Brooklyn Story Read Free Page B

slip into my schoolbag. After scowling at my mother, who was standing outside his store, Mr. Conti let me go. He had left it up to Father Rinaldi to chastise me, and my humiliation was soon revisited when the good priest mentioned my sin during our next impromptu chat in his church.
    As Janice and I ambled along the crowded sidewalk, I touched the Blessed Mother pendant ever-present around my neck and thought some more about my mother. Mom never practiced her adopted Catholic faith, and never sent me for formal religious instruction, but she had given the pendant to me when I was six and always made references to Jesus and the importance of faith in Him, especially his Mother. She said even when she’s not around anymore, I will always have a mother. Whether she truly believed or was just rebelling against my Jewish grandmother, I took it to heart from that young age.
    â€œLet’s grab a bite at Sally’s,” Janice said as she took my hand and led me across the avenue to the local coffee shop. A Greek establishment that was accepted in an Italian neighborhood because of its specialty, Sally’s offered fountain items and served the finest coffee, feta cheese salads, hummus with pita,and other Greek selections, and the best fried chicken sandwich for miles around.
    We squeezed past diners exiting the narrow restaurant and headed for the row of booths beyond a line of stainless steel counter stools with red leather cushions where customers faced glass displays showcasing donuts, pies, and Greek pastries. Janice and I giggled as we always did when our heels clicked on the worn black and white ceramic tiles, and then we slipped into a booth across from each other on leather that matched the stools.
    Janice grabbed two menus that were propped up by the condiments and handed one to me. “Order whatever you want,” she said as she started to scan the offerings that made my mouth water. “My treat.” Janice almost always paid the way no matter what we did, and she never made me feel embarrassed whenever she did so. But I always squirmed at such times.
    â€œI have some money, Jan,” I said.
    â€œNo ya don’t,” she said. She was right, of course. Any time I had three dollars in my pocket—which wasn’t often—I felt rich.
    â€œI will,” I replied, “as soon as I turn sixteen and get that job in the bookstore.”
    â€œThen you’ll be saving for college,” Janice said, and looked up. “You can pick up the tab at those fancy places in Manhattan you’ll be taking me to when you’re a big shot.” There was never any doubt in her words when she referred to the dream that I had always shared with her.
    â€œI’ll just have a Coke and some fries,” I said.
    â€œNonsense,” Janice said, and she opened my menu. “I’m starved, and I’m not goin’ to eat alone.” I knew that there would be no point arguing with my best friend once she had made up her mind. And what I really wanted, anyway, was some of Sally’s moussaka. “Besides,” Janice added, “we have a lot to talk about.”
    â€œThat guy you mentioned?”
    â€œI had to check it out first with Richie. He’s okay with it and Tony’s available.”
    I repeated the lie that had escaped my lips when Janice first hinted at an introduction a few weeks before. “I already told you I wasn’t interested.”
    â€œYour mouth says no but your eyes and budding breasts say something else,” Janice said with a knowing grin. There was no point arguing with her about that, either. “But let’s order first. Then we’ll discuss your raging hormones and that Italian passion that’s just screamin’ to get out.”
    After Grandma, Janice knew me best. Despite my yearning to leave Brooklyn, I had the other, insistent yearnings that any young girl had. And I knew I would have to live in Bensonhurst for some