Chapter 1: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

DARKNESS COULDN’T COMFORT ME or provide the insulating cloak from harsh reality I so desperately wanted. I sat in a chair, holding her hand, and let memories drift through the corridors of my mind; the good times. I remembered the first time I noticed her. I’d had no inkling of how deeply she was going to impact my life.

It was her first year in high school; a freshman. She stood apart watching the girls soccer team practicing, separate from other groups of supporters as if a social outcast. It didn’t surprise me. She was not an attractive girl; her chestnut hair a tangled mess, nose a bit too large for her face, and her mouth showed the distortion of braces. She was tall, slender as a reed, but without any outward signs of adolescence.

I watched her from a distance out of fascination. She studied the girls playing soccer, occasionally shaking her head as if disappointed by their skill, her right hand moving as if trying to guide the soccer ball on the field. An overly large Budweiser red sweatshirt fell to mid-thigh, partially hiding worn blue jeans, the arms rolled up. Laces on one of her worn high top sneakers were undone. A large backpack decorated with stickers rested on the grass at her side.

She might not have been attractive, but she had an animated and intriguing face, wincing or frowning at the game.

I noticed her again several days later, sitting alone on a low wall overlooking the parking lot at school, her head bowed as she read a textbook on her knees. Early fall weather was warm, yet she wore a large blue Roots sweatshirt, sleeves pulled up, her wrists festooned with colored plastic bangles. She really wasn’t what my peers would call a pretty girl. Quite the opposite. Yet there was something about her; isolated and apart. Maybe that’s why I wandered over - curiosity.

“Hi,” I said, as I neared her.

She looked up, startled, and I saw pale green eyes stare at me. Up close I noticed light freckles on high cheekbones, her face oval with a few spots of inflamed acne on her chin, more around her nostrils. She stared at me without a trace of shyness or embarrassment.

“So you lost the bet?” she asked, her voice soft, teeth replete with metal braces.

“What?”

“What was the bet? To see if I could talk? To embarrass me?” She glanced around. “Where are your friends hiding?”

“What?”

She studied me for a moment. “Why are you talking to me? Because I’m a lost cause? Or did you wonder if I’m as strange as people say?”

“What?”

“Clearly you’re the sharp end of the pencil,” she observed, then turned back to reading her textbook, ignoring me.

She made me feel stupid. I stood there for a moment, shrugged, turned and left. What a strange girl.

I saw her again the next day, now sitting alone on the parking lot curb, a textbook on her knees, her long chestnut hair still a tangled mess, laces on one sneaker still untied, and her wrists festooned with turquoise-inlayed silver bangles. Lord knows why, but I went over to her again.

She glanced at me and back to her algebra textbook. “You again. You’re a glutton for punishment.”

“What?” I asked automatically.

“Is that your pick-up line? If it is, I have to tell you it’s destined to fail.”

“Huh?”

“That’s just as weak,” she commented, still reading.

I grinned and sat down next to her, not saying a word. She may not be pretty, but she was quite funny.

Eventually she sighed loudly with exasperation and looked at me. “What do you want?”

“Your name.”

“None of your business.”

Smiling broadly, I said, “Give me a name and I’ll leave you alone.”

She sighed. “Fine. Penny. Now go.”

I left.

On Friday, as I watched the school football team practicing their routines, I saw her sitting, again separated from other spectators in the stands. I went over, dropped my backpack, sat next to her and said, “Hi, Penny. How’s it going today?”

Her pale green eyes turned to me. “My name’s not Penny.”

“You told me it was,” I reminded her.

“No. You asked me to give you a name, so I gave you one - Penny.”

I laughed at being duped. “You don’t make it easy to socialize with you.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Socializing with me?” she asked. “Why? Do you think I’m lonely? Have no friends? A lost cause needing charity?” Neon plastic bangles on her right wrist clicked as she moved her hand, using it to emphasize her words.

“Yup. Exactly.”

“Good for you. You’ve done your duty. Now go away,” she said, turning back to watch the football team practice.

I didn’t. She amused me. I sat quietly, watching her. Eventually she turned to look at me.

“What’s your problem?” she asked.

“What’s yours?” I countered.

“You. Go away.”

Grinning, I asked, “What’s your real name?”

“None of your business.” She turned back to watch football practice.

“I’m not going to stop asking,” I told her. “You’ll get rid of me faster if you tell me.”

She sighed. “Maryam Mirzakhani.”

I laughed, now really amused. “So, Maryam, what was it like when you won the Fields Medal?”

She looked very surprised, then smiled slightly - a curl at the corners of her mouth. “You’re not as dumb as I thought. How would you know her?”

“My mother’s Persian, that’s how.”

She let out a soft laugh. “Farrah Connolly.”

“Nice name,” I told her. “See ya later, Farrah.” I grabbed my backpack and walked off, expecting her to ask for my name. She didn’t.

The dark silence was broken by rapid footsteps. The room smelled of disinfectant cleaning solution. Electronic machines beeped quietly. I shifted in the chair, my butt numb.

