. "I mean dat plan of yours... you know... where ya hassle somebody fer twenty-four hours. It might work wit' some guys. It'd probably'd ov worked wit' me 'cause I really don't wanna go ta no 600 school. Ya gotta take a train dere. And Mr. Imperiale, he ain't just threatenin' ta send me dere neither. He'd really do it 'cause I seen him do it ta t'ree udduh kids since I've been heah. So yer plan might 'ov worked wit' me, and maybe wit' some udduh kids too. But you do it wit' some udduh kids—ye're dead. Like wit' Harold an' Anita's gang, the Skull Bones. Dis guy, Gary, stood up ta dem an' ended up da next day stabbed ta death in an alley. What are ya gonna do when ya meet up wit' dem, Steve? Huh? And yer gonna meet up wit' dem. Everyone 'round heah gets shit from dem. What are ya gonna do den, Steve? Huh?"

Steve has no answer. He just gets quiet and then says softly, "I heard about some teenager recently getting killed around here but this stuff about Harold and Anita's gang, I don't know nothing about them. All I know is I'm not looking for any trouble from you." Then he looks into Warren's eyes and offers him his right hand. Warren looks into Steve's eyes, and growls, "I ain't shakin' ya hand yet. Ya treat me wit' respect and maybe den."

"That's fair, Warren," Steve says. "Is there anything else you want to say to me."

"Just don't mess wit' me."

"OK."

As the boys return to their seats, one kid moans, "Aaaa, I thought there was gonna be a big fight."

Mr. Carmello explains to Steve and Warren their assignment which involves neatly printing under a mechanical drawing words that identify what it is. The boys get down to work.

"You're working too fast," says Mysterious Jane to Steve after a few minutes. "If you slow down, it'll look neater."

Steve compares his lettering to Jane's and to his dismay he sees his work looks like trash. He then turns to the seat in back of him where Warren is working. "Your lettering also looks way better than mine," Steve says.

"Jane's right," says Warren, "Ya gotta slow down."

_Marone_ , Steve says to himself, slow down! Slow down! Who the hell can focus on this lettering crap with those murderers around? "Jane," he says in a whisper, "Warren was telling me about this gang, the Skull Bones. You know anything about them?"

CHAPTER 25

As Steve carefully forms the letter "B" for his assignment, Mysterious Jane begins in a strained whisper.

"Some of the gang members have younger brothers and sisters who go to Cunningham, so you have to be careful what you say around them. Most of what I know comes from talking to them and some other kids who have older brothers and sisters who went to school with them.

"The gang members went to Cunningham a couple of years ago. They were supposed to go to Lincoln this year but the evil spirit within Anita has now managed to completely enchain all of the gang members. Anita's spirit uses them like puppets. Having them go to school serves it not in the least."

Steve notices Warren and others around him have now caught on to what Jane is saying and are leaning toward her, intensely listening. Mr. Carmello also notices, and moves toward Jane. "Go on," he says to her, "I'm interested in this too."

With this, Jane's whisper turns into a more distinct oratory storytelling voice. "Several kids told me that when Harold was in fifth grade, his class took this field trip. On the bus, Harold got motion sickness, became nauseous, and threw up all over himself. On account of that, Harold spent the rest of his elementary school days being called 'Puke Face' and 'Vomit Mouth.'"

"Yeah, yeah, dat's what I heard too from my brother," says Warren, leaning toward Jane. "Like, kids would see him comin' and dey'd say, 'How's it goin', Puke Face?' Or, 'Look out, it's Vomit Mouth!'"

"It was pretty cruel," Jane says, "and a few of the kids didn't know when to lay off, pressing him on until he'd start to cry and then they still wouldn't lay off, calling him a cry baby to boot."

"My brother, he told me da same thing," says Warren. "Da kids at school used ta _really_ crap on him somethin' fierce."

"Everyone I talked to," Jane continues, "says that when Harold was in elementary school he was a small, awkward, funny looking kid. Somehow, by the time Harold turned 15 he'd undergone a transformation."

"Yeah," says Warren. "He suddenly grew a ton and he began wit' dis weight liftin' stuff."

"He didn't just get bigger and stronger," says Jane. "When he was young he had this baby face, but by the time he turned 15, his facial features became manlier and downright attractive."

"Yeah, yeah!" says Warren. "Den there was da big church dance, Jane. Tell dem 'bout da big church dance where he first met dis here Anita!"

"Well, what I heard was that the two talked, danced, and were swept off their feet. At one point during the dance, some guy named Cal, who went to elementary school with Harold, comes over and asks Anita to dance. Anita takes Harold by the arm, looks up into his blue eyes, and says romantically, 'I'm with Harold.'

"Well, this Cal laughs and says: 'You're with Haaaarold? Haaaarold? You're with Haaaarold? You know what we used to call Haaaarold in elementary school? Puke Face! That's what we'd call him. Puke Face.'

"'SHUT UP!' Harold screams.

"'How's it goin', Old Puke Face?' Cal baits.

"Harold leaps on this guy, and the two go at it like two rabid dogs. It takes six adults to tear them apart."

"Yeah, yeah," says Warren. "That's what I heard too, only right after da fight, Anita says ta Harold: 'I love a guy who don't take no shit from no one.'"

Mr. Carmello frowns at Warren's remark but let's the discussion continue.

"Anita had already started a gang called the 'Skull Bones' before she met Harold," says Jane. "Now with her and Harold in love, they start to run the gang together. Since then, about two or three times a month, the Skull Bones have been trapping some of us students on the way to school and they make us cough up all of our lunch money. Although the gang members like the money, they seemed to do it more for the respect that they think they're getting and to feed Anita's evil spirit. The money actually only amounts to a few bucks."

