Punk Like Me (11 page)

But, as it turned out, there was and is a completely different way of looking at the whole “shared drinks” issue.

I stared at Kerry for a moment, visually inspected the bottle with its red and white wave, looked back at Kerry, and took the plastic into my hands. As I angled my head back and tossed some of the sweet bubbly brown stuff down, I eased the mental squick factor down a few notches by telling myself that even though the sugar in the soda was enough to keep a continent-sized colony of germies very fat and happy, the whatever-it-is acid in the soda itself could peel paint off a car, so it would probably kill all of those microcrawlers. Probably. I swallowed and handed the drink back, and we stared at each other for several long seconds.

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PUNK LIKE ME

“You know, Nina, we’re sort of blood sisters now,” Kerry informed me with a small grin.

I raised a brow in her direction. “Oh, really?” I drawled, playing along.

“Yeah, ’cuz now, you know, we’ve, like, shared bodily ß uids,” and she dangled the bottle in front of me, swirling the Þ zzy liquid.

“Actually, this bottle could be said to represent the chemical equivalent of many different types of human interaction, you know. It’s a concrete metaphor.”

I eyed the bottle cynically, then realized what had been tickling the back of my brain. “You know what you have in your hands, Kerry?” I asked her, and reached to take it from her, studied it critically, then held it up for her inspection. “This is no longer soda. This, if we ignore the actual ratios of soda to saliva and enzymes and all that, this has an actual chemical equivalent,” and I waved the ratio-challenged item. “This is what you get when you swap spit after drinking soda,” I continued. “This,” and I swirled it a little more, “is a kiss!” I concluded with a triumphant smile.

“Geez, thanks for putting it that way,” Kerry responded sarcastically.

“Now pass that damn kiss over here because the kraut is really sour, this mustard is really spicy hot, and,” she scooted closer to me, “I’m really,” she dropped her voice, “really,” and she pushed her face bare inches from mine, “thirsty,” she growled, and wrapped her hands around mine where they still held the bottle over my head. She held on to my eyes with hers a moment; then my gaze dropped to her lips with the soft half smile on them and the line that marked the challenging thrust of her jaw, and Þ nally back up to the bottle in my hands.

“Well now, far be it for me to refuse you,” I murmured and ran my tongue along the edge of my teeth, “anything.” I released my grip.

Kerry fumbled a bit, and as I looked down into her face again, I realized she’d focused on my mouth. Before that strange tension could develop between us again, I nudged her with my shoulder, almost knocking her over.

She recovered quickly enough, gave me one of her evil grins, and, making a game out of it, very slowly and deliberately prepared to drink.

“So, if I drink this,” she stated, with the rim poised to drink, “now, after you have,” and she rolled the bottle against the edge of her mouth,

“you’re saying it would be chemically similar to kissing you?” and she brought the rim to her lip.

• 75 •

I stared, then stared some more as she licked her lips, then smiled, startling me into recovering myself. “Oh, yeah,” I stuttered.

“Chemically, maybe, in a purely focused sort of technical sense, but,” and I gave her a lazy grin of my own, “mechanically, now, that’s a whole ’nother story.”

“Well then,” she smiled back, “bottoms up, baby!” She licked the rim and proceeded to chug half the soda down.

Wow. I couldn’t chug soda like that—it would come out my nose—so I watched in wide-eyed amazement, truly impressed.

“Whew!” She pulled the bottle away and made big gestures of wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “That was amazing. Your turn,” and she shoved the poor misused plastic in my face.

Well, hey, no problem. I’m always up for a challenge. Grinning wickedly back, I took it from her, circled the rim with my tongue, and started to chug. I was watching Kerry watch me out of the corner of my eye, when all of a sudden, she clapped her hands over her face, her eyes watered, and she began to cough and splutter—the carbon gas was making the return trip back through her sinuses.

I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh before I could even stop drinking long enough to swallow, and I began to choke. Cough. Splutter. Urgh.

“Oh my God, Nina!” Kerff. “You okay?”

Cough. Wheeze. Distance spit.

“Oh shit,” kerff, spit, “shit!” And she started to pound my back.

Slap, cough, hooie, spit. I tried to reach into a pocket for a napkin or a tissue for me and for her, but I wasn’t doing too well between the slapping, the laughing, and the choking. “Ha, ha, gurf!” I held a napkin out.