Closing my eyes, I forced myself to think back. Farrah was such a strange girl, so full of quirks. She’d never asked for my name. I’d eventually told her and she showed no interest, as if she didn’t even register it.

For almost a month, I’d spend a minute or two with her at the end of school and slowly a reluctant friendship developed. She was reticent, sharply witty, and brutally honest; unlike any girl I’d ever encountered.

Slouching down in the chair and resting my head back, I let cherished memories flow.

“Your shoelace is undone,” I told her, pointing at her left foot.

Sitting beside me on the waist-high wall around the school parking lot, Farrah extended her feet, looking at her high top sneakers.

“I know. It’s good luck.”

“How do you figure that?” I asked.

She wiggled her shoes. “It’s a reminder that order is balanced by disorder in life. Yin and yang.” She glanced at me. “Why are you spending time with me?”

“You’re weird. I like it. And you have a brain. That’s unusual for a girl.”

Farrah snorted. “So you’re a misogynist.”

“Nope. I happen to love females. But have you talked to some of the girls at school? Helium-filled balloons have more intellectual activity than they do.”

She laughed lightly. “So you’re sexist and a stereotypical male. Let me guess, you’re a jock, too.”

“Yup. I ride a bike, I walk to school, and I swim. Jock’s my middle name. Why do you wear so many wrist bands?”

She fiddled with dull pastel bangles on one wrist. “This one is for health. This one wards off the evil eye,” she told me, pointing at different bands. She lifted her other wrist, full of twisted wire bangles. “And these seven help my chakra.”

“You’re really weird.”

“Uh-huh. That’s what I’m told.” She went back to studying her textbook on statistical analysis.

On Monday, I caught up to Farrah as she left school and walked with her. My peers noticed me and laughed, not in amusement, either. I knew they were making fun of me.

“Hey, Farrah.”

She didn’t stop. “Your friends are laughing at you. Maybe you should leave me alone. Your social standing is taking a beating.”

I laughed. “It is. Fun, isn’t it? Where do you live?”

“Don’t you care what they think of you?” she asked.

“Not really. Real friends don’t judge. So, where do you live?”

“In a house. I imagine most people do.”

A cool wind gusted, rattling dead leaves on old oaks. We walked together.

“What classes are your favorite?” I asked, trying to start a conversation.

“Mathematics.”

“What do you like about math?”

“It’s the one universal language. No matter where you come from you can understand it. It’s the language of life.”

I noticed, as she talked, her right hand moving again, as if punctuating her words.

“You can mathematically define patterns of football and soccer players. The way they converge on a ball is like the way blood cells converge on a virus, and they can be expressed in a mathematical formula.” Her index finger made a circling movement as she talked. It looked like an unconscious act.

I disagreed. “You can’t express chaos or chance in a formula.”

“Of course you can.”

Before I could argue, she turned up a crossroad and walked away, no “goodbye” or “see ya later.” I shook my head with amusement. She was really strange.

We continued to meet and have short conversations. The short conversations grew longer, and as winter passed, she surprised me one day by casually inviting me to her home when we left school.

Farrah lived in a neat, two bedroom detached house. I met her mother, a real estate agent; a tall, slender, and beautiful woman of exceptional elegance. I thought Farrah must have taken after her father, the difference between her and her mother so sharp.

I returned the invitation, asking Farrah over one day after school. My parents were out. Farrah and I had an odd friendship growing. We talked about anything and everything, but she never let me get stupid or let sardonic comments pass without a retort. She wasn’t deliberately funny and rarely laughed. Emotion was communicated through her eyes, her hand, and a curl at the corners of her lips.

One afternoon after school, sitting on a bench and enjoying spring sun, I asked with a smile, “How come you never flirt? Do you know how? I can teach you, if you like.”

Farrah crossed one knee over the other. She tossed her long tangled hair back with a flip of her hand, rested her elbow on her knee, her fist propping up her chin, looked at me, batted her eyelashes and said, “So, you’re, like, into video games. How fascinating. I hear they’re, like, really hard. Tell me, what’s your favorite game?” She gave me her full attention and batted her eyelashes again. “Are you good at them? You must be really smart. I’m useless at playing. Perhaps you could, like, give me some private lessons?”

I laughed. “I guess you choose not to flirt.”

She looked away. “Why bother.”

It was a revealing comment about her-self image. True, she wasn’t the prettiest girl at school, but once you knew her, it was easy to see her other charms. Inside, she was an amazingly attractive girl and I started appreciating her. I started looking forward to the times we spent together, our short conversations.

Our friendship continued through spring. I was pleasantly surprised to see her in the stands watching me at swimming practice with the school team. She turned up at every afterschool practice and started attending every meet, quietly watching me, always alone.

Something else happened that spring, too. In April, Farrah lost her braces, her lips now almost lush and mouth very attractive. Her complexion cleared up and, while still somewhat skinny, I noticed how her plain unprinted T-shirts hinted at a developing bust. Then, in short order, physical changes assaulted her. As summer holidays approached, Farrah emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Her face lost the final traces of childhood and became sculpted, and, in her, I saw her mother’s beauty - a youthful elegance. Farrah was transforming into a beautiful girl despite her long, tangled chestnut hair and quirky personality. In fact, to me her hair started looking like a high-end salon job.

