The World Played Chess (38)

“Refuse,” I said, feeling my blood surge. “As an Italian, you should know the line is ‘make you an offer you can’t refuse.’”

“Refuse. Resist. You want to get out of here?”

“You don’t want another beer?” I asked. The pitcher remained half-full and, as I said, picking up on subtle female cues was not exactly a strength of mine.

William, who had been standing close by, reached over and grabbed the pitcher from the table. From behind Amy he looked down at me. “Rich girl,” he mouthed.

“Yeah, sure,” I said, but I now faced another potential problem. What if Amy DeLuca wanted to go to another bar, or a club?

We left Village Host and walked to my car parked on Broadway. I unlocked Amy’s door and held it open for her, then went around to the driver’s side trying hard to think up excuses why I couldn’t get into another bar. I’ve drunk too much already. I can’t drive. What if Amy offered to drive?

I pulled open the car door and slid behind the wheel, going through each potential scenario. When I looked over to ask Amy where she wanted to go, she leaned across the car and kissed me. I felt her hand on the back of my head and her tongue against mine. She pulled back a bit, smiling at me with those black-Irish blue eyes.

“Let’s go to my cousin’s house,” she said.

I relaxed. I wouldn’t get carded, and I’d have Jennifer and Scott, and probably both parents, to ease any uncomfortableness. Again, subtle female cues, not one of my strengths.

Amy sat back, then quickly leaned forward and picked up an eight-track. “Oh my God. You have Greetings from Asbury Park?”

“Are you a Springsteen fan?”

“Are you kidding? Everyone from New York is a Springsteen fan. He’s homegrown, straight from Freehold, New Jersey, and the Jersey Shore.”

“I know. My sister’s boyfriend, Mike, used to go sneak into bars to hear him play when Bruce was just getting started.”

“The Stone Pony,” she said. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” I said, stealing William’s line.

“I saw him and Southside Johnny play there. Will you put in the tape?”

Hell, I would have driven her to New Jersey to hear the Boss.

We drove the El Camino Real, singing “Blinded by the Light” and “Growin’ Up,” which was more appropriate than I realized at the time. I was never happier that I had put in speakers. Yeah, it was a Pinto, but this night it was a rolling Springsteen concert.

When we reached her cousin’s street, I pulled to the curb in front of the house and noticed the dark windows. Amy leaned over and grabbed my hand before I could turn off the engine. She wanted to listen to “For You.” I was happy to oblige, hoping she’d lean across the seat again, but within a minute I noticed a change in Amy’s attitude. She wiped a tear from her cheek.

“You okay?” I asked.

She smiled. “Yeah. Sorry. I used to listen to this song with my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” I said, uncertain what else to say.

She looked at me. “We broke up at the end of the school year, just before summer. He went to DC to work for a congressman, and I chose Fordham over Georgetown because they offered me a scholarship. My parents couldn’t exactly afford Georgetown tuition.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “that he didn’t understand.” Then I had another thought. Amy was not over this boyfriend. She clearly still cared for him, which made me what exactly?

“Yeah. I guess things happen for a reason.” She reached into her purse, pulled out a small compact, opened it, and removed a joint. She lit it like it was just a cigarette, inhaled, and handed me the joint. Up until this moment, I’d never smoked a joint or taken a hit on a bong. At Serra, a demarcation line existed, our own DMZ, between the jocks and the stoners. You made a choice between the two and you stuck to that choice. The jocks drank beer and looked down on the stoners. The stoners considered the jocks uptight morons.

I didn’t know what I wanted at that moment, except not to embarrass myself and come across as a naive kid. I took the joint, continuing the facade I had already perpetrated, took a small hit, held my breath, and passed it back without coughing up a lung. We smoked the joint while listening to Bruce’s sultry voice and his poetic lyrics, and my thoughts drifted to William in the jungles of Vietnam, about how he said he used to get high to fend off reality. Maybe I was doing the same thing, fending off reality.

When “Spirit in the Night” ended, Amy pushed open her car door. I got out to walk her up the brick path, now drunk and high for the first time. She took out a key and unlocked the front door, pushing it open. Then she reached back, took my hand, and pulled me inside. Apparently, the night was not yet over.

She led me to the back of the house and down a set of stairs into a family room with a pool table, television, and bar. I could see the pool out the sliding glass doors. Amy turned on the stereo, loud enough for me to realize we were the only ones home. A new reality hit me. Where exactly was this going? Sex? A part of me was thrilled with this prospect, but that other voice kept calling out to me, telling me I was a fraud. I wasn’t even in college. I didn’t smoke dope, and I’d never had sex. Despite the acting job, I felt young and inexperienced and nervous. I again felt like a kid, not the man I’d pretended to be.