“Me?” I asked. I shook my head.
“I’m Chris,” he said.
“I’m Aviva,” I said.
“Aviva,” he said. “That’s pretty.” He had perfect white teeth and blond hair that was longer in the front than in the back. He almost glowed in the sunlight. “Is this your first year?”
I nodded.
“I’m a junior,” he said, sitting down on the bench next to me. “It’s a pretty cool place. What hall do you live in?”
I didn’t remember the name. In fact, I hadn’t been entirely clear there was an official name for the building where your father had a room. So I told the truth.
“I do not go to school here. I am just staying for a while with my boyfriend.”
“Your boyfriend,” he said, drawing out the word. “And where is he now?”
“In class,” I said.
“He just leaves you alone all day?” He leaned toward me and I caught a faint whiff of his sweat. But it didn’t make me want to lean back-it made me want to lean closer. “If I were your boyfriend I wouldn’t leave you alone for other guys to come hit on.”
“If you were my boyfriend?” I said, dumbly. He was so forward. I remember I was shocked, although I hated myself for it. It was very important to me that other people saw me as brave. I’d escaped Brooklyn, hadn’t I? But bravery is no substitute for experience, and at that point I could count on two hands the conversations I’d had with boys I wasn’t related to. Your father and I started talking because we were both in the religion aisle of the bookstore. We had probably been standing within five feet of each other for half an hour before he said hello. Navigating a conversation with a boy like this, a boy who was flirting with me for no other reason than that he liked the way I looked-that was advanced non-frum behavior. And back then I was only a beginner.
“I’m just saying,” he said, knocking his shoulder into mine. It was sweaty hot and our skin stuck together for an instant. His eyes were a kind of golden green, and he focused on nothing but me. I could kiss him and Brian would never know.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
I blushed. He knows, I thought. Next he’ll say, You’re one of those girls, and walk away laughing. Now I know that he could no sooner have imagined the world I came from than he could have imagined life on the moon.
“I’m from New York,” I said.
“Your accent is sexy.”
Your father was the first person to tell me I spoke English with an accent. My first language was Yiddish; we spoke Yiddish at home and Yiddish in school. According to your father, my voice was also lower than most girls. Just like this boy in the tank top, he’d called it sexy.
“You should come to El Cinco tonight,” said Chris. “It’s two-for-one margaritas.”
“Okay.” I didn’t know what a margarita was.
“Bring your boyfriend,” he said, standing up, grinning. Grinning the whole time. “Or maybe don’t.”
I told your father I met someone near the tennis courts who said there was a good time at El Cinco tonight.
“See? You’re already making friends,” he said. “I knew people would love you as soon as they got to know you.”
He told some of his friends to meet us at the restaurant, and we all sat around a table with margaritas coming and going and chips and salsa for free. The music was loud and everyone had to scream over it. People were dancing by the bar and after two margaritas-they tasted like Slurpees from the 7-Eleven-I got up and said I wanted to dance. Your father held my waist as we walked through the crowd. We danced and I drank another margarita. I waved my arms in the air and felt my shirt lift up, exposing the skin of my belly. I twisted my hips and kissed your father, right there in front of everyone. He pulled me close and whispered in my ear that he loved me. I love you, Aviva, he said. I love you, too, I said.
I had to go to the bathroom, but there was a line. I stood for a minute and as soon as I stopped moving, I knew I’d had too much to drink. I closed my eyes and felt sick to my stomach, so I slid down the wall and sat on the floor. The girls around me didn’t say a word. I put my head between my legs. Everything was spinning and lopsided. And then a hand grabbed mine.
“Aviva!” It was Chris. He pulled me up. “Uh-oh, too many margaritas! Where’s your boyfriend? Come on, come here, you just need some water.” He pulled me into the men’s bathroom, which had no line. I went straight to the toilet, and up came the lime-flavored drinks and salsa chunks. I threw up twice. Chris held my hair. When I was done he gave me a wet paper towel to wipe my mouth.
“Feel better?” he asked. I nodded, but I didn’t really feel better. Where was Brian? Chris reached for my hands and pulled me up and close to him, locking an arm around my waist. He kissed my neck, and in one motion slid the strap of my bra and tank top down my shoulder, letting my left breast fall out. He grabbed it and squeezed my nipple. I tried to squirm out of his arm but he held me tight.
“No,” I said.
“No?” he said, grinning, his cold hand kneading my breast like dough, pulling at it. He pushed me against the wall and put his mouth on mine, shoving his tongue between my lips. I twisted my head sideways and he moved his lips to my neck. “What’s the matter?” he said. And then he grabbed my hair and turned me around so my face was pressed against the greasy tile wall. I teetered on my high-heeled shoes and he righted me. He pressed one hand against the back of my head, and with the other he pulled my waist toward him and put his hand under my skirt, his clumsy fingers pushed aside my underwear, which, like everything else I was wearing that night, was new, still a kind of costume. Six months before I wore underwear my mother bought me. Big, thick “full-coverage” cotton underwear with tight elastic hugging the tops of my thighs and a waist at my belly button. I thought: If I was wearing my old underwear it would be harder for him to get in. I thought: I’ve brought this on myself. He shoved his hand up. I felt his fingernails scratch me and that’s when I thought of you. It was the moment I admitted you were inside me. I had allowed myself to ignore the fact that I hadn’t had my period in two months, but I could not let this boy hurt you. He took his hand off my head to open his pants and I struck him in the face with my elbow. He stopped smiling and stumbled backward and I ran to the door. It was a little latch lock, a flimsy nothing. Why didn’t Brian break in? I got it open with shaking fingers and burst into the hallway. One of the girls was still in line for the bathroom. We looked at each other and she pointed to my chest.
“Pull your shirt up,” she said.
I ran through the loud music to the front door and out of the bar. People were drinking beer from cans and smoking cigarettes on the patio. A different song was playing over speakers hidden in palm trees above our heads. I found a chair and sat down but stood back up immediately because it hurt to sit. I wondered if I was bleeding. I didn’t know how to get back to Brian’s room, but I couldn’t go back inside to bring him out to me. I was scared Chris would see me, and I was scared to try to walk home alone, and I was scared that if I told Brian what happened he would blame me. I stood on the patio shivering in the heat for a long time. People just moved around me. Finally, your father came outside.
“Aviva, are you okay? What happened?” He reached up to smooth my hair and I flinched.
“I got sick,” I said. “I fell. Can we go home now?”
“Of course,” he said.
When we got back to his room I climbed into bed in my clothes. I slept until noon the next day and woke to find Brian studying at his desk. He asked how I was feeling and I told him I was going to have a baby. When he asked me to marry him an hour later, I said yes.