"That's what confused me when I read the report that the teachers received," says Mr. Carmello. "The report states that the testimony from the students indicates that when the Skull Bones steal, they surround a few kids on one of the residential blocks in the area. The fact that they've been doing this in broad daylight for so little money seemed to me like utter stupidity. But the report says that the gang members are aware that with this type of crime there's little risk. All the gang members are minors. If caught by the police, what would be the penalty? No one in New York City goes to jail for stealing six dollars. Probably their parents would be called and they would be threatened that if they get caught again, they'll have to go in front of a real judge. If they were caught more than once, maybe they would have to go in front of a judge who, at worst, would make them spend a few nights at juvenile hall. Doing a little time in juvee actually is viewed as a badge of honor. Because they're minors, any record the gang members would get wouldn't follow them into adulthood."

When Mr. Carmello pauses here, the classroom students turn their eyes from him to Jane. She says, "Some of the younger brothers and sisters of the Skull Bones claim, in a tone that sounds like boasting, that all of the gang members have spent time on multiple occasions in juvee for assorted capers. But I'm not sure about that."

"Me neither," says Warren. "But tell dem 'bout how last summer the Skull Bones were crapped on by da Canarsie Cobras and Anita, she ends up saying, 'We wouldn't be treated like dis if we had knives. No one messes wit' a gang wit' knives!'"

"That's what I heard too," says Jane. "And Anita's evil spirit lifted up its twisted face and breathed fire into all of the gang members and each went out and purchased these fancy switchblades with skull bones embossed on the handles. And there is no question about it; people did start to treat them with more respect—until this one kid, Gary, gets fed up with being pushed around.

"It happened just the week before you got here, Steve. Fifteen gang members surround Gary and four other students. As Gary hands over his lunch money, he tells Anita and Harold what people really think of them. 'They may treat you with respect to your face, but they spit on your souls as soon as your backs are turned.'

"Well, the gang members had gotten used to being treated with respect even if they knew in the back of their minds that they got it from being feared. I guess Gary's comments upset this image.

"The gang members were not so stupid as to do anything to Gary in front of witnesses. Instead, they glared while letting him walk away with just a hard punch to the stomach. But the next morning Gary's body is found in an alley with several knife wounds through his heart. The police suspect Harold and Anita's gang, question them, but I guess they don't have enough proof to arrest anyone."

When Mysterious Jane gets to this part of the story, Steve begins to rub his forehead and bite his lower lip.

"The weird thing about Harold and Anita," Mysterious Jane continues, "is that all of their power comes from Anita. Harold's probably the most spiritually weak person I've ever seen. He's like a candle with all of the wax gone and the flame just barely flickering. The slightest breeze can snuff him out. Anita, on the other hand, is like a raging forest fire. In fact, when I met her I began to have trouble sleeping because I felt that she'd soon have us all either as her slaves or burnt to a crisp—and there was nothing we could do. That's why when I first saw you I got so excited. I know you can save us, Steve. As powerful as Anita is, she's no match for you. She has about as much chance against you as a fire has at the bottom of the deepest sea."

* * * *

When the bell rings, Steve goes directly to the principal's office.

"Mr. Imperiale is busy with someone right now, young man," the secretary tells Steve.

"I have to see him. How long do you think it'll be?"

"I'm not sure."

Steve starts to pace. Pete's gonna be home by himself waiting for me. Damn it, he's just gonna have to wait!

After a half hour, Mr. Imperiale steps out of his office with several irate parents. "We're doing our best," he says to them.

"It's not enough!" shouts a young woman.

As the parents leave the office, the secretary whispers to Mr. Imperiale, "The young man pacing over there, he wishes to meet with you."

"OK. Send him in."

* * * *

"Did you hear about this Harold and Anita gang?" Steve wants to know.

Mr. Imperiale turns red. He shuffles through some papers, gets up, paces around, glances through his window at the bare maple tree, and then sits down. "I can only tell you, Steve, that catching Gary's murderer is my number one priority. We're doing a lot, but I can't tell you what. Just stay away from Harold and Anita's gang if at all possible. I'm supposed to be an educator. Instead of helping kids to learn, I'm breaking up fights and trying to find murderers." It looks like a vein is going to pop in Mr. Imperiale's neck.

"I just wanted to know that something's being done," says Steve. Then he quietly leaves.

Steve had hoped to have some time to think about how to handle the gang. What should his reaction be? What are the pros and cons of each of his options? But before he has any plan...

CHAPTER 26

It's Tuesday morning, November 19, 1963—the very day after Warren and Mysterious Jane tell Steve about Harold and Anita's gang. With his loose-leaf notebook and science book under his right arm, Steve walks down a flight of stairs and exits from his apartment building onto Avenue U. A chilly breeze whips against his sleepy face. He passes by the deli, Buster Brown's Shoes, the Italian bakery, and then, as he comes to a corner newsstand, he runs into Jane and a couple of her friends. Quite a few other students are heading toward school.

At East 15th Street, the kids turn left down a residential block, and a few seconds later a kid cries, "Oh no!" Racing out of two apartment building lobbies and then quickly forming a circle, are about fifteen gang members that entrap ten students, including Steve and Jane.

Harold is holding a glimmering knife and he slices it through the air while crying out, "All right, my little kiddies, let's have it."

Steve looks at Harold. He's only a little taller than me. _Marone,_ he's pointing that blade right at that kid's throat!

Fourteen other gang members are pushing students around while flashing their glimmering knives. Pockets begin to empty.

That must be Anita standing at the edge of the circle smirking. Man, she's actually real pretty. Shit, Harold's coming toward me. I gotta get out of here. Those guys with knives are all around me.

"Where's your money?" Harold says as he yells at Steve while waving his knife.

Steve's mind races. He eyes Harold, with his curly, brown hair, dark rings circling his eyes like he hasn't slept in days, nose red and dripping like he has a bad flu. On account of my free lunch card I didn't bring any money. Man, I'm screwed!

"I don't have any money," Steve answers, as he gasps deep sharp breaths.

"Don't give me that shit!" screams Harold, and with a sudden movement he starts to come at Steve with his knife.

