The World Played Chess (39)

Amy poured rum and Cokes and I sat on a barstool and watched her. She handed me a drink. “My aunt and uncle are in Tahoe until tomorrow. Scott and Jennifer are going to his apartment in the city,” she said, confirming what I had already deduced. Then she picked up a cassette and stuck it in the stereo. “This is one of the tapes I brought with me.” She hit play, leading me out sliding glass doors to the pool deck while Springsteen’s “Rosalita” played from the outdoor speakers.

The summer weather remained warm, but with a slight breeze. I looked from the patio up at the remodel, just a dark skeleton. Never in a million years did I think I would be looking at it from this perspective.

Amy danced and sang. She shed the rabbit-fur jacket and kicked off her black boots. Then she undid the buttons of her blouse, slowly, never taking those beautiful blue eyes from mine. The blouse came off, revealing a black lace bra. Inside I felt like I was swimming as hard as I could but still sinking. Amy unbuttoned her Levi’s and shimmied from her jeans. She stepped forward, as if cold, into my embrace, and kissed me.

“Let’s go for a swim,” she whispered.

I was drowning. A part of me was thinking of every excuse to get out of this situation, fearful that I would mess up and look and feel a lot worse than I would have if I’d lost my fake ID at a bar. But that other part . . . that other part wanted what I saw before me.

Amy helped me remove my jean jacket, unbuttoned my Yankees softball shirt, and pulled the T-shirt over my head. I removed my tennis shoes, stumbling, but Amy held me upright. I was moving on automatic pilot, afraid to consider too deeply what I was doing. I removed my pants.

Amy led me to the pool’s edge, and as Springsteen implored Rosalita to jump a little higher, Amy removed her bra, then her panties, looked over her shoulder at me with a thin, wicked smile, and dove into the water. I felt frozen on the edge of the deck. I had two choices, jump in with both feet or step back from the ledge and tell the truth. It briefly occurred to me that I should have had this type of internal discussion before I jumped in the pool at Ed’s party. Maybe if I had, I would have realized there had been a lot more at stake than ten dollars.

Amy surfaced. The time for debate was over.

I dropped my shorts and dove into the water. When I came up, Amy swam to me and wrapped her arms and legs around me. I could feel that tight, muscled body against me.

“I promised you an offer you couldn’t refuse,” she said.

“Refuse. Resist. It’s just semantics,” I said, trying to make light of the situation. “Besides, do I look like I’m refusing?”

She giggled and we kissed. I knew I was just a rebound, but then I felt her hand on my groin and I was done with the debate. Amy guided me inside her. The first time didn’t last long, but being eighteen, that wasn’t a problem. Emboldened because I hadn’t embarrassed myself, we made love a second time, allowing Springsteen’s voice to float over the pool on a hot, starlit summer night. A night I would forever remember.

With time, however, the cool water chilled and sobered me. Amy, too. She climbed from the pool and grabbed towels, and we dried off. As I dressed, Amy went inside and came out wearing a terry cloth bathrobe.

“When do you go back to New York?” I asked, slipping on and buttoning my jersey.

“Sunday. I catch a red-eye.”

“Maybe we could go out tomorrow night, to dinner?”

She smiled. “I better spend time with my cousin and my aunt and uncle on my last night.”

“How about Sunday before you leave?”

“I think they want to take me to the ocean.”

I nodded. I was desperate now, throwing out options. “Maybe I could go to New York and visit.”

She lost the smile. “I’m going to be really busy when I start my internship, Vincent, probably sixty to seventy hours a week, and then I start school so . . .” She shrugged.

She wasn’t brushing me off. I know that now. She was just being practical. But I wondered again how long ago she and the boyfriend had broken up. Maybe that frontal cortex was finally starting to kick in—when I really didn’t want it to.

She must have seen this inner monologue in my facial expression.

“Vincent, I’m sorry . . .” She stumbled to find words.

“Forget about it,” I said using my New York accent, which made her smile. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine and Amy could tell, which only made my pain worse. She went from looking sorry, which was bad enough, to looking at me with pity. Then her eyes widened. “This wasn’t your . . . first time, was it?”

“What? No. No, of course not,” I said, but it must not have been very convincing.

“Vincent, I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . . Oh my God. Please tell me you’re eighteen.”

“Don’t,” I said, taking a step back. I shook my head. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t make me feel like some kid.”

“I’m not trying to, I just . . .”

“I’m not a kid,” I said. But, of course, I was. And I had acted like one this night, just as I had acted like one that night at Ed’s party. Act like a child and you will be treated like one. My mother’s old refrain.

“You worked and played softball with those guys . . . I just thought you looked young.”