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  Lonnie thought it over, then said, “In other words, the guy’s a phony.”

  “No, I think he means it. I think he’s just likable.”

  “No one’s that likable. Trust me, he only wants you to think he’s likable.”

  “Then he’s doing a good job,” I said, “because I do.”

  “That doesn’t prove a thing. You’re way too trusting.”

  There was no point in arguing with him. He hadn’t even met the guy.

  “So are you going to come or not?”

  “Sure, I’ll come. But I’m keeping a close eye on this Eduardo creep.”

  Just as he said that, Quentin showed up. That ended the conversation.

  Saturday afternoon rolled around, and Lonnie and I caught the Bayside bus to Francis Lewis Boulevard. It was definitely warm enough for a barbecue. As a matter of fact, it was ridiculously hot, like eighty-five degrees. It felt as if a July day had wandered into the first week of April.

  The bus ride was full of rattles and bumps. It set my nerves on edge, but not as much as Lonnie did. He had on a white shirt and dark blue tie. I’d seen him in ties before, at school assemblies and at his bar mitzvah, but I’d never seen him like that. The knot was so tight that it looked like his head was going to explode. Plus, it was making him sweat. You could see beads of sweat on his forehead and the tip of his nose. He also had on blue dress pants with a straight crease and a thick black belt, which was also about two notches too tight. He looked about as stiff and uncomfortable as a guy could get.

  It made me feel kind of weird, how dressed up he was, because I had on blue jeans and a T-shirt. But what could I do? I couldn’t go home and change at that point.

  I tried to talk to him during the bus ride, just casual talk about nothing, but he kept waving me off and staring out the window. It was like he was about to die, like the Grim Reaper was hanging around outside the bus window, showing Lonnie his life frame by frame, showing him where he’d gone wrong. It takes a lot to spook Lonnie, but he was as spooked as I’d ever seen him.

  Just to snap him out of it, I elbowed him in the side.

  He turned to me with a sad look in his eyes. “What?”

  “It’s not a big deal.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “It’s just a Saturday afternoon.”

  He looked at me in a hopeful way. “Am I making too big a deal out of it?”

  “By a lot,” I said.

  “Because it feels like I am.”

  “You are. Trust me.”

  “But what if it is a big deal?”

  “How could it be a big deal?”

  “What if Jillian is the girl I wind up marrying?”

  “You’re thirteen years old! For crying out loud!”

  “But—”

  “Lonnie, you’re not marrying Jillian—”

  “But how do you know that for sure?”

  “You’re not marrying her today. So relax.”

  He looked at me in a curious way, as if what I’d said was real deep and he was struggling to get his mind around it. But it was just common sense. If his brain was right, Lonnie would’ve been the first to realize that. Which goes to show how love messes up your brain. It worms itself in there, inside your brain, and then there’s a short circuit. I’m no expert on the subject. I’m just going by Howie and Lonnie. Love makes great guys into idiots.

  He went back to staring out the bus window, but after another minute he turned to me and said, “So you don’t think that there’s something fishy going on with this Eduardo?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I said that, but I had no idea what was going on between the two of them. Except I wasn’t going to tell Lonnie that and make him even more crazy. The truth is, right then, I was thinking that maybe bringing Lonnie along to Jillian’s house wasn’t such a good idea. But I figured putting him and her together in one room was a kill or cure deal. Either he would talk to her and figure out she wasn’t interested, or he would talk to her and the two of them would hit it off. Whichever way it went, I’d be off the hook. Then I would just have Eduardo to worry about.

  Jillian’s house is pretty snazzy. It puts the houses on Thirty-Fourth Avenue to shame. Not that Thirty-Fourth Avenue isn’t nice. But it’s got mostly six-story apartment buildings and two-family houses, with only a few stand-alones mixed in. But none of them were like Jillian’s house. It looked like a gingerbread house, with a tall pointed brown roof over the front door and stone walls instead of brick. It just looked real solid, like a tornado could’ve hit it straight on and not made a dent in the thing.