There is a move that Steve had practiced over and over again in his summer self defense classes, and with a flashing fury racing through his veins he begins its execution. First, a sidestep, then a fluid turn while grabbing Harold's knife wielding hand, and then a wrenching twist. Harold, in horror, finds he is falling backwards and with a thud the back of his head smacks into the cement pavement. At that same instant, Steve feels a sharp jab to his side. God, some guy just stuck me with a knife! With a terror and ferocity never imagined, he turns and slugs the guy who jabbed him squarely in the jaw.

A spray of blood streaks from this guy's mouth as he flies three steps back, wavers for a second, and then crumbles to his knees.

Steve doesn't see any knife in the guy's hand. The knife! The knife! It's still in me! With his trembling hand he feels his side. There's nothing there; no knife, no blood, no nothing. He feels around his side some more and it begins to dawn on him that he must have been jabbed with a fist.

As it comes to Steve that he might not be near death, he's waiting for other gang members to come at him, his whole body raging and filled with terror.

The gang members hold their ground. Their eyes dart to their fallen comrades, then at Steve's flashing eyes, and then to the flood of blood dripping from a gang member's mouth.

Steve's breathing hard, waiting.

Anita, scanning the members of her gang, senses the faintness in their hearts. "Let's get out of here," she yells. "We'll take care of this guy later."

As she says this, Harold is beginning to sit up, and with his hand, he feels the back of his head and the hot stickiness of his own blood. When he hears Anita order a retreat, he screams, "Nooooo! Get that bastard! Get him!"

Nobody moves.

_"Get him you bastards_!" Harold screams.

Still, nobody moves.

Suddenly an eerie voice comes out of Harold, hissing and guttural. "You think you've won, you bastard?" it says to Steve. "You think you won? Well wait. You hear me, you just wait you dirty scum and see what happens. You dirty bastard, we'll slice you up just like we sliced up Gary."

Gang members gasp.

"Holy shit," says one.

"All these witnesses," cries Anita.

They look at him in horror. Harold's mouth, still open, congeals like hardened cement.

* * * *

Seven police cars begin to screech onto the scene. Gang members scatter while Steve runs off by himself. As he runs, he hears his breathing as if it were greatly amplified through a loudspeaker. Bloody images race through his mind, images of knives coming at him, images of blades piercing through his skin and deep into his flesh. What must it feel like...?

Huffing, puffing, and gasping for breath, he reaches his spot on the beach.

Frantically, he looks around. It's a cold workday and no one is nearby. Steve falls to his knees, down to his elbows, and putting his face in his arms, he begins to cry.

CHAPTER 27

RING!

"Metropolitan Insurance," answers a secretary. "Records Department. How may I help you? Yes, I'm Marie Marino. Yes, I'm Steve Marino's mother. What do you mean he hasn't reported to school this morning? No, I don't know where he is at this moment. **What?! He was last seen leaving the scene of a gang fight?!** "

CHAPTER 28

The day of Steve's run-in with the gang, he missed the whole day of school crying on the beach, being picked up by the police and being grilled by the station's captain. Now it's the next morning, Wednesday, November 20, 1963. Steve is returning to school. The first person to spot him entering the schoolyard is Ron DeFelipo.

"Well, did ya call yet?" asks Ron

"Call?" asks Steve.

"The girl from the bowling alley for Christ's sake! You were gonna call Fran Lobasso so you, me, and Arlene could go over to Fran's house on Friday to listen to records."

"Ron, I almost got killed yesterday. It seems a little strange to me that you don't first ask me how I'm doing, or anything!"

"OK, how ya doing? There, now did ya call?!"

"Not yet, Ron."

Clasping his hands together, Ron begs Steve, "Tonight, pleeese? Pleeese!!!"

"All right, Ron, tonight."

"Great! Call me immediately; do you hear me, **immediately** after you talk to her, okay?"

"Sure."

As this is going on, a freckled red haired boy points at Steve and whispers to his neighbor, "That's the guy."

"The one who beat up Harold?"

"Yeah, that's him."

Others, too, begin to point and whisper.

Steve tries to ignore his hot facial sensations.

"Wow, Steve, you okay?" Mysterious Jane asks when she arrives at the schoolyard. She touches his shoulder and looks into his eyes in the sweetest manner.

"Kinda."

"Oh, how horrible. I haven't slept since it happened."

"My sleeping's been messed up pretty bad too."

"Where'd you run to afterwards? Everyone was looking for you."

"I have a little place I go to when I want to be alone."

"But you're the hero. Why would you want to run away? You didn't do anything wrong."

Steve looks away for a few seconds, and then he returns his eyes to Jane and looks firmly at her. "I felt like I was about to burst out crying. I know I shouldn't ov cared if people saw me bawling in front of everyone, but the thing is my Dad can't stand it when I cry, and I bet others don't like it, and well, I guess I prefer to do it alone."

* * * *

"Now you sit down, Steve," says Marie wearing her white apron. "You too, Pete. I made your favorite dishes—minestrone, rigatoni, and fresh _panini."_ The aroma of the _panini_ coming out of the oven is intoxicating.

"My appetite's just coming back, Mom," says Steve pulling up a chair.

"It's about time," says Marie waving her hand. "You ate nothing since yesterday's breakfast."

"Mom, pass the _parmigiano_ ," Pete calls out.

The savory scents of Marie's zingy sauce, oven baked rolls, and mozzarella cheese has everyone salivating. The radio is playing, softly, "I Will Follow Him" by Little Peggy March.

"Mom," says Pete, "some kid in the street said someone killed the guy Steve got into a fight wit. Is he really dead?"

"The afternoon paper said he is," Marie answers, her face taut. "Quiet now. Here comes the news on the radio."

_"President Kennedy, arriving in Houston today, has plans during a two day tour of Texas to mix a strong defense of his space_ _program with some old-fashioned, earthbound politics._

"Mayor Robert Wagner is pressing for fluoridation of the city's drinking water..."

