An Infatuation (4 page)

He looked like a precocious child with a new babysitter. “You want to play rough, do you?”

He tickled my sides, garnering fits of laughter from both of us. I let the book go and Mario dove on top of it. We were both surprised at my strength as I grabbed his foot and pulled him backward toward me and away from the book. Laughing even louder, Mario reached for the book in front of him and threw it onto my bed. When I got up to retrieve it, Mario tackled me, and we rolled on top of one another onto the bed. Mario’s breath smelled like cinnamon, his skin like coconut, and his hair like almonds.
I’m ready for dessert.
I could see my amorous reflection in his large, dark eyes as we lay on the bed with his firm thighs and thick erection pressed into mine. As if in one of my recurring awake dreams, Mario’s lips covered mine, and we shared a long, sensuous kiss.
Did that just happen?
My back arched as his warm tongue caressed my mouth. His large hands pressed inside my underpants, scooped up my bottom, and squeezed. My hands moved under his T-shirt and caressed and massaged the muscles in his perfect V-shaped back. His warm breath tickled my ear, and I let out a satisfied moan. I stroked his pectoral muscles, abdominal muscles, then lower abdomen. As I lowered my hand to his jeans, Mario suddenly jumped up to a standing position. “I gotta go.”

I looked up in a daze. “Mario—”

“This never happened! Do you understand?” Mario’s eyes were full of fear and panic.

“Why are you—?”

Mario reached down and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Harold, we can’t
ever
talk about this, not to each other, not to our families, not to anyone at school or anywhere. Do you understand me?”

I wasn’t sure if the tears in my eyes were from the pressure on my shoulders or the pressure in my heart, as I whispered, “I understand.”

“Good.” Mario picked up his jacket and walked out the door.

It took me a few minutes to catch my breath.
Was Mario really kissing me like in my dreams, or was it a nightmare? And if he was, how did I move from heaven to hell so quickly?

Bringing me back to Earth, my father appeared in the doorway, and asked, “Did you borrow my good tie?”

Only if I was going to hang myself.
“No, Dad.”

“I was setting out my clothes for tomorrow and noticed it was missing from its spot.”

Third tie to the right. Next to your color-coordinated shirts.

“Maybe your mother sent it to the cleaners.” He started to leave, but noticed my hair was messed, a tricky task given it always looked messed. Doing a double take, he asked, “Harold, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”
The guy I love just kissed me, then broke my heart.
“Thanks, Dad. How about you?”

He took a sip of his pre-dinner wheatgrass juice. “I’m great.” Looking at his watch, he added, “Seven minutes to dinner, and one hour to my favorite television program.” He smiled and stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“Is there something you want, Dad?”

Standing with one leg inside my room, his head nearly touching the top of the doorway, he replied, “Harold, I know I’m busy at work, and your mother is at the Buddhist monastery a great deal, but we are always here… to talk… if you need us.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’m okay.”
I think.

Dad was on a roll. He moved his other long leg inside the doorway, but his body still leaned out to the hallway. “I know I spend a lot of time making schedules and doing chores, but I’m available, Harold, if you want to talk.”

At least for the next seven minutes.

“If you want to talk about school, the band, current events… or
anything
.”

“I know, Dad.”

He lingered like a cat before a fondue tasting. “It’s nice of you to tutor your friend from school. I like him. I know you do too. He’s always welcome here. Anybody you like, I like.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Harold, I know we’re… different, but I’m really proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad. I’m proud of you too.”

“And you deserve the best.” His long, thin hand scratched at his scalp. “Don’t believe anyone who tells you to take anything less.”

I walked to the doorway and gave my dad a big hug. “I love you, Dad.”

“Well.…” He looked at his watch, mumbled something, and left my bedroom.

Since Mario wasn’t as evolved as my father, in accordance with Mario’s wishes, he and I didn’t mention
the love that dares not speak its name
. Our tutoring sessions went on as usual until the following week. During one evening session, I knew something was wrong with him, but Mario kept insisting he was fine. We plowed through math and science like whipped horses. After a very tense session on tenses, I had finally tired of Mario’s vacant stare and sad expression.

