It was known as the Baby Bronx. Bridgeport, CT. Where Latin Muslim was from. We journeyed there together after our night of painful passion and magic-marker love notes.
If it was the baby, then Mama Bronx must've been a hellified gangsta wench.
As we walked from the train station, I was struck by how bleak and desolate and concrete and cold everything looked. But he'd seen my world, and now it was my turn to see his.
His world was the projects. But not just any projects. Projects that were either aptly or unfortunately named the Father Panic projects.
We passed a light-blue Crown Victoria sedan that I'd never have even noticed. Latin Muslim pointed it out to me with a knowing smirk: "Undercover cop."
The Father Panic projects looked and felt like the third world. Tiny self-contained houses stranded in the middle of "yards" that were all concrete, no grass. Mean, mangy German shepherds. And young men like Latin Muslim, with prison records and no jobs.
His mother's house was neat and clean. She was a nurse, and she was at work.
His brother was home. And his brother was nothing like Latin Muslim. He was thin, while Latin Muslim was stocky. He was quiet and studious, while Latin Muslim was cocky. He seemed like a good guy, on the straight and narrow, and Latin Muslim was anything but.
The brother watched warily and with barely disguised disbelief as Latin Muslim showed me off and bragged about being on the Yale campus. I could tell his brother was wondering what a nice girl like me was doing with a knucklehead like Latin Muslim, and his eyes seemed to be warning me that I was making a big mistake.
Our small talk didn't last long.
Latin Muslim led me to a bedroom with a twin bed and blue-and-white flowered sheets.
Before I knew it, he was on top of me, I felt a sharp pain, and that was it.
There was blood on the sheets.
I was officially no longer a virgin.
There were no tender feelings of love and togetherness. Just the cold, hard reality of my blood on the sheets, and the icky realization that Latin Muslim and I were not alone. A dead roach was also sharing our bed, a few inches away from my head.
I was too polite to mention the roach, and there was no time for pillow talk anyway.
"You'd better get out before my mom gets home."
I felt like I'd been had, and not merely in the Biblical way. Like maybe he'd been playing a game just to get my virginity, and now that he had it, I didn't matter anymore.
We were supposed to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas together the following week, and of course, he didn't call and didn't show.
1 comment:
wow. :( it's a pity someone like that had to be your first. i sometimes wonder what is it about being young that we never see the signs.
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