As the news about the mayor finishes up, the newscaster reports,

"And now here's a follow-up on the gang members that were arrested yesterday for the alleged murder of a boy in Brooklyn. This morning at approximately 9:40, as the gang members were being brought from jail to see the judge, the father of the boy who had been killed was waiting at the courthouse entrance. As the alleged male leader of the gang, a Harold Holzer, walked by, the father of the slain boy took out a gun and shot Harold in the head. As Harold was being rushed to the ambulance, a female gang member, attempting to reach Harold by pushing herself through the police holding her back, began screaming hysterically, "Harold! Harold! It's all my fault! I killed you! It's all my fault! I killed you..."

* * * *

After supper, the boys help to place the dishes in the sink while Marie starts to work on them. The least favorite part of the evening is upon Steve. He gets his school materials and sits at the kitchen table. Well, I guess I'll start with my French homework. But first, let me just check the TV listings to see what's on. Flipping through it he notes that he has little more than an hour before "Ben Casey." Then in an ad, Steve spots a model that looks a bit like Mysterious Jane.

_Marone!_ His face flushes. Come on now; let me get down to my homework.

He picks up a pencil and starts to translate a French passage with the help of a glossary in the back of his textbook. After considerable effort, one sentence is done. But now images of Jane are rushing through his mind far more powerfully. He looks up and sees his mom drying the dishes. Pete is watching cartoons in the living room.

Shaking his head hard, Steve begins work on the next sentence's translation. Under the table Jane begins to rub his leg. He turns to her and she smiles in an ever so inviting manner.

It's no use, he says to himself as he puts his pencil down. What can I do? I sure could use some privacy.

He gets up, walks a few feet, enters the white tile bathroom, and locks the door. Placing the top down, Steve sits on the toilet. It turns into a sensuous sofa. Jane is sitting beside him leaning into him and they begin to kiss ever so sweetly.

Now Jane is sitting in his lap and he can feel her up against him. They have their arms around each other, pressed against one another, passionately kissing, her breasts against his chest, and at that moment, he takes an explosive rocket ride among the heavenly stars.

* * * *

Back to work at the kitchen table, Steve starts to flip through his French textbook, first scanning the pictures and then arriving on the passage he has to translate.

RING!

"I'll get that, Mom," Steve shouts as he makes a mad dash to the phone. "Ron, how are you... No. I haven't called Fran yet. I'll do it right now and call you back."

Quickly, Steve retrieves Fran's number and dials HI 5-2539.

"Hello."

"Hello Fran, its Steve Marino."

"Oh, you're the boy Arlene and I met at the bowling alley."

"Bowling alley? Actually, as I recall, we were on a cobble stone path that wound along Paris' Seine River. The moon was out and you looked ever so beautiful."

Fran laughs. "Now I remember. It was by the _Pont-Neuf_ , and we could see the Eiffel Tower just off in the distance."

Ron, Fran, and Arlene are delighted with the results of Steve's phone call. Steve, on the other hand, is stricken with pangs of guilt as images of Mysterious Jane shove their way into his field of consciousness.

* * * *

Two days later, on November 22, 1963, it is a particularly chilly, cloudy Friday afternoon. Steve is out in the schoolyard during his gym class. In a perfectly surreal few moments of passing time, Mrs. Kreetch steps from the school building with tears streaming down her cheeks. She whispers something to the gym teacher, Mr. Gargano, who turns pale. He whispers back something to her, and she hollers back to him, "Yes, I'm certain! Oh God, oh God!"

Mr. Gargano, using a bullhorn, calls out, "Class, stop what you're doing and gather around me please. Mrs. Kreetch has something urgent to tell us."

"What the...we're in the middle of a game!" cries Jerry Miller who has been dazzling everyone with his handball skills. "I can't believe..." But then Jerry notices Mrs. Kreetch's face, and he whispers, "Uh, oh."

When everyone has shuffled over to her, Mrs. Kreetch, in a quivering voice announces that President John F. Kennedy has been shot and killed.

"It can't be," says Ron DeFelipo. "You know how many FBI agents they got guarding the president? It just can't be. Tom, it can't be!"

A frantic silence begins to sweep across the large asphalt school yard. Mysterious Jane runs over to a girl with pigtails who has a transistor radio. As the girl fiddles with the dial, a group begins to form around her, leaning their ears toward the little box. Within seconds tears begin to pour down the cheeks of every one of them.

"Wow" says George clearly shaken, "first Gary gets killed for standing up for what he believed in, and now Kennedy. I wonder who's gonna get it next." Then he glances at Steve, and then quickly down. "Oh...I... I didn't mean to suggest...I mean..." George pauses, pulls down on his right wool coat sleeve with his left hand and then brings his right forearm up to cover his face as his chest begins to heave.

Steve turns away from everyone, his heart pounding against his ribs. Don't start crying in front of everyone. _Dio Mio,_ I can feel it coming! He hears the voice of his dad screaming in his head, "Cry baby! _Basta! Basta!"_ He hurries to the farthest corner of the school yard. "Cry baby! _Basta! Basta!"_ He grabs ahold of the chain link fence, and starts kicking.

CHAPTER 29

Steve and Ron arrive at Fran's house for their record listening date a week late. Fran's parents had her postpone it so her household could grieve the tragic loss of the president.

Before the boys ring the doorbell, Ron pulls on Steve's jean jacket sleeve. "You know I like Arlene," he says. "I bet both girls are gonna be goin' for you."

"Right away I'll let Fran know I'm interested in her," says Steve. "And I'll get her to go off with me by ourselves so you can have some time alone with Arlene."

"You're a pal, Steve."

* * * *

DING DONG!

"Welcome young men. I'm Mrs. Lobasso, Fran's mom," says a smiling young lady in her mid thirties upon opening the door. "And over here is Fran's dad."

The introductions go smoothly, everyone very polite. Then Fran's parents leave the girls and boys in the living room, while they go into the kitchen, just a room away, the door between them only partly shut.

"You boys ready to learn to do the twist?" asks Fran who has a glossy Chubby Checker record in her hands as she stands by a powder blue stereo.

"I'm looking forward to it," says Steve, "but just before we get to that, Françoise, I'd like to take you over here, just we two, for a few moments, over here by this oh so beautiful Parisian bridge." Steve ushers Fran to the corner of the room, leaving Ron and Arlene off on the other side. Arlene tips her head to the side as she watches what Steve is up to. Ron has a little half smile.