“Mario, I think we’ve had enough studying for tonight.”

That got his attention. “What? Why? We haven’t done psychology yet.”

“Exactly.” I closed the book and put it on my desk.

Mario followed me sheepishly. “Harold, I know I haven’t been so smart lately.”

Really?
“Mario, what’s going on?”

He sighed and looked away like a soap opera character. “Nothing.”

“Mario, I know there’s something wrong. Tell me, please.”

I sat on my desk, and Mario sat on top of the adjacent dresser. I felt like a psychiatrist at the start of a session as I asked, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.” The dimple in his chin was reborn. “But I know you want me to, so I will.”

I was falling deeper and deeper in love.

“Harold, your parents are like the Huxtables.”

If the Huxtables were a white efficiency expert and a white Buddhist.

“They love and accept you… whatever you do, or don’t do. It’s not like that in my house.”

I took his hand. He held on so tightly my circulation cut off. I didn’t care. It would have been an honor to lose a hand for the man I loved.
Captain Hook did it for Peter Pan.
“What’s it like in your house, Mario?”

He looked at me and tilted his head. “You want the
whole
story?”

I pointed to my bookcase, overflowing with books. “You know how much I love a good story.”

Mario squeezed my hand, I think. “My parents argue a lot. It’s more than arguing. Screaming, pushing, hitting is normal for them.”

“That must be hard for you.”

“Yeah.” He looked so adorably sad and vulnerable. “It’s harder for my little brother, especially since my father treats him like shit.”

“But your little brother has you, Mario.”

“Right.”

“Who do
you
have?” Now my cheek dimple made its entrance.
Please say me.

Mario looked away. “My grandma.”

Not the answer I expected, but let’s go with it.
“Tell me about her.” I sat next to him on the bureau. His shoulder rested against mine.

“Nonna came here with her family from Italy when she was just a girl. Their first week living in a tenement in New York, a bum throws a lit cigarette into their window. It hits a curtain and the place goes up in smoke. Only Nonna got out alive, because she was always a light sleeper. After that she lived in boxes under fire escapes while she worked fifteen hours a day sewing hems and buttons in a sweatshop. Eventually she made enough money to get off the streets, marry a tailor, and have six kids. After her husband died from a heart attack, she raised all six kids herself from what she made at the sweatshop. When her kids grew up, she was supposed to live with my parents and get a rest. No such luck. She raised me and my brother, did the housework, cooked our meals, did the laundry, and gave me and my brother…
my brother and me
our allowances.”

“She sounds like a very special woman, Mario.”

“The best. See, Harold, no matter what I do or say, it’s never right with my father. I win football games, become class president, thanks to you pass my classes, but it’s never enough. To him I’ll always be a dumb loser, like he is. He keeps telling me I should go into the plumbing business with him. No thanks. That’s why those college applications are so important.”

“All finished and mailed.”

“Thanks.” He squeezed my shoulder.

“And your mom?”

Mario’s expression turned from anger to apathy. “She cares more about what happens to the characters on her soap operas than she cares about what happens to me.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s really that bad.”

I wanted to take away his pain. “I’m sorry, Mario.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I smiled and rested my head on his shoulder. It felt warm and inviting. “But you have your nonna, right?”

“Nonna always believed in me.” He smiled for the first time all evening. “And her cooking! All my favorite things like manicotti, veal francese, chicken parmigiana, Sicilian pizza.”

Guess who’s coming to dinner.

“Nonna always said I was smart.”

Okay, that’s a bit of a stretch.

“…handsome….”

She obviously still has good vision.

“…and the most important person in her world. The love of her life.”

I can relate.

“Nonna always said I could talk to her about anything, and that no matter what I ever said or did, she would always love me.”

It suddenly dawned on me. “Mario, why are you talking about your nonna in the past, pardon the term, tense?”

Mario’s eyes filled with tears. He enveloped me in his strong arms and wept into my neck.

“I’m so sorry, Mario.”

