representative uncle had pulled strings.) Tyrell and Clarice got Columbia, and of course some jackasses could not resist the obvious comments on race and athletics.
In the last few months of high school, knowing that we would soon be going our separate ways, many of us hung out with people we had never hung out with before, and there was an informal ice cream get-together and separately, a mini-golf day-out where we discovered there was more to some people than we had thought. The traditional social groupings were subject to change as we learned that the powers-that-be had favored person A or rejected person B. A loud-mouth in the smart set who always got the girls was destined for Rutgers and seemed subdued. A Chinese boy who almost never spoke got Yale and was respected all the more. The weird kid Lenny did half-way decent, Emory, but I think all of us were glad we weren't going there too.
One fine May Saturday in this disorganized mid-way period between school and the real world, Tachi and I decided to go to New York for the afternoon. The plan was to go to Brighton Beach, eat from the beachfront kiosks and sit on the sand. The water, of course, would be far too cold to more than just enter. So we met up early, boarded the NJT commuter train, transferred to the subway lines in Manhattan, and arrived in Brighton. The day was exceedingly pleasant, with not a cloud in the sky and a cool sea breeze. Fried calamari and potato wedges were delicious, and we washed them down with icy Cokes. Then we spread out our towel on the beach and caught sunrays. As usual, men and boys were entranced by her beauty. I noticed, behind my sunglasses, but I was quite used to it. I realized I could see red through my closed eyelids. Birds cried out.
At 4pm it was time for us to get up and go in order to catch all the trains that would return us home by 7. But as if we had both been planning the same idea, we looked at each other and agreed that, screw it, we'd stay in the city until at least midnight and catch the very last train home. Around 7 we'd have to call home and explain where we were, but, after all, we were both eighteen now (Tachi since November, me since April) and there wasn't a thing our parents could do. We spent another two hours on the beach as the sun began its descent in the sky. Then, feeling hungry, we got up to find a restaurant. There was a nice beachfront Italian one right there, and we walked in and ordered fettucini frutti di mare. In the suburbs, we'd have certainly been carded, but this was New York, and the waiter brought over glass after glass of box red wine. The food was delicious, mussels and the meat of clams almost dissolving in our mouths; the strands of pasta smothered in melted butter. The world itself seemed to shimmer, and I was in a dream with Tachi's beautiful face front and center.
How did the hours pass? We must have spent two hours there before I noticed that it was 8:30 and we were late with our phone-calls. Both of us felt terrible even in our drunkenness, but we fumbled for coins and made the calls. Tachi lucked out: nobody was home (possibly her parents were out looking for her) and she left a message. I had to explain to my mom where I was several times, and she was not happy. I would be grounded for this, and I was ordered to return home immediately. Feeling incredibly conflicted, I put down the phone; with regret and sorrow I knew that I would stay.
We spent perhaps another hour at that place, drinking wine and toying with dessert. Then we left the place with the very happy waiter waving goodbye and walked out into the strange pale sodium-vapor light of the New York city street. "Let's go look at the water," Tachi said, and clutching at each other, we weaved over to the beach, which in the darkness was roaring in and ebbing out, roaring in, ebbing out. Suddenly she put her face in front of me, and we kissed. Her lips were heaven; it was sweetness beyond wine or sugar. This year and days culminated in this corona of light. I held her in my arms, and our tongues danced in our mouths.
"T-t-Tachi," I stuttered.
"Shhh," she said, and we kissed again.
The world swirled around me, and what must have been mere minutes there standing felt like an eternity with her warmth between my arms. Her breasts were full and firm against my chest. Then, as if embarrassed, we turned and walked side-by-side without touching. I had to catch myself from breathing too quickly, a rank amateur in the game of love. The main drag back to the train station unreeled before us, and lights circled about like at a carnival. Somehow, we found ourselves in front of a building with a marquee and music streaming out. The doorman at the front accosted us, and after a quick glance at Tachi's face, unreeled some rapid expression in Russian. Could I somehow understand? Was he addressing her by name? Impossible. He was cajoling us to enter, to dance. We stumbled into the place.
