“Um, what’s your name?”
She smiled and looked down at the ground, proving to Peter that she had a shy streak as long as his own. That was really when Peter’s heart became Ebony’s, the image of her smiling shyness passing into his soul forever. “Ebony Mills.” She flashed her eyes briefly at him. “But you can call me ‘E’ if you like.”
“Okay.”
Then she turned to Mickey. “When am I gonna get a jersey?”
Ebony got her jersey that very day, talking Mark out of wearing number twelve.
The others had already fanned out to go home, and that left Ebony and Peter walking back toward his house.
“Are you gonna go to Simpson?” Peter asked.
“Where else am I gonna go?”
“I dunno. You could go to St. Pat’s like Eddie.”
“No, thanks. Them Catholic kids is too wild for me. I’m going to Simpson. You go there?”
“Yeah.”
“What grade you in?”
“Seventh.”
“Me, too.”
A seventh-grade girl with ninth-grade breasts? Peter thought. There is a God!
They arrived at the driveway of Peter’s house. “This is, uh, this is my house.”
“You got anything to drink in there?”
“Um, yeah. I could get you a soda.”
“You ain’t gonna invite me in?”
Peter wanted to, but if the Captain were awake…“My father, uh, he hasn’t been feeling too well.”
“Uh-huh.”
Peter knew that she didn’t believe him. “Actually, um, he’s probably asleep.”
“Right.”
Peter knew that she still didn’t believe him. “No, really.”
Neither said anything for the longest time.
“You gonna get me a Coke or what?”
“Oh, sure.”
Peter sneaked through the back door into the kitchen, heard the Captain’s snores like the gurgling of a clogged bilge pump, and returned to Ebony with a Coke. She wiped off the top of the can with the hem of her Knicks jersey, and Peter caught sight of the most beautiful belly button. She had the tiniest little “inny” no bigger than a licorice gumdrop.
“What you lookin’ at, Peter?”
“Uh, nothing.”
“Uh-huh.” She smiled. “You lookin’ at my stomach, right?”
Peter nodded.
“Bet you got an ‘outie’ with all sorts of green shit inside it.”
“I got an inny, too,” Peter said, hurt.
She squinted. “Prove it.”
There on his driveway after a sweaty game of street hockey, Peter showed a girl his “inny.”
She crouched lower to have a closer look. “Dag, boy, you got freckles like that all over?”
Peter dropped his shirt. “Most of them aren’t freckles. They’re moles, like this one.” He touched the mole just above his upper lip.
Then…she touched the mole under Peter’s nose. Her finger was cold from holding her can of Coke, and Peter nearly jumped out of his Chuck Taylors. “Does it hurt?”
“N-n-no.”
She pulled back her hand. “You cold?”
“Your finger is.” And it’s electric, he thought. Her fingers are made of cold electricity.
“Sorry.” She took a sip. “You got moles like that all over your body?”
“No.”
“Good, cuz they nasty.” She finished her Coke and handed it to Peter. “Thanks for the Coke.”
“You’re welcome.”
She smiled. “See you around, Peter.”
“Yeah. See you around…E.”
Without thinking, Peter floated in through the front door of the house, a hockey stick in his hand. Then, because he was still thinking of Ebony’s licorice gumdrop belly button and her electric ice-cold finger, he tripped on the carpet runner at the base of the stairs, and the hockey stick clattered against the wall.
“What the hell you think you’re doing out there, Pete?”
Peter slid the stick into the hall closet, ripping off his jersey and throwing it up over the second floor stair railing. “Just slipped, Captain.”
“Come here,” he said.
Peter walked into the TV room, hoping his face didn’t look as wind-burned and raw as it felt. It seemed as if the Captain hadn’t moved from his La-Z-Boy since Peter delivered his mug of coffee a few hours ago.
“I just slipped on the stairs, Captain.”
“You been upstairs all this time?”
Peter had already sinned by drugging the Captain’s coffee, so one more sin wouldn’t hurt. “Yes, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“Reading.” Okay, two more sins.
“Oh.” He reached for and nudged his coffee cup, a little spilling over the sides.
Peter held his breath. He’s hardly had any! Either I put way too much sleeping powder in his coffee, or he made another cup on his own and he’s really been awake all this time. Then he knows I must be lying!
The Captain took a sip and nodded his head. “You make a fine cuppa Joe, Pete.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It’s cold now.” Geez, I used too much! What did he have, one sip? “But it’s not bad. Maybe a little too much sugar.” He held out the mug. “You mind warming this up for me?”
“No sir.”
“Just set it on the little eye on the stove. It’ll heat up just fine.”
Peter took his cup. White powdery particles stared up at him. I could have killed him! “Okay.”
Peter was almost to the hallway when the Captain called out, “And we won’t be going to church this evening! Something on the TV I want to watch!”
Peter nearly dropped the mug. They hadn’t missed a Sunday evening service since Peter was born, and today they had barely gotten up in time for the morning worship service.
Hel’s departure was getting cooler all the time.
Peter set the mug on the eye and turned the dial to medium, and while he waited, he focused on the coffee until it bubbled.
He also focused on the girl with the licorice gumdrop inny and the perpetual tan: Ebony Mills. She bubbled, too.
He had always been attracted to girls with tans. Whenever he and the Captain took the Captain’s Ford Country Squire station wagon down to the harbor and went out on the Argo, Peter would look for girls on other boats instead of paying attention to the Captain, which is probably why Peter never learned any of the ropes or how to properly sail a boat. He knew that he’d be a Seaman Recruit for life. Whenever they’d stop at any of the many marinas around Huntington, Peter would do his best to drag his feet whenever he saw some girls sunning themselves on other boats.
Once,