“Shit—Nina!” She just kept slapping my back.

“Erruf, ’keg?” I spluttered and, Þ nally, cleared my throat. “Enough.

I’m okay, really. Here,” and I Þ nally handed her a napkin, “use this.” Soda must have gotten into her hair, and she must have stuck her head against my back or something, because it was sticking out at odd angles, and not the ones she’d chosen, either. I’m sure I didn’t look much better.

Our faces red from choking and laughing, our hair soda-sprayed and reconÞ gured, and noses burning from the acid, we sat and stared at each other. Then, of course, we burst out laughing again.

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PUNK LIKE ME

“Dude, you should have seen your face!”

“No way, man, how about you making like a fountain? I’m surprised no one threw coins at us,” she teased in return.

“Yah, that’s ’cuz you were in the way, acting like a rabid squirrel!” I laughed back. “I think the ß owers are all crushed now. We should smell nice at least.”

“Just shut up,” she ordered, exasperated, “just shut up, sit with me, and let’s sleep till we get there,” and she readjusted herself on the bench and patted the space next to her.

I laughed quietly to myself this time. “Yeah, sure, Maggie, sure,” and that’s exactly what I did—lean against her, stretch my legs out on the bench, and fall asleep, very comfortably, too, I might add. Girls are nice that way.

We arrived back on “the Rock,” as we sometimes called the borough, without further incident, and I grabbed my bag, what remained of the bottle of soda, and what little was left of my dignity, not that I really cared too much one way or another, and got ready to get off the boat.

“Wait a second!” Kerry called out. “I’ve got to do something!” And quick as a wink, she pulled out a small penknife, traced out a valentine, and cut “Hopey ’n’ Maggie” and “11/16” under it into the wooden bench. “There,” she said, “what do you think?”

“Beautiful.” I smiled and held out my hand for the penknife, which Kerry handed over. I added “4-E” and then next to it traced out the symbol for “New York—Hard Core.”

“Now that’s perfect!” Kerry said, and rubbed my shoulder. I closed and returned her penknife, and we walked off the boat.

Oh, and by the way, I’m not condoning random acts of vandalism, but if you’re ever downstairs on one of the really old boats, somewhere near the front, you can still Þ nd the “New York—Hard Core” symbol I traced and, faintly, to the left of it, “11/16.” We silently walked over to the train station that would take us back home, paid our fare, and found ourselves a couple of seats. We didn’t actually sit next to each other this time. We sat in the L-shaped seats instead, so we could look at each other and talk without yelling across the car, but not be too close. It was a little weird, because I could tell we both wanted to be near each other, but we also needed just that

• 77 •

tiny bit of space.

“Got any more of that kiss left?” Kerry asked me about three-quarters of the way into our trip, getting me out of the blank daze I had been in as I stared at the scenery passing by.

“Yeah, sure.” I straightened myself up and dug into my bag.

“Here,” and I uncapped it and passed over the magic bottle.

She took a quick swig and held her hand out for the cap. “You’ve been holding it for a while, I’ll carry it,” she offered, and I passed it over. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

“Don’t mention it.” I was just as quiet.

Silence reigned for the next few stops until the train pulled into good old sleepy Eltingville, and we walked down the stairs from the platform to the sidewalk.

“Got any more of that kiss?”

She smiled up at me. “Yeah, I’ve got some just for you,” and she took the soda from her bag and passed it to me.

I smiled vaguely at the streetlight on the corner and took a sip, then passed it back, and that’s how we walked back to my house, quietly sipping and passing that bottle back and forth until we got there.

We stood in front of my door for a minute. Does it seem like a lot of things happen at that door, or is it just me?

“I should go home, I think,” Kerry told me uncertainly, biting her lip, and as we looked at each other, that pressure between us started to build, more quickly and heavily than it had before. I reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.

“No, it’s early. Come on in, hang out with me a bit, and I’ll walk you home,” and I lightly tugged her toward me. Not releasing her, I pushed open the door to my parents’ home and walked in, Kerry faintly asking, “Are you sure?” behind me.