Steve, with a flourish, takes an afghan off the couch and drapes it over the arm of the couch and a large overstuffed armchair beside it so the afghan makes a kinda bridge connecting the two pieces of furniture.

"Here it is," says Steve smiling at Fran, "the lovely, _Pont-neuf,_ one of the finest bridges in all of Paris. Françoise, my lovely _mademoiselle,_ won't you please join me under the bridge for a few moments? I wish to whisper something in your ear."

"Whisper in my ear?" Fran replies, her eyes registering intrigue. "What do you want to whisper in my ear?"

"Now, now," says Steve, "first, under the bridge. I'm a little shy, and what I have to say, it is for you alone."

"Okay," says Fran. Steve takes her hand, and together they bend down and slide under the hung afghan.

Fran's eyes look up at Steve.

"It sure is a beautiful night," he says leaning his shoulder gently against hers. Then, with a wave of his hand, he directs her eyes to the imaginary scene before them. "Look at the bold, flowing Seine; the way it reflects the city lights of Paris."

"Oh, Steve!" says Fran, "I can see the Eiffel Tower, just over there. Do you see it? It's just beyond that boat floating down the glimmering river."

* * * *

"So, anything going on at Mark Twain Junior High?" Ron softly asks Arlene, both of them standing side by side, off on the far side of the living room.

"I just got on the yearbook committee," Arlene replies, switching her gaze from the 'under the bridge' scene to this guy smiling at her.

"The yearbook committee!" he enthuses, his arms beginning to conduct the symphony of his emotions. "No kidding. What a coincidence! I've been seriously considering joining the yearbook committee at Cunningham."

"You should join it," says Arlene. "It looks great on your school record, and you meet some really great people."

"Well, okay, I'll do it!"

"Great! Let me know what your committee comes up with. We're looking for creative ideas."

"Sure," Ron replies with his hands waving all about. "I've been telling all my friends about the virtues of the Yearbook Committee but they always goof on me whenever I bring it up. It's great to find someone else that so appreciates such an important...um..."

"Such an important part of our school experience."

"Exactly!"

* * * *

"So what's the secret you wanna whisper to me?" Fran asks Steve.

Steve points to her ear and curls his pointer finger, beckoning her to lean toward his lips.

Fran puts both her hands together, and then, with sweet anticipation, she tilts her head and moves very close to Steve.

Steve cups his lips with his two hands, and very gently, he whispers, "Françoise, I want to make your dreams come true."

A glowing smile comes to her, and with bright eyes she looks up at Steve and she sees he's gazing ever so tenderly at her.

"What can I get you kids for drinks?" asks Fran's mom as she swings open the kitchen door.

CHAPTER 30

Almost a year and a half flies by. It's now Monday, March 24, 1965, 3:15 pm. Brainy George, Cliff Schweitzer, Ron DeFelipo, and Mysterious Jane are among the students in Cunningham Junior High's library at this year's first meeting of the school yearbook committee. Dusty sunlight slants through the large windows onto the book stacks. A musty smell fills the air. A tinny six-transistor radio is softly playing The Beatles, _Love Me Do_.

Most of the students are sitting around a heavy wooden table near where several newspapers are draped over a rack. Splashed on the covers of the newspapers are pictures from America's first two-person space flight that began over the weekend as Gemini 3 blasted off from Cape Kennedy with astronauts Virgil I. Grissom and John W. Young aboard.

Cliff is beside the magazines that face out from the wall, scanning a _Sports Illustrated_ story describing how Cassius Clay knocked out Sunny Liston in 7 rounds; George is at the card catalogue flipping through the section on Einstein's theory of relativity.

"I thought you guys were gonna get Steve to join this committee," says Mysterious Jane as she looks sternly at Cliff and George, a great deal of agitation in her voice.

"We tried," says Cliff putting his magazine back on the wall and walking over to the table, the wood floor squeaking. "I guess right after school Steve goes home and plays stickball with Jerry Miller and their younger brothers."

"Did you tell him how it can really help him to get into college if he gets this kind of committee work listed on his record?" asks Jane.

"We explained all that," George responds without looking up from the cards he's flipping through. "Hey, we wanted him to join as much as you do."

"Oh, I don't think so," says Jane. She puts her elbows on the oak table, rests her head in her hands, and lets out a long sigh.

"I know how Jane feels," says another girl fiddling with her ponytail. "Steve flirts with me and some of my friends but he never asks any of us out. It's not fair."

"Most guys don't start to date until they're sixteen or seventeen," says Mr. Atkins, the yearbook faculty advisor, a short, well dressed man with gold wire rimmed glasses. "You girls are just going to have to be patient."

"Cliff's been dating that Myra from his science class," says Jane.

A huge smile sweeps across his face.

"I have it on good authority," says George, "that if a few girls get together and invite Steve's friends over to listen to some records, well sometimes Steve can be persuaded to come along. It just so happens Steve owes me and Cliff a favor because we help him with his homework..."

"Is that so?" asks Mr. Atkins raising his eyebrow.

"We don't do Steve's homework for him," Cliff quickly responds. "It's a study group."

"Why would a couple of SP kids include someone like Steve in their study group?" asks Mr. Atkins, still very much suspicious. "Academically, you guys are significantly above him."

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Atkins," answers Cliff. "In Social Studies, Steve makes some pretty astute observations. And, whereas in Math and Science, Steve can't play in our league, the way he asks questions, he gets us to think about how best to answer him. Some kids, all they care about is getting a high grade by coming up with the answer the teacher thinks is correct. Steve, he really wants to understand something, and when we have to figure out how to explain things to him, we end up understanding the stuff better ourselves. And, well, Steve asked us to help him, and we kinda like him, so... well we made him part of our study group. And if the girls want to invite us over to listen to records sometime, I think we might be able to get Steve to come along."

"All right now," says Mr. Atkins. "We're here to work on the yearbook. Does anyone have any ideas to get us going?"