After what seemed like seconds but was more like five minutes, Mario released me and drew my face into his like a rescued castaway at a buffet. Each kiss grew in intensity until the last kiss was an explosion of heat, passion, and a bit of pain. He looked at me with desire raging in his eyes. I reflected that back at him and more. He unbuttoned his pants and placed my hand over his genitals. They felt smooth, thick, and throbbing.

“Mario, do you want to stay here tonight?”

Mario shook his head, released me, and buttoned his pants. As he reached for his leather jacket and opened my bedroom door, he said, “I want to sleep in Nonna’s bed.” And he was gone.

CHAPTER THREE/20 YEARS AGO

T
HANKS
TO
our tutoring sessions, Mario’s grades, and my blood pressure, had risen. Mario spent less time with his football friends and more time with me. I even started going back to gym class, with Mario as my protector. That and the fact that Mr. Adoni figured out the
Dr. Dlorah
on my excuse note was an anagram for
Harold
.

One week in gym class, Mr. Adoni took out the dreaded medicine ball. This is a torture technique, no doubt created by Hitler himself, where the strong boys lob a huge, heavy ball to knock down the weak boys like bowling pins. In the past I would generally be hit pretty quickly and happily retire to the side benches. Once in safety I would read a book, or use the book to shield my head from any foul balls that bounced off the wounded.

As usual, the football players rallied to select their classmate targets, as the rest of us prayed, shook, or made our wills. Tommy, an especially large football player, threw the first grenade, which knocked the breath, and dignity, out of Manuel, who was glad to be relegated to the bench. After Tommy and Mr. Adoni shared a laugh, Keith, Tommy’s best pal, threw next. Seymour hit the deck and crawled gratefully to the sidelines. Keith and Mr. Adoni slapped hands, and Mr. Adoni headed for his office to read the latest edition of what we called a
girly
magazine
. After Henry, Simon, and each small boy went down for the count, I looked over at Mario getting ready to make the next shot. He wound back and aimed directly at
me
. I closed my eyes and held my breath, but nothing happened. I opened my eyes to a warm wink from Mario, and the sight of Toneless Tony lying on the floor rubbing his bruised shoulder.
My hero.

Each gym class was the same after that. The other football players started to come after me, but one look from Mario changed the game plan and kept them in line. I was even picked for a relay team once. Mario was truly my gym guardian angel.

Unfortunately, not everyone shared my elation over my new gym status. At one session we each were doing, or in my case
attempting
to do, a maneuver on the pommel horse. Of course Mario and the other football players flew through the routine like professional gymnasts. I chalked up and jumped on the horse to the sound of Tommy saying
Ride ’em, cowboy
in a mockingly high falsetto voice. As every muscle in my body strained in a failed attempt to lift my right leg over the horse, Keith called over Mr. Adoni to ask him a question about practice that afternoon. Taking advantage of the planned diversion, Tommy gave me a wedgie, and I fell back flat on the mat with my undershorts bunched at my back. When I looked up, I noticed Mario arguing with Tommy. To my surprise, Tommy came over, helped me up, and apologized.
Miracles really do happen, especially miracles like Mario.

After a gym class where Mario had chewed out Tommy and Keith for dribbling a basketball on my head, I was changing next to Mario in the locker room. Mario, having just stripped naked, stood next to me, wrapping a towel around his waist. I was putting my clothes on over my gym shorts.

“Thanks for picking me for your team, Mario.”

He produced that winning smile. “You did okay, Harold.”

“I know. I only fouled three times.”

Mario laughed and slapped my behind.

Now I know why guys play sports.

We made our study plans for later that day and said good-bye. As Mario headed for the showers, I left the locker room. Tommy and Keith followed me. As I walked down the hallway on my way to study hall, I heard it.

“Faggot.”

No, please God, no.
I kept walking, quickening my pace. Just before I turned the corner toward the principal’s office, I felt a strong hand push me, and I landed in an empty history classroom, appropriately under a poster chronicling the Holocaust. I heard the door close behind me, and I turned to see two football players standing over me.