do I owe you?”
I steeled myself for the outburst to come. “Fifteen dollars, sir.”
“Fifteen bucks! Are you kiddin’ me?”
“It’s for five weeks, sir.”
He cocked his huge head at me, narrowed one eye. “You sure about that?”
“Yes, sir. It’s three dollars a week. Nobody was home for the last four weeks. See?”
I showed him my notebook with the red check marks beside his name. That didn’t seem to appease him. He clearly didn’t trust me.
“Wife’s been sick,” he murmured.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Did you say fifteen?”
“Uh-huh.”
He dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. “You got change, kid?”
“Yes, sir.”
So much for a tip. I took the twenty and handed back a five. He took it and slammed the door without another word.
I got out my blue pen and conscientiously made a line through the red check marks, clearing the Mahoney account. Those few moments I lingered there for that bit of bookkeeping changed my life forever.
Because while I was doing it the door opened again, and there she stood in cut-off blue jeans and a red T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, staring out at me with the biggest, greenest eyes I’d ever seen.
Maybe it’s not possible to love a stranger at first sight, but it is possible to be hit so hard by a girl’s beauty that you feel as if your heart might explode, and that’s pretty much what happened to me that day on the Mahoneys’ front stoop.
“Hold on,” she said, “this is for you.”
She held out three dollar bills, but I was so blown away by the second thing, the sound of her voice, that all I could do was stare at her. If a brook could speak, it would sound like that, soothing and cool and tranquil.
The sight and the sound would have been enough, but then I caught a whiff of whatever perfume she was wearing. As it turned out, she wasn’t wearing perfume at all. It was the smell of the girl herself, like a summer flower carried on an ocean breeze, sweet and salty at the same time.
Somehow I managed to clear my throat to say, “I already got paid.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t get a tip.” She looked left, looked right, lowered her voice. “My father’s too cheap to tip. Come on, take it.”
She didn’t want her father to catch her giving me more money. She kept peeking over her shoulder as she held out the bills.
“Will you take it, already?”
“What’s your name?”
“Huh?”
“I said, what’s your name?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m Lynn.”
“I’m Mickey.”
“Take this money, Mickey.”
“Listen,” I said, “you wanna get a slice tonight?”
She cocked her head in puzzlement. “A slice?”
She didn’t know what I meant. It might have sounded like a sexual offer to her. I had to clarify myself, and fast.
“A slice of pizza,” I explained.
Those impossibly big green eyes widened even more. She shook her head, as if to clear it of confusing thoughts.
“You’re asking me out?”
“I…yeah. Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.”
“You don’t seem too sure.”
“Did I do it wrong? I’ve never asked a girl out before. I’m not sure how it’s done.”
She giggled, not at me but at the comedy of the situation. At last she lowered the hand holding those three bucks.
“Sure, why not. When?”
“Eight o’clock?”
She nodded. “Okay. But please, take this tip.”
She held out the money again. I shook my head.
“Keep it,” I said. “You can buy the sodas.”
She smiled, went back inside and shut the door. I was practically flying as I finished the rest of my paper route. Collecting from the rest of my customers was a breeze that day. Everybody paid up, nobody gave me a hard time.
For the first time in my life I felt at ease in the world, like I belonged, like I fit in, but it wasn’t just that. It was a lot more than that.
Suddenly I didn’t feel so alone anymore.
She was waiting for me in front of her house at eight o’clock. It was a short walk to Ponti’s Pizza, an old-time joint that had containers of stale oregano and dusty Parmesan cheese on red Formica tables. We settled down at a booth with slices and sodas, and I was delighted to see that Lynn knew how to fold a slice so it wouldn’t flop over when she lifted it for a bite. It was the first time I noticed something that would always impress me—Lynn never, ever did anything awkwardly. I was always tripping over things and knocking over drinks but she glided through life like a swan, a pizza-nibbling swan who seemed to be enjoying our first date.
We’d hit a silent patch. I felt I had to say something, and what I said couldn’t have been more stupid, considering where we were.
“Do you like pizza?”
Lynn nodded. “Who doesn’t like pizza?”
Panic. “I don’t know. Maybe some people are allergic to it.”
“Allergic to pizza? Who?”
“I don’t know…people who are allergic to tomatoes, maybe.”
“There are people who are allergic to tomatoes?”
“Well, there must be….”
My voice trailed off. I was drowning in my own foolish words, and just then in walked three Italian kids with slicked-back hair. Cigarettes dangled from their lips. I knew one of them from grade school, an indifferent student named Enrico Boccabella. Our ways had parted a few years earlier, when his parents chose not to waste money on a Catholic high school education for Rico. He acknowledged me with a solemn, wordless nod.
Rico was the alpha male of the pack, ordering three slices and three Cokes. Jimmy Ponti seemed relieved when Rico paid up front. The other two carried the food to a round table, where the three of them sat and