Ron, back for his second term on the yearbook committee after his surprising appearance on the committee a year ago, replies, "First of all, I think we ought to dedicate the yearbook to Gary. He died trying to stand up to Harold and Anita's gang. I know we should have done it last year when it happened, but we ended up dedicating it to Kennedy. Since then, quite a few kids said we should have dedicated it to both, and I think it's not too late. He was a member of our class, a super athlete, and he was really respected."

"I like that idea!" cries Mr. Atkins who has begun to grade some papers at a nearby desk.

"Should we mention anything about how Steve beat up Harold and how that led to Gary's murderers being caught?" asks George.

"Steve hates it when anyone mentions any of that," says Jane.

"I don't know why," says George, "that's how Steve got his great reputation."

"It wasn't like that at all," says Cliff, "The kids were already starting to respect Steve before that and they wouldn't have kept respecting him for over a year if he was really a jerk. In fact, a lot of people thought that the stupidest thing Steve ever did was to stand up to Harold. Just about all the other students at Cunningham cowered when Harold came at them with a knife. If Steve would have done that also, Harold would have laughed and then let him alone. Instead, Steve's automatic reaction from his summer self defense classes put him at risk of getting killed. And, a lot of students who had cowered to Harold became angry with Steve because they felt Steve's actions made them look like cowards. In fact, I was one of those students. I said to myself, 'Why couldn't I stand up to that Harold? What's wrong with me? That Steve's a jerk for making me look bad.' But, by getting to know Steve, you really couldn't stay mad at him for long."

"Ya know what was weird about the whole Harold and Anita thing?" says Ron.

"No," says George. "Why don't you enlighten us?"

There is something about the way George says this that leads Ron to contemplate taking a couple of large books and smashing them over the brainy idiot's head. But somehow he restrains himself and simply responds, "I think it's weird the way Mysterious Jane predicted Steve would somehow be the hero."

"It was an incredibly lucky guess," says Cliff. "Anyone could have a lucky guess every now and then."

Mysterious Jane sits there with her green, cat-like eyes shining, looking amused. Her sexy curves have become even more pronounced over the past year. After a few moments she says, "I can't believe you guys can't see it. It's so obvious that Steve's got incredible powers. Remember the time Steve wanted Ron and George to stop fighting and he told us about the guys who made pudding and how they were wimps, the way they argued? Well after that, it became the thing at Cunningham that if two guys were desperately arguing over something and putting each other down, someone would go over to them and say, 'You guys make any good pudding lately?' And everyone would laugh—including the arguers. In fact, after Steve's comments, only rarely would you see anyone arguing obnoxiously in Cunningham—so extraordinary was his power.

"Don't ya see," Mysterious Jane continues, "Steve has cast a spell on the students. Steve became tired of hearing the kids arguing without knowing when to give it a rest and his words had nothing to do with why they stopped. It had to be a spell because I tested it out once when I visited my cousins in Canarsie. Some of the kids there go on and on when they argue 'til you want to scream shut-up already. One day, as an experiment, I told many of the kids the same exact thing Steve said about the pudding makers and the way wimps act and all. Well, the kids were intrigued. They discussed it for a few minutes. But, a half hour later they were arguing in the same way. Steve's words had no lasting impact when I used them. That's because I don't have the spiritual powers that Steve has."

"Well," says George, "I know after Steve made those comments about pudding, I didn't argue so much with Ron because as soon as we'd start to argue in the lunchroom, Steve would take me over to another part of the lunchroom and we'd have lunch together away from Ron. And Ron, he also started to put me down less often."

"And I started to put him down less often," says Ron, "because Steve and I started to become friends and he asked me in a real respectful way to lay off the SP kids. I like Steve, and the way he asked, well, I figured it wouldn't hurt to try."

"Steve is just more respected here at Cunningham than you were in Canarsie," says George, "and at the same time he treats the other kids with more respect, and so the kids listen to him more. And he also does some stuff behind the scenes that you didn't have a chance to do in Canarsie, and that's why he comes off as spiritually powerful."

"You guys," Jane responds, "you guys are saying some of what I'm saying in just different words, and some of it you're missing altogether."

_Please Please Me_ , another Beatles' song, comes on the radio.

"Boy," says Cliff, "since last year every other song that's played on the radio is a Beatles song."

"They'll be popular for another year," says Ron. "After that, you'll see, you'll never hear about them again."

"That's some prediction," says Brainy George. "Why, anyone can see that coming."

Mysterious Jane smiles. "Boys," she says, "when the last star in the heavens blinks out the Beatles fame shall still be shining."

"Okay," says Ron, rolling his eyes. Then he turns to Brainy George. "You're probably gonna think I'm stupid but I'm still trying to figure out all this stuff about Harold, Anita and Gary. And there's this thing with you and them."

"What thing?" George responds. "Pray tell."

"Well," says Ron, "all through junior high, you were the guy, George, who wasn't gonna let anyone boss you around, even if it meant you'd get killed. Remember how you and me'd fight? Well, what I don't get is this. When this guy Gary stood up to the gang, he got knifed. Didn't you ever run into them?"

"Yeah!" answers George. "Four times!"

"When you ran into them," Ron continues, "and they demanded money from you, didn't you stand up to them? And if ya did, why didn't they knife you like they knifed Gary?"

George turns pale as he recalls those horrible days. "Actually... I... I... I did... kind of... stand up to them. But... I was no threat to them. When Harold first demanded money from me, I told him to drop dead. He laughed, grabbed my arm, twisted it, stuck his hand in my pocket, took my money, threw me down and kicked me in my ribs. I was his perfect foil. He could so easily take me that he enjoyed it when I would curse at him. It gave him an excuse to beat me up, and he felt like he was showing everyone else what would happen if they didn't kowtow to him. Gary, on the other hand, was a real threat to the gang because he was strong and a leader. The gang had to face the fact that if it wanted to continue its reign in our neighborhood, it had to get rid of him fast.