As with many ethnic nightclubs, there was a wider range in age and variety of people than the hot young places in Manhattan and hipster Brooklyn. The club was part restaurant and part dance floor—entire families were there from toddlers to grandparents. Everyone wasn't Russian: there were a handful of all types, a few Chinese guys, a few blacks, a group that looked more Italian than Russian. Yet there was also of course a good number of pretty young Russian girls. Eyes flickered over to us, assessing, as loud music—regular pop dance hits—played from giant speakers.
"Come on, let's dance," Tachi said, pulling me in by hand.
I had always been a good dancer, but I did feel a trifle self-conscious in that place. I danced cautiously, but Tachi was magic. Gravity itself had only a tenuous grasp on her as she floated about, in rhythm and then in syncopation, now spinning like a top and arms arcing back, now half-crouched and motioning downward ghetto-style for kicks. "Come on," she called out, her cheeks flushed, and we danced in that press of people, half spirit, half material.
"What it'll be," said the gruff bartender.
"Vodka cranberries."
"Right, mate," he said, and flipped up the bottles with practiced ease. They were strong. Tachi and I downed them in seconds.
In this way hours passed and I thought nothing at all of the last commuter train from Penn Station or of the city slouching into another night. Everything was a swirl, and as the hours went by my own body began to adjust to this rhythm, as if designed for nothing else. Tireless we pressed on, my hands and arms discovering new rhythms of their own, the entire body becoming an instrument I could play, and play well. It occurred to me to keep certain parts of my body still and dance solely, say, with an arm. I improvised, I found new ranges of motion and laid them down, then using them as a foundation, constructed entirely new superstructures on them. All around the faintly eastern bazaar of vivid reds and vermillions, patterned Russian silks swirled; Tachi was laughing and smiling, her eyes glittering with admiration, and not just Tachi, but variations thereof, whose bodies I shrugged up against, hot fire and cold. When we were separated, we were the very soul of whatever knot formed around us; when we were together, we were nothing less than the very sun around which whole planets and lesser archipelagoes revolved.
I don't know what time it was exactly when I found myself returning from the bathroom, pausing by a column to down an ice-water the bartender poured for me. These girls are beautiful, I thought, and right then one looked over to lock eyes and gave a subtle nod of the head. I widened my eyes and smiled back. Then I watched as a sweaty overweight middle-aged man trod heavily onto the dance floor, looking from girl to girl. He went from one to the next until he found one he decided to grab, and he took her arm. Shocked, the girl pulled away from him with a look of disgust, and he looked back at her with a strange look before moving on. Obviously this fellow was a trifle excited tonight, a sad-sack whose youth had been wasted in Communist Russia. He waddled forward through the press of people towards Tachi. Again he grabbed for a girl's arm, Tachi's, and when she turned, her jaw dropped and she looked disgusted. But this time the man kept his grip firmly on her arm and began speaking to her. She said something back, looked around, and talked some more. He said something roughly and then began dragging her off the floor. Now I was surprised, and I let my empty cup fall. What was this? I pushed forward between the heaving masses towards
them, but he was pulling her with surprising speed toward the exit. I almost knocked over a very short girl with short hair, and then caught up with them outside the club.
"Hey there buddy!" I called out to the guy. He looked over and then looked back at Tachi. "Excuse me there, sir! What do you think you're doing." He was bigger than me and certainly heavier. Tachi noticed me and called to me, "Sheesh, where were you?"
"Just getting a cup of water. What's going on?" As the guy realized I knew her, he turned to face me. "I'm Tatiana's father friend. She's going home now."
"Tachi, what the hell is this?" I said, but she seemed already resigned to this fate. We were next to the man's black Mercedes now, and with one arm he opened the door and shoved her in. "Tachi!" I couldn't quite read the expression on her face. She was unhappy and preoccupied. I was scrabbling at the door handle and pounding on the glass. "Tachi!" It seemed but seconds for this joker to get around to the driver's side and jump in himself. Then the car was