And he’s bitter about it.
He wants me to re-establish our name in New York, and I can only do that by being in the right place at the right time. Namely, at Berman High during my formative years.
Problem is, no one in my class is from a mob family. There are a few kids in more senior years, but they wouldn’t notice a small kid like me, let alone form a fucking alliance with one.
It’s a relief in a way—fewer people to feign friendship with. I don’t have the brain space for friends. It’s hard enough having the energy to look after three younger brothers without worrying about the latest meme or Yankees win.
Schoolwork comes easy to me. I often finish tasks faster thanany other kid in class, so I find myself with a lot of free time to watch people, to observe.
There is one girl in class I especially enjoy observing: Pfeiffer McAllister.
She isn’t the ringleader, but she is popular. She has this ability to make you feel like the most interesting person in the room. Well, at least, that’s what I observe, because she never speaks to me.
She seems kind, funny, bright. She’s sporty and really good at science. She sucks at math though, and I pray every night that she’ll ask for my help, because I would help. I’d do all her homework for her. I’d do anything she asks of me.
I watch her every day from the back of the classroom. I learn which of her laughs are genuine and which are designed to put someone at ease.
I’ve started to notice patterns. Mondays, she’s quieter. Midweek, she’s at her brightest. Fridays, she seems off somehow. A little on edge. No one else seems to notice—only me.
Now the pattern has lengthened. As the weeks have gone on, the quiet girl on Mondays has become closed off. The vibrant girl at midweek manages to raise one or two smiles at most, and the off girl on Fridays has become nervy and agitated.
It happened so gradually that most of our peers put it down to teenage attitude, mild hormonal depression, or just plain personality problems. We’re teenagers—anything is possible.
But I’ve been watching. For months.
And I know something isn’t right.
I decide to do it before class begins. That way she knows at least one person in this room has her back. At least one person cares. Maybe it will be a nice start to her day. I mean, people like to be asked how they are, right?
The teacher has yet to arrive, so the class is loud and distracted. I take some deep breaths, readying myself. Talking to women isn’t something I have a lot of experience with. Since Mama died five years ago, my life has been filled almostexclusively with men and boys. Nora is probably the only woman I’ve truly conversed with apart from Mama, and Pfeiffer McAllister is not like either of them.
Not like them one bit.
She makes my spine tingle and my pulse race. When I wake up in the middle of the night with a raging hard on, it’s Pfeiffer I see in my dreams.
Recalling this doesn’t help my confidence.
Come on, Fiero. Just get it over and done with. Then, you can breathe. And the next time will be easier.
I push back my chair, the sound turning a few heads. If it had been anyone else, they’d have turned away, but Fiero Bellucci never gets up from his chair, so I feel the heat of their eyes follow me.
My legs feel like they don’t belong to me as I walk down the aisle.
Don’t think. Just do it.
I stop beside her desk and she looks up.
God.
Her eyes hit mine and my brain just… stops. I can’t form a word. I can’t raise a smile. Dumb fuck that I am, I just stare at her.
Jesus Christ, Fiero. Say something.
“Hey,” I manage. But it comes out all wrong. It sounds too high—too unbroken.
Heat floods my face.
I clear my throat and force my voice lower, deeper, like the other boys.
