Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(2)

At the end of September, a boy started talking to me while I was drinking a Coke outside the gym. Girls played tennis there, and I liked to watch them. In Borough Park, girls are taught that physical maturity is a provocation. As we grow, we grow ashamed of our bodies. We dislike the parts of ourselves that make us different from the boys. We hide those parts as best we can. Not these girls. They were so confident, so wild and at ease inside their bodies—throwing themselves after the ball, slapping each other’s hands, shrieking and laughing, always laughing.

“Do you play?” asked the boy. He was wearing a tank top and holding the strap of his backpack so I could see the wisps of light brown hair peeking from beneath his armpit.

“Me?” I asked. I shook my head.

“I’m Chris,” he said.

“I’m Aviva,” I said.

“Aviva,” he said. “That’s pretty.” He had perfect white teeth and blond hair that was longer in the front than in the back. He almost glowed in the sunlight. “Is this your first year?”

I nodded.

“I’m a junior,” he said, sitting down on the bench next to me. “It’s a pretty cool place. What hall do you live in?”

I didn’t remember the name. In fact, I hadn’t been entirely clear there was an official name for the building where your father had a room. So I told the truth.

“I do not go to school here. I am just staying for a while with my boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend,” he said, drawing out the word. “And where is he now?”

“In class,” I said.

“He just leaves you alone all day?” He leaned toward me and I caught a faint whiff of his sweat. But it didn’t make me want to lean back—it made me want to lean closer. “If I were your boyfriend I wouldn’t leave you alone for other guys to come hit on.”

“If you were my boyfriend?” I said, dumbly. He was so forward. I remember I was shocked, although I hated myself for it. It was very important to me that other people saw me as brave. I’d escaped Brooklyn, hadn’t I? But bravery is no substitute for experience, and at that point I could count on two hands the conversations I’d had with boys I wasn’t related to. Your father and I started talking because we were both in the religion aisle of the bookstore. We had probably been standing within five feet of each other for half an hour before he said hello. Navigating a conversation with a boy like this, a boy who was flirting with me for no other reason than that he liked the way I looked—that was advanced non-frum behavior. And back then I was only a beginner.

“I’m just saying,” he said, knocking his shoulder into mine. It was sweaty hot and our skin stuck together for an instant. His eyes were a kind of golden green, and he focused on nothing but me. I could kiss him and Brian would never know.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

I blushed. He knows, I thought. Next he’ll say, You’re one of those girls, and walk away laughing. Now I know that he could no sooner have imagined the world I came from than he could have imagined life on the moon.

“I’m from New York,” I said.

“Your accent is sexy.”

Your father was the first person to tell me I spoke English with an accent. My first language was Yiddish; we spoke Yiddish at home and Yiddish in school. According to your father, my voice was also lower than most girls. Just like this boy in the tank top, he’d called it sexy.

“You should come to El Cinco tonight,” said Chris. “It’s two-for-one margaritas.”

“Okay.” I didn’t know what a margarita was.

“Bring your boyfriend,” he said, standing up, grinning. Grinning the whole time. “Or maybe don’t.”

I told your father I met someone near the tennis courts who said there was a good time at El Cinco tonight.

“See? You’re already making friends,” he said. “I knew people would love you as soon as they got to know you.”

He told some of his friends to meet us at the restaurant, and we all sat around a table with margaritas coming and going and chips and salsa for free. The music was loud and everyone had to scream over it. People were dancing by the bar and after two margaritas—they tasted like Slurpees from the 7-Eleven—I got up and said I wanted to dance. Your father held my waist as we walked through the crowd. We danced and I drank another margarita. I waved my arms in the air and felt my shirt lift up, exposing the skin of my belly. I twisted my hips and kissed your father, right there in front of everyone. He pulled me close and whispered in my ear that he loved me. I love you, Aviva, he said. I love you, too, I said.

I had to go to the bathroom, but there was a line. I stood for a minute and as soon as I stopped moving, I knew I’d had too much to drink. I closed my eyes and felt sick to my stomach, so I slid down the wall and sat on the floor. The girls around me didn’t say a word. I put my head between my legs. Everything was spinning and lopsided. And then a hand grabbed mine.

“Aviva!” It was Chris. He pulled me up. “Uh-oh, too many margaritas! Where’s your boyfriend? Come on, come here, you just need some water.” He pulled me into the men’s bathroom, which had no line. I went straight to the toilet, and up came the lime-flavored drinks and salsa chunks. I threw up twice. Chris held my hair. When I was done he gave me a wet paper towel to wipe my mouth.