“Yeah, of course.” I turned my head to reassure her. “It’s okay. Hi, Mom!” I called into the house and made my way to the kitchen, taking Kerry’s leather coat from her while she held her disheveled ß owers, taking mine out of my pocket, shedding my coat as well as Kerry’s onto the sofa as we passed, with Kerry trailing behind me.

Ringo, the family dog, came over to greet us enthusiastically, and I rubbed his head as I walked.

My mom was downstairs in the kitchen by herself, making a cup of coffee. “Nina!” she exclaimed, and gave me a hug and a kiss, which I returned. “Hi, Kerry,” she greeted my friend. My mom put her arm

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PUNK LIKE ME

around my shoulder and held me in a loose hug. “You’re home a little early. You girls have a good time? Those are very pretty,” she added, looking at the ß owers, then us, with a pleased and expectant look on her face.

Kerry and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. My mom smiled indulgently at us, then let me go, pulled out two plates from a cabinet, and handed them to me. Kerry and I placed our ß owers on the counter.

“Dinner’s on the stove. Why don’t you serve the two of you and come sit at the table? Everyone ate already. Daddy’s upstairs, he’s not feeling well. Nanny’s watching TV with him, and Nicky’s friend’s mother is bringing him home now. You can sit with me and tell me all about it.” And she Þ nished Þ xing her coffee and made her way to the table.

I dished out the food, sautéed chicken in some great sauce, which is my mother’s own invention, and rice, and carried both plates to the table. We sat down and ate and gave my mom the edited version of the day’s events, skipping Ronnie Bouncer Boy’s commentary, the near mugging, and the chemical experiments.

“I’m sorry you guys didn’t get to see Dayglo Contortions and Soldiers In Debt,” my mom sympathized as we came to the end of our escapades. “And that was so very irresponsible of Heebie Geebies, not to mention disappointing. The two of you should do something else next Sunday to make up for it,” she added.

I looked at my mom with gratitude and surprise. “Thanks!”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” She smiled at me. “So what are you doing now?”

“Um, just gonna go outside and have a smoke, and then I’ll walk Kerry home. Okay, Mom?” I got up with my empty plate, and Kerry grabbed hers as well.

“That’s Þ ne, sweetheart,” and Mom got up from the table herself, taking her coffee with her. “I’m going upstairs to sit with Daddy and Nanny.” She walked to the stairs. “Tell Nicky to walk Ringo when he gets home?” she asked, pausing at the Þ rst step to see my response.

“Okay.” I nodded in agreement. “No problem.” Well, you’re probably wondering why parents that were so strict with a curfew would let their kid smoke. It’s pretty simple, actually. When I was about twelve, a neighbor caught me and a friend “experimenting” with some of her mom’s cigarettes and, of course, told my parents.

• 79 •

After the required lecture, my parents told me that if I really wanted to smoke, I’d be allowed to when I was sixteen—but no sneaking, and not before. So, I kept my part of the bargain—no butts and no sneaking—

and well, now I was sixteen, so I was allowed. Easy, right?

Kerry and I dropped our plates off into the kitchen sink, then I slid open the glass doors to the yard, and we stepped outside. We could have sat on the porch, but there was a bench along the side of the house that received most of the sun in the day and was the quietest, darkest, and, most importantly, least observable spot in the yard. Of course we sat there.

I pulled out my cigarette, lit it, and sat back to inhale with a contented sigh, sprawling my limbs about in my usual fashion, legs stretched in front and arms across the back.

Kerry lit her own and settled in next to me, and we smoked in contented silence for a while.

“Hey,” Kerry broke into the quiet, “give me your cigarette.” Kerry twisted to face me and neatly took it from my mouth.

I sat up. “Dude?”

“Mine tasted funny,” she said, waving the offending cancer stick in the air. “I wanted to see if yours was better.” An idea hit me, similar to the Coke bottle. “Oh yeah? Pass that over here,” I told her and took it from her hand. We were now both sitting sidewise and facing one another.

“Okay, Nina,” Kerry said. “We know for sure that neither one of us will die exchanging lip cells, either,” and she looked at me archly.

Caught, I shrugged and grinned. “Okay, so we’ve established that the body is covered with skin, and we’re always touching. We’ve technically already swapped spit, and now we’ve exchanged lip cells.

How hard can this be to do?”

“Since we’ve already technically done it, you mean,” she drawled out, “except without the doing-it part?”