"After I first ran into the gang, I began to plot different ways to kill Harold and Anita. I might have done it too—I so passionately hated them—but I was having trouble coming up with a foolproof plan. I swear if I could have gotten hold of a gun I would have... those..."

"Careful, young man!" says Mr. Atkins looking up from the papers he's grading. "This is an interesting discussion, but let's keep it clean!"

"Why didn't you just sneak up on Anita or Harold and stab one of them?" Ron asks.

"Maybe I was afraid I'd get stabbed back. I'm not really sure. The whole thing is so complicated. I haven't thought about this in a long time. First of all, until they killed Gary, I really didn't think they were real murderers, just jerks robbing kids. And that Anita, you know, I remember when I first ran into the gang and Harold threw me down and kicked me. All the other gang members laughed at me... but... but not Anita. And as the gang began to hurry away after taking my money, Anita stayed, helped me up, looked me in the eyes and said, 'You're okay in my book, George,' like she somehow respected me for having at least tried to stand up to the gang. I hated her for being part of the gang, but... she sure was cute... and... well... that was part of Anita's talent, you know. She could do hateful things but it was hard to hate her. There was something beautiful about her, so people turned all their hate toward Harold. I remember Mysterious Jane saying all of the power of the gang came from Anita and not Harold. And I remember knowing Jane was right, in a sense, and yet I continued hating Harold and... well... I wouldn't say I liked Anita but... anyway, Jane once said to me Anita had spiritual powers to ward off hate. I don't believe that, but Anita did have a gift so that she could look someone in the eyes with her cute face and make you feel she was genuinely sorry for treating you like a piece of crap."

CHAPTER 31

Steve's Cunningham Junior High School's graduation ceremony takes place late in June 1965 at the grand old Loews Theater on Flatbush Avenue. Steve's mom has come with Pete. Steve was hoping to see his dad there, but it was not to be.

Everyone is in their fanciest clothes—girls in bright color dresses and the boys—slacks, sports jackets, white shirts and ties.

"When we get out of here," says Tom Giordano, "we got the whole freakin' summer."

"Da beach, girls, no freakin' school," says Ron waving his hands all around, "Jesus, I can't wait." Then his voice goes up two octaves as he repeats, "Jesus, I can't wait!"

As the graduates file into the seats that have been reserved for them in the front of the theater, Steve takes one more look in the audience to see if his dad has shown up late. He's nowhere to be seen. Steve does notice in the back of the auditorium his Uncle Ricky searching for a place to sit. It's nice to see him there.

There are some speeches, a couple of songs, a band performance, and then the procession of students begins to march onto the stage.

"Shelly Abels!" Mr. Imperiale calls out.

The first to be called to receive her diploma, Shelly turns pink.

"Samuel Achman!" Mr. Imperiale calls out...

* * * *

"Ron DeFelipo!" calls out Mr. Imperiale.

As Ron walks across the stage, Steve notices Ron's dad leaping up, swinging his arms, and cheering for him. Ron doesn't know how lucky he is, Steve thinks to himself.

"Marguerite DeLucci!" calls out Mr. Imperiale.

Look at her dad jumping up and down. He's even more excited than Ron's.

"Angela DePalo!"

"Carol Ann Dessi!"

"Barry Diamond!"

Fifteen minutes go by. Then Steve chokes back some tears as he reaches for the diploma that Mr. Imperiale is holding out to him.

* * * *

On the first Saturday morning of 1965's summer vacation, Pete is in the living room folding his bed into the couch. Steve is in the kitchen finishing his breakfast—scrambled eggs, toast, and a cool glass of milk. Just in front of him, his mom is washing the breakfast dishes.

The AM radio is tuned to WABC. After a Palisades Amusement Park commercial, disc jockey Cousin Brucie announces the next song, "Catch the Wind" by Donovan. It's a pretty, melancholy song that captures rather well Marie's current mood. A pretty decent guy from work has asked her out for a date this week. She turned him down at first, for even though it's been more than a year since her husband, Mike, has left her, somehow she still feels married. And, in fact, officially, she is. But this gentleman from work is so nice, and when he asked her to go see the new movie, "Marriage Italian Style" with Marcello Mastroianni and Sophia Loren, it sure felt like an attractive offer. "Call me around eleven Saturday morning and I'll decide then," she had told him.

Eleven o'clock is almost at hand and Marie's heart is doing flip-flops. An image of her husband flashes before her eyes. What if he finds out that I... I... me and another man?

Marie pauses with the dishes. Oh mother of Mary, she says to herself, I've been in a dungeon long enough! She hears some ghastly sounds... groans... clanking of chains... all dimly audible. She throws cool water on her face. Steve is right behind me eating his breakfast. What will he think? She throws some more water on her face feeling its coolness.

Grabbing the dishtowel, she wipes her face and hands, bunches the towel up, and holds it against her heart.

"Steve, could you watch Pete for me tonight?" she asks.

"Why? Where you going, Mom?"

"I... I thought I'd go to see a friend from work."

Steve looks outside his kitchen window. On the Avenue U Theater's marquee, in large black letters, are the words:

GOLDFINGER

with

Sean Connery as 007

Steve had seen the other two James Bond movies, "Dr. No" and "From Russia with Love." The word out on the street claims "Goldfinger" is the best in the series. Steve had loved the first two. "Can I take Pete to see the movie across the street, Mom?"

Marie looks out the window and checks the marquee. "Sure," she says, "and I'll even give you some money to go to the ice cream parlor afterwards."

"Hey, Pete, ya wanna go see 'Goldfinger' tonight?" asks Steve leaning into the living room.

Pete's eyes light up. "Sure! I don't mind!"

"Okay, Mom. It's all set," says Steve.

Marie turns back to the dishes now squeezing the towel to her heart even more tightly. Mother of Mary, what am I getting myself into?

When she finishes the dishes, she takes her white apron off and looks at Steve and Pete. "I can't believe I'm letting you boys stay home all summer," she says. "When you start getting bored, you'll start getting into trouble."

"Come on, Mom," says Steve, "give us a chance."

"What are you going to do all summer?"