  As soon as we turned up the path to the front door, Eduardo and Jillian stepped outside to meet us.

  “¡Amigos!” Eduardo called.

  “What did I tell you?” I muttered, just loud enough for Lonnie to hear.

  Except Lonnie seemed like he didn’t hear a word I’d said. I don’t think he even noticed Eduardo. He was too focused on Jillian. I couldn’t blame him, to be honest. She had on a white T-shirt and white shorts, and her dark brown hair was flowing out behind her, fluttering in the breeze. Plus, she was smiling, so the sunlight was shining on her white teeth. She looked like a model in a magazine.

  She took another couple of steps forward, nothing dramatic, but the sight of her froze Lonnie in his tracks. It was like he hit an invisible wall. I could hear the air go out of him. I glanced over at him, and he was behind me. It was just sad. But slightly comical at the same time. I didn’t know whether to stop or to keep walking. Eduardo made the decision for me. He jogged down the rest of the path, past Jillian, and put out his hand. For once, I was glad to shake it.

  “Who is your friend, Julian?” he said in a loud voice.

  “That’s Lonnie.”

  He let go of my hand and then walked up to Lonnie with his hand out. The sight of the two of them shaking hands came as a shock. It shouldn’t have, I suppose, but it did. The way Eduardo towered over Lonnie—mind you, Lonnie’s a pretty tall guy himself—made the fact that Eduardo was only in fifth grade even more unbelievable. It was just unfair. That’s the only word for it. Why should I have to run against a guy that size? His legs were like twice as long as mine. If I were that tall, I’d be running against giraffes. That’s how fast I would be.

  It just wasn’t fair.

  Shaking hands with Eduardo seemed to snap Lonnie out of the trance he was in, maybe because looking up at Eduardo forced him to take his eyes off of Jillian, or maybe because he hated Eduardo from that first moment. It probably wasn’t obvious to Eduardo or Jillian. But if you knew Lonnie, you could see the hatred wash across his face. The way his eyes narrowed, the way his head crooked to the left, the way he was smiling at Eduardo, it was poisonous.

  “Hi, Lonnie,” Jillian called, but she didn’t step forward.

  Lonnie gave her a quick wave. That was it. Just a wave.

  “My dad’s got the grill going in the backyard,” she said, then waved us forward. “C’mon!”

  Instead of going back into the house, she cut across the front lawn. She walked over to a high wooden fence on the left, between the house and the driveway, slipped a metal latch, and pulled open the gate. Eduardo, Lonnie, and I watched her. Then Eduardo trotted through the gate after her. Lonnie’s eyes met mine for a split second, as if he had a question for me, but I had no idea what the question was, let alone the answer. I had no idea what to do except follow Eduardo and Jillian around the house and into the backyard.

  The first thing we saw in the backyard was a swimming pool. It wasn’t a big one, maybe twenty-five feet by ten feet, but the surface of the water was glistening in the sun. Mr. Rifkin was standing in front of a round grill at the near end of the pool, six feet from the edge of the water. He was tall and thin, with a long forehead shaped like a shoehorn and black frizzy hair. You know how sometimes you can tell about a person the second you lay eyes on him? Jillian’s dad was a goofball. I don’t know how else to describe him. He had on white socks and green thong
sandals. He also had on a long Hawaiian shirt and green Bermuda shorts, plus an apron that said MASTER GRILLER.

  I just knew, if I glanced back at Lonnie, the two of us were going to crack up, so I kept my eyes forward.

  Down at the far end of the pool, on a lounge chair, was Jillian’s mom. She was lying on her stomach, sunbathing. She was as close to naked as I’ve ever seen a grown-up. Her back was covered with suntan oil. She was just marinating in the stuff, and she had on a pink bikini, and the top of it wasn’t even tied. The pink strings dangled off her shoulders. When I saw what she looked like, and then I thought about what the moms on Thirty-Fourth Avenue looked like, there was no comparison. I mean, Mrs. Rifkin looked like a movie star, like Raquel Welch or Elizabeth Taylor. Her skin was just so smooth. I don’t know if she realized Jillian’s guests had come into the backyard. She sure didn’t make a move to say hello. That, I would have noticed.

