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They walked down the sidewalk. At the corner, Carmelina smirked. "Let's have some fun."

When the
DON'T WALK
signal turned red, Carmelina bolted across the street. Bobby's throat squeezed.
Oh, no
—Cars in both directions bucked forward then screeched, their bumpers reaching out to within a loose thread of Carmelina's skirt. Horns blared, but she continued on, laughing.

Bobby waited for the light to change, then crossed. "You're crazy!"

"Scared ya, didn't I?" Carmelina spun around, holding her skirt from raising too high. "Come on, this is my only Sunday off this month. I wanna make the most of it."

She grabbed his hand and they ran across an open field in Branch Brook Park. As they reached the swing set, Carmelina turned sharply, and Bobby's arms naturally wrapped around her. Carmelina looked at him. Her fingers touched his cheek.

"Your face," she said. "It's red."

"I got cross-faced in practice yesterday."

"What's that?"

Bobby placed the bony part of his wrist against the bridge of Carmelina's nose. "Like this," he said. "Then jam it hard."

"To hurt you?"

"To make it uncomfortable."

"Doesn't sound like fun," Carmelina said.

"It is, I guess."

"So you like touchin' other boys?"

"No," Bobby said.

"But you
do
touch them? My friend Maria went to a Wrestling thing once. She said it looked like two boys doin' it to each other."

"No way! I'm trying to beat the guy's ass, and he's trying to beat my ass. I don't think about anything when I'm Wrestling. It's just instinct, pure instinct. You'll see when you come to my matches."

"No, no," Carmelina said. "I'm not goin' to any Wrestling matches, or whatever ya call them."

"Yes, you will."

"I won't."

"Yes."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can't," Carmelina said. "I just can't."

"Can't?"

"Look, Bobby, I work Wednesday nights and every Saturday.
Every
Saturday. I told you that. The other days, I gotta do homework and help my mother. You see where I live. My family is not rich like yours. We don't have a fancy car like yours. I gotta work. I gotta get the grades."

"So no matches at all?" Bobby said.

Carmelina paused. "Probably not."

"Well, I'll work on changing that."

Carmelina shook her head. "Let's just have fun now."

She grabbed Bobby by the front pockets of his jeans and pulled him close. Her eyes started at his forehead, moving to his nose and chin, then downward. She unbuttoned his jacket, lifted the bottom of his sweatshirt, and touched his stomach. She tugged at his jeans again, until her breasts pressed firmly against his chest.

"I do like you, Bobby."

"Yeah?"

Her head tilted slightly and she looked into his eyes. Bobby let Carmelina take things wherever she wanted. He gave up control and didn't care. Her lips floated toward him. He closed his eyes. Wet and warm, she kissed his left cheek, dragged her tongue down to the curve of his jaw, then whispered something in Portuguese.

"You're different than I thought you'd be," Bobby said.

"What'd ya think...," she said, kissing his neck, "I'd be like?"

"Serious..."

"I am at the store," Carmelina said. "That's what the rich white ladies want. Just 'cause I live here don't mean I can't act like them. I can when I wanna." Then she softened. "Besides ... that's work."

"And now?"

"This is play," she said. "
Beije-me.
"

She pressed her mouth against his, and they kissed. And held hands. And hugged. And found a secluded spot behind the swing set, where their hands wandered. There, against her feigned objections, Bobby unbuttoned Carmelina's blouse and lifted the bottom of her skirt....

Bobby opened his eyes. He heard his mother's Mercedes pull up the driveway. He tossed the comforter off, sat up, and scooted to the window.

He watched his mother step from the car, a mink coat draped over her shoulders, a Louis Vuitton valise tucked under an arm. She was an elegant woman, Bobby thought. An elegant woman who wore elegant clothes, drove an elegant car, and lived in an elegant house. She spent her days as one of the most successful real estate agents in town and attended all of the most important charity events in the area. Bobby admired his mother, her drive for success. Someday, he wanted to be as well-known in Short Hills as she was.

But she was changing. It had started at the end of the summer, perhaps earlier, though Bobby wasn't sure. Despite the familiar clothes, her hairstyle, the way she presented herself, she no longer moved around the house as if its queen. Instead she seemed indifferent, as if an occasional visitor.