"Well, today we're gonna go to Uncle Ricky's," says Pete as he comes into the kitchen, sits on a chair, and prepares for their plans by putting on his socks and sneakers.

"Yeah, but it's the weekend," responds Marie. "How about the weekdays when your uncle and I have to work. It's not too late for me to sign you up for a day camp."

"If we get bored, then you can sign us up," says Steve.

"I'm worried," says Marie. "Monday I'll go to work and I'll worry all day."

Steve goes over to his mom and puts his arms around her. Every time he does this she finds herself amazed to see how he is now more than three inches taller than her. "We'll be fine Mom," he says. Then he leans down and kisses her on her cheek.

* * * *

_"Ben venuto!"_ cries Ricky as the boys enter his house through the kitchen.

Steve studies the beautiful oak table and chairs. "The way you built these all by yourself, Uncle Ricky, they're works of art."

_"Grazie_ Steve. I'm making a new kitchen set now for Cousin Gina. She's getting married in September and it's my wedding gift."

Steve, Pete, and Ricky walk down a flight of steps to the basement.

"Here is my _bottega_ , my artist's workshop," says Ricky as he steps into a modest-sized space with a ceiling just a couple of inches above his head. Most of the area is devoted to a wood shop. A laundry area with washing machine and dryer is set off to the far left. "Over here is the wood you'll need," Ricky says to his nephews.

"A few weeks ago," says Steve, "my class took this trip to The Brooklyn Museum. They got this great picture there of a court jester playing with a toy. Here, I drew this in my Mechanical Drawing class. Take a look at it Uncle Ricky. To work the toy, Uncle Ricky, well what you do is, you hold it by the stick and flip the ball up in the air and as it comes down, you try to catch it in the cup. I thought it looked like it could be fun, and when I tried to find one in the toy stores, no luck. So, I figure I'll make one for myself and a few more to see if me and Pete could sell them. Did you ever see this kind of toy, Uncle Ricky?"

"Yeah," answers Ricky. "I've seen some little cheap ones from Japan. The ones you'll make, they'll be ten times better."

* * * *

The first one made, under Ricky's careful supervision, comes out great, with a clear varnish that brings out the wood's grain.

"Can I try it?!" cries Pete. "I wanna try it first! Please!"

"In about an hour," Uncle Ricky replies. "First it has to dry."

The boys decide to go ahead and make ten more. As they work, Ricky works on his present for Cousin Gina.

The boys start to get into a smooth routine. Steve saws the wood and drills the holes while Pete does the sanding, gluing and shellacking. The Yankees game is softly heard from a nearby RCA radio. Mel Stottlemeyer is pitching a shutout against the Indians.

"Yer putting a bit too much glue there, Pete," says Ricky.

"I am not!" cries Pete. But on the next one he puts a little less. "Is dat enough, Uncle Ricky?"

"Yeah, that's plenty. _Bene!_ Steve, you're starting Lincoln High in the fall. Are you excited?"

"I guess. Some of the kids I like from my junior high are going there also, so that's good. But there'll be a lot of new kids too. I'm hoping they don't give me a hard time."

"If anyone bothers you," says Pete, "just knock deir block off! Dat's what Dad would do."

"Yeah," Steve responds, "that's just the way he'd handle it all right. Uncle Ricky, you ever hear from Dad?"

A long pause. Pete stops his work and turns to his uncle.

"He's... he's working da docks over in Hoboken," Ricky finally answers.

"Where's dat?" asks Pete.

"It's over in Jersey, 'bout a couple of hours from here," answers Ricky.

"You think we'll ever see him again?" asks Steve.

"I'm hoping when he gets settled in Jersey," answers Ricky. "He feels like he's such a failure and he wants you two to be proud of him. When he gets his life in one piece and he can respect himself, well maybe he could face ya."

Steve shrugs his shoulders and then begins to lean forward to bring his pencil to a stick where he will mark his next cut. But just as his pencil almost reaches the stick, he pauses. He shakes his head while squeezing his lips together. He then takes a deep breath and slowly blows it out...

* * * *

When all ten toys are done and have been carefully placed on a large workbench to dry, Steve and Pete begin to watch Ricky doing some work for his project. With a tape measure and a pencil, he marks off six feet on a fresh piece of board. He then puts the pencil behind his right ear, brings the board over to a bench, and with an electric saw he begins to make his cut. RRRRRRRRR. With the cut completed, Ricky blows the sawdust off the board and studies the straightness of the edge.

"Uncle Ricky," says Steve, "thanks."

"Don't need no thanks, Steve," says Ricky looking up from his work. "You can use my woodshop anytime. I like the company."

"I don't mean thanks for letting us use the wood shop," says Steve.

"Well, what then?" asks Ricky.

There is, once again, a long pause. Finally Steve says, "Thanks for being there... you know... when we were growing up and you were there.... Thanks, Uncle Ricky. I'll never forget those times when you were there."

"Yeah," says Pete, "danks, Uncle Ricky. I love ya." And then Pete and Steve go over to their uncle and give him a great big hug, which brings tears to Ricky's eyes.

###

More from the author of A Hero Grows in Brooklyn:

FIGHTS IN THE STREETS, TEARS IN THE SAND

If you enjoyed reading _A Hero Grows in Brooklyn_ , you'll love its sequel, _Fights in the Streets, Tears in the Sand_. There, Steve Marino and the rest of the gang face exciting new adventures upon beginning Lincoln High.

As the story opens, we meet Jeff Star, a rock 'n' roll guitar playing teenager, who has one major problem—every time he tries to get the kids to respect him, he ends up making more and more enemies. Will joining a local violent gang save him? How about the wisdom of Steve Marino, a guy who became a hero back in junior high? Or will it be the beautiful and strange Mysterious Jane?

Join us as Jeff struggles with being blamed for a grisly murder, Steve's little brother tumbles into madness, and Mysterious Jane searches for meaning beyond the superficial. Hold on to dear life on this roller coaster ride of twisting rises and terrifying falls while discovering secrets of respect that enlighten us all.

Coming soon to all major e-book stores.