  I tried not to stare at Mrs. Rifkin, or at Mr. Rifkin, or at the pool, or at Jillian or Eduardo. There was nothing in that entire backyard that I could focus my eyes on that didn’t make me feel uncomfortable.

  Then I heard Jillian call to her father, “Dad, company!”

  That made him look up from the grill. He noticed Lonnie and me, and he waved with the metal spatula still in his hand. “Hi there, boys! Welcome to la casa Rifkin!” He tried trilling the letter r at the start of “Rifkin,” but it sounded more like he was clearing his throat. The grin on his face was pure goofball. “Either of you young guns bring a suit?”

  For a second, I didn’t know what he meant. Then I realized he was talking about a bathing suit. I shook my head.

  “Too bad,” he said. “Sweet day for a swim.”

  He might have been right, but how were we supposed to know Jillian had a pool at her house? She’d never mentioned it, and neither had Eduardo. Besides, I wasn’t going near that pool with Mrs. Rifkin lying there greased up and pretty much naked. She still hadn’t moved a muscle since we came through the gate. I even thought she might be deaf, given how loud her husband’s voice was when he said hello. It seemed strange that she didn’t at least wave at us. That was the natural thing to do. It seemed kind of rude, to be honest.

  Just then, Eduardo came up behind me and grabbed my hand. I don’t think I’d ever had a guy grab my hand before—except maybe my dad, when I was a kid, and he was about to walk me across the street.

  “Come, Julian,” he said, “I will show you where I live.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “What about Lonnie?”

  But Lonnie shook his head. “No, you guys go ahead.”

  “Are you going to be all right?” I asked.

  That made Lonnie laugh. “You think an alligator’s going to get me?”

  “Well, no—”

  “You go right ahead, Julian.” The way he said my name sounded just like the way Eduardo said it. Even Eduardo cracked up at how Lonnie could imitate his voice so fast.

  If I’d let him, I think Eduardo might have led me by the hand the entire way down to the cellar. But after a couple of steps I slowed up, and he let go. It just didn’t feel right, holding a guy’s hand … it felt kind of girlish. But I followed him down the stairs and into the cellar. The way he talked up the place, I expected the Taj Mahal. It turned out to be just the corner of a wood-paneled cellar with a beat-up convertible couch, a wicker trunk, a dented metal folding chair, and a rickety wooden desk that doubled as a nightstand. The light was bad. There was only a sliver of sunlight coming through a ground-level window the size of a shoe box and a bare lightbulb that hung from the ceiling with a chain to turn it on and off. As for stuff, he had a soccer ball and a transistor radio shaped like a miniature soccer ball. As far as I could tell, that was it.

  I walked back and forth, taking in the place. Meanwhile, he sat on the edge of the convertible couch and waited for my reaction. I could tell he was real interested. He wanted me to like it.

  “It’s pretty nice,” I said. “But doesn’t it get hot down here?”

  “Señor Rifkin says he will put in a fan during the summer.”

  “What about until then?”

  “In my country, it is very warm,” he said. “I’m used to it.”

  “You’re from Guatemala, right?”

  He smiled at me. “Sí, señor.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I met Jillian’s father two years ago. He liked me very much, and he said for me to come to America.”

  “What do you mean, he ‘said’ for you to come to America?”

  “He did arrangements for me. It was very difficult, I think.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “He came to the orphanage.”

  “You lived in an orphanage?”

  “Sí, señor,” he said.

  “What happened to your parents?”

  The question caught him off guard. He didn’t answer for several seconds, then said, “It is all right that you ask, Julian. But that I cannot talk about.”

  “Why not?”

  “It hurts me,” he said. “It hurts my heart.”