She walked up the cobblestone pathway to the back door, glancing up at the house. Bobby leaned back from the window, then bolted from the bedroom, skipped down the stairs, and hit the foyer floor with a thud. When he reached the kitchen, he heard his mother fumbling for her keys. He opened the door.

"Oh, you scared me." She put her hand to her chest. "I didn't see any lights on."

"Sorry," Bobby said, giving her room to brush past him. She shrugged the mink coat off her shoulders and handed it to him, then unwrapped a silk scarf from around her neck.

"Did you put your workout clothes in the washer?"

"Not yet."

His mother was not happy. She looked at her watch.
"I don't have much time. I assume you're hungry. I'll put some food together." She opened the refrigerator.

"That's okay," Bobby said softly, walking into the foyer. He was hungry—starving, really—but it wasn't particularly bothering him.

"Christopher should be dropped off by the Browns' in a little while. Make sure he gets to bed early. I have an appointment at the Paper Mill. For a benefit in January. Your father will be home later," his mother said, then added, "He's at the tennis club, I think."

Inside the foyer closet, Bobby switched on a light and grabbed a hanger. Peering between the hinges of the open door into the kitchen, he said, "How come you don't?"

"Don't what?"

"Play tennis anymore," he said, "with Dad?"

His mother stopped for a moment, as if to consider his question.

But Bobby wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. He hung the fur beside the other coats, turned off the light, and closed the closet door. He walked into the kitchen. "Got an A-minus on a calc test today."

"That's nice," his mother said. She spooned leftover broccoli and a chicken leg onto a plate.

"Wrestling's going well."

His mother gave him a cursory smile.

And then it seemed they didn't have anything else to say to each other. Bobby leaned on the countertop, hoping his mother would say something more. Anything. But she didn't. So he fingered, idly, the china figurines lining the kitchen windowsill.

"Be careful with those," she said.

Bobby pulled his hand away. "Mrs. Jones asked after you again."

His mother smiled. "I haven't spoken to Charlotte in such a long time."

"She said that."

"We were supposed to have lunch a few weeks ago. Right around Thanksgiving. I guess I got busy, then she got busy..." She slid the plate into the microwave oven and pressed the settings. A soft whirring sound followed.

From the cupboard, Bobby pulled out a pewter baby cup engraved with his initials. It held four ounces, ideal to keep from drinking too much. He filled it with seltzer. The first cup went down quickly. So did the second. His limit.

His mother chopped celery and carrots on a wooden cutting board, then broke up a head of lettuce and tossed it all in a bowl. After a minute, the microwave bell sounded. She pulled out the dish. "Set a place at the table."

"That's okay," Bobby said. "I don't want anything."

"Did you eat already?"

"No."

His mother set the plate down hard on the countertop. "This is starting too soon," she said, her lips tight. "Every year you start earlier and earlier."

"What?"

"Your dieting."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Wrestlers don't diet, Ma. They cut weight. We all do it. It's simple. Practice. Run after practice. Don't eat. Run. Practice some more. We do it and do it, again and again."

"Don't be a wiseass, Bobby."

"I'm not."

"You can't just starve yourself."

"I've been doing this a long time."

"And didn't you get sick twice last year doing the same idiotic thing?"

"No."

"Oh, you didn't?"

"No," said Bobby. "It was something else."

"Something else," his mother said. She laughed dismissively and shook her head. "I rush home. Rush to put food on the table. All I ever do is rush."

"I didn't ask you to do anything."

"Oh, that's right, I forgot, you can handle everything."

"I can," Bobby said. "And I
do.
"

"Don't raise your voice to me," his mother said.

"I'm not raising my voice."

His mother's eyes narrowed. "Shut your mouth. Shut your goddamn mouth right now."

"I'm—"

A wooden spoon slammed against the countertop. "If I tell you to shut your mouth, young man, you'll goddamn do it." She waved the spoon wildly in the air. "You better start showing some respect. I'm not your little Puerto Rican—"

"Portuguese," Bobby snapped. "Carmelina's Portuguese."