  What came next caught me off guard. Tears started rolling out of the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t bawling, exactly. He wasn’t shaking or sobbing the way you do when you’re bawling. He had a kind of half smile. But tears were rolling down his cheeks in two thin streams. I thought about the hundreds of times my dad or mom had lectured me on how good I had it, on how much I took for granted … and I’d just shrugged them off. But here was living proof. Whatever had happened to Eduardo back in Guatemala, whatever had happened to his parents, it must’ve been real bad. He must’ve seen real bad stuff. I felt pretty low right then. I mean, what difference did it make if the guy was faster than I was? Maybe he deserved a break. Maybe he needed a break.

  He wiped his eyes with his palms. “I’m sorry, Julian.”

  “No, it’s my fault for being nosy—”

  “You could not know.”

  “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

  “Let’s talk of happier things.”

  “Like what?” I said.

  His smile got sly. “I think you like Jillian very much.”

  “What?”

  “It is all right,” he said. “I will not tell her.”

  “You can tell her whatever you want—”

  “You should ask her to come to the movies with you.”

  “But I—”

  “It will be very nice.” He nodded at me, then clammed up. It was like the period at the end of a sentence. He leaned back on the couch and crossed his legs. He’d said his piece.

  “Eduardo,” I said, “I’m not going to ask Jillian to go to the movies with me.”

  “Don’t you think she’s very pretty?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I do or I don’t.”

  “I don’t understand, Julian. Didn’t you write a letter to her?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Well, yes. But it wasn’t my letter.”

  “You took someone else’s letter?”

  “I wrote it. But it’s not from me.”

  “Ah, you wrote the letter for someone else.”

  “Please don’t tell her.”

  “But she thinks you wrote it.”

  I sighed. “Are you sure?”

  “Sí, señor,” he answered.

  “But I told her—”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t.”

  He shook his head, which annoyed me.

  “No, wait,” I said. “I do know why I did it.”

  “Why?”

  “The same reason you stuck up for Paulo and Hector at Memorial Field.”

  “But the older boys … Paulo and Hector could not defend themselves.”

  “Well, maybe the person I wrote the letter for couldn’t write it himself.”

  “Julian, a woman’s heart is very delicate.”

  “It’s a le
tter. Words on a page. Why is it such a big deal?”

  “It’s more than words on a page,” he said. “It is feelings. It is poetry. It is truth. La verdad. Do you understand?”

  “For God’s sake, Eduardo! Why are you blowing it out of proportion?”

  “Because love is love.”

  “How do you know so much about it? How old are you?”

  “I am fourteen years old, Julian.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in junior high school?”

  “Yes, but I did not speak English very well when Señor Rifkin brought me to America. Now I speak it very well. Very well. I get very good grades. I help Paulo and Hector very much.”

  “But don’t you feel weird about it—I mean, being so much older than the rest of your class?”

  “It is where I belong,” he said. “I do not feel weird about it.”

  “But don’t you think it’s unfair?”

  “Unfair how?”

  “Look at how big you are,” I said. “Plus, you’re smart. You should be in eighth grade.”

  “It would be very difficult, I think—”

  “Then at least seventh.”

  “Thank you, Julian, for thinking that I am so smart. But I think I am where I belong.”

  “You’re welcome.” I sighed.

  “But you do not love Jillian?”

  “I like Jillian—”

  “Perhaps you love her a little?”

  “No!”

  “Ah.”

  He ran his right hand across his chin and looked off to the left, deep in thought. I knew I’d made a real mess of things, even if I hadn’t meant to. But what could I do? I couldn’t unwrite the letter. I felt bad. But also, in a weird way, I felt good. I’d written a love letter, and it had worked—maybe not how it was meant to work, but it had worked. It was like an art project that you thought up and did right. Even if it turned out slightly off, you could still step back and admire the result: the prettiest girl in the entire sixth grade liked me.

  But then I remembered Lonnie, how only an hour ago he was talking about marrying Jillian, and now I had to break the news to him that the letter had backfired. I thought about how miserable he was going to be, and I felt low again. Because it wasn’t an art project. It was Lonnie’s feelings.

  “Leave it to me, Julian,” Eduardo said suddenly.