His mother pointed the spoon. "I don't give a damn what she is," she said. "You watch yourself with her. And understand this, young man. I'm not a slave here. I work all day and have to come home to this house and make food for you and your brother and your father. And you can't even do a simple thing like put clothes in the washing machine and turn it on. I can't do everything in this house, do you understand that?"

"You're hardly ever here," Bobby said.

"Excuse me?"

His anger flared. "Why aren't you—" But he held back.

"What?" his mother said.

And his anger flared more. "Why aren't you around more like—"

"Like what?" she baited him.

Then his anger exploded. "Like a mother's supposed to be."

In the moment between when the last word left his lips and when his mother wilted, Bobby's throat squeezed and he was suddenly dizzy. A wound was torn open.

His mother sighed. Deeply. Suddenly she looked exhausted. But not from working too many hours or sleeping too few; from something else. Bobby had seen it before, in the eyes of opponents who knew, even before they stepped out on the mat, that they had lost. The look of resignation.

"Ma..."

She raised a hand. "I need to go in my bedroom for a while," she said, rubbing her eyes. "It's been a long..." She didn't finish. Instead, she put down the spoon and walked past him, out of the kitchen, into the foyer, and silently toward her bedroom door.

"Ma, can we talk?"

"There's no reason to say any more," she said. "Is there, Bobby?"

He watched his mother walk into her bedroom and close the door. She didn't slam it, just a simple quiet click of the lock. Bobby stood alone in the kitchen. A swirl of steam rose from the chicken and broccoli, then dissipated. He listened. The house was empty and silent. And lonely.

It was well past ten o'clock. Textbooks, spiral notebooks, and pencils covered the bedspread. Propped up on an elbow, Ivan looked on absently as Shelley explained an algebra equation. "Understand?" she said, tapping the page with her finger.

"Yeah, sure," Ivan said.

"You're not into this."

"I am."

Shelley smiled. "No, you're not. Try to listen for a few minutes," she gently pleaded. "I can't help you otherwise."

Her hand brushed his. She sometimes did that. She'd touch his arm, or hand, or shoulder. Sometimes she'd hug him. Maybe it meant something; maybe it didn't. Ivan wasn't sure. But he always wanted that hug to last for hours, not moments, the way her smile stayed in his mind long after she went home.

"I
know
you understand this," she said.

"I'm trying..."

Ivan thought he could finish the problem, probably even get it right. Why, though? Little math was needed on a wrestling mat. Takedowns and reversals were two points; escapes, one; back points, two or three. Short of a pin, the wrestler with the most points won. Pretty simple. More importantly, if Shelley thought he didn't need the help, she might not stay as long. He was
not
going to take that chance.

"I'm just a little tired," he said.

"Me, too."

Shelley turned to her side and reached her arms above her head, which pulled the bottom of her shirt from the waist of her jeans. Ivan couldn't help but stare at her slender stomach. It had been a wonderful two hours laying beside Shelley, following the curves of her ears, the slope of her neck, breathing in her perfumed scent whenever she'd sweep her hair off the pages or turn quickly to say something.

"You're lucky," she said. "My parents watch over me all the time. Every project, every paper. Have to do my homework perfectly, have to get the perfect grades. You'd think they'd trust me." She looked at him. "Let's take a break."

She closed the textbooks and notebooks, pushed them into a pile, then jumped to her feet. "Your papa won't be home for a while, right?"

"Yeah."

"Working?"

"Yeah."

"Your papa's a nice man," Shelley said. "My dad says that about him all the time..."

Ivan sat up. "And?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"I don't know. It's just that I worry about him," Shelley said. "And I worry about you."

"Worry?" Ivan said. "Don't worry about me."

"But I do."

"Don't," he said, irritated for reasons he didn't quite understand. He suddenly felt like lifting weights, or running, or beating the hell out of some guy on a mat.

"I just want everything in the world to work out for you, Ivan," Shelley said. "Always have. Ever since we were kids. Even more since your mother..."

"Died," Ivan finished.

"Yes," Shelley said. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

Ivan said nothing.