She seemed oblivious of how she was changing. I wasn’t. I caught how other guys reacted with new interest, how they treated her differently. My peers, who had ribbed me endlessly and mercilessly, were now trying to catch her attention. They asked me what she was like and could I introduce them. I refused, waiting for Farrah to demonstrate anything other than friendship towards me; something I was now actively interested in. When she didn’t, I finally introduced her to some of the more trustworthy guys.

Richard, a good looking friend and one of the nicer guys in school, took a particular interest in her. One day when I left school, I saw him talking to her. She nodded. He grinned and strutted off.

“What did Richard want?” I asked, falling into step with her as we walked home.

“He asked me out on a date.”

A stab of jealousy revealed the strength of my attraction to her. “Did you accept?”

She nodded.

Angry at her, I avoided her the following week. It was immature of me but I couldn’t help how I felt; second best, an afterthought to her, not worthy of a date, just an acquaintance she chatted with.

This time, she was the one to approach me and sit at my table at lunch. It was the first time she’d sought me out.

“Where have you been?” she asked, setting her books on the table, her backpack thumping to the floor. When I didn’t answer, she added, “Huck? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

She studied me with her pale green eyes. “It’s the date I went on with Richard, isn’t it?” she said, her expressive hand moving in a dismissive wave.

“No ... Maybe.” I sighed. “It would have been nice to go out with me first.”

“I might have if you’d ever asked. I waited long enough.”

“You never gave me any sign you were interested in a date,” I claimed.

“I told you, I don’t flirt.”

Looking at her, still bemused at how beautiful she was becoming - now seriously out of my league, I said, “If I asked you out on a date, would you accept?”

The corners of her lips curled in amusement. “Try it and see. An empirical test.”

“Would you like to go to the movies together? This Friday?”

She smiled, a rare event, broad and bright and damn gorgeous, very faint freckles dusting her cheeks. “Okay.”

In the dark room, I thought I felt her hand move in mine, drawing me back to the present. Standing quickly, I looked down at her in the hospital bed. Farrah was still asleep. I squeezed her hand. Heaviness in my chest made breathing hard.

Smiling to put lightness in my voice, I sat my butt on the edge of the bed, still holding her hand.

“I was just remembering our first date,” I told her conversationally. “Do you remember it? It was a complete disaster.

“I thought I’d checked the movie time. I had, but for the wrong cinema. We ended up watching Head Over Heels with Freddie Prinze Jr. It had to be the worst movie of the year.

“I was so nervous. Remember how I spilled popcorn all over us, which would have been fine if I hadn’t asked for extra butter. You kept telling me how much better your date with Richard had been, making me jealous beyond belief, so I only tried harder.”

Falling silent, I smiled. Taking Farrah for a burger and fries after the movie, I’d ordered for both of us - me being manly. Farrah had given me that slight amused and aware smile of hers and, when the food arrived, without comment, she’d casually opened her hamburger and carefully removed all the garnishes - lettuce, pickles, onions, tomato, and cheese - and wiped off ketchup and mustard with her paper napkin. With the buns and meat clean, plain, and tasteless, she’d eaten with pleasure, reassuring me it was a really good burger. Right. Her quirkiness fascinated and charmed me.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever known to like plain, dry burgers, Farrah.”

After a slight pause, I spoke again.

“Do you remember our first kiss? You’d think, being a couple of years older, I’d know how to kiss, but I was so damn nervous from your comments about Richard. When I kissed you at your front door, my mouth hit yours so hard the inside of my lip split against my tooth.”

For a moment I paused, holding her hand, and fought back emotions.

“I was convinced you’d never date me again after that debacle. Yet, you did. It was so you, too. Remember? Monday after that disaster? It was funny how you suggested I try kissing you again to see if there was any hope for me.

“I’ll tell you a secret. I liked that we kissed in front of the school. I figured, even if the kiss wasn’t good enough, the other guys would see us and know you were my girl, and to keep their grubby hands off.

“But, you know what? It was the best kiss of my life.”

I looked at my wife and, in a quieter voice, said, “All your kisses have been the best of my life.”

For several minutes, I listened to the muted sounds of movement in the hospital; soft-soled shoes walking quickly, the quiet beeping tone of a life monitor, the whisper of air conditioning.

I looked at her in the dim light, still so beautiful. My chest suddenly grew tight, breathing difficult.

“Don’t leave me, Farrah,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “I can’t live without you.”

Fighting back tears, I spoke with false brightness I didn’t feel.

“I don’t think I ever told you how my heart misbehaved every time I saw you. It would trip or miss a beat. I really didn’t like the feeling. Back in high school, I used to point out pretty girls just to get a rise out of you; jealously, or possessiveness - anything, really. You never reacted, just giving me that subtle smile, the corners of your mouth turning up as if you knew what I was trying to do.

“When you didn’t react the way I wanted, it only made me work harder for your affection. I was so dumb. I didn’t know you were doing it on purpose. You really had my number.”

Another squeeze of her cool hand and I continued. “I told you I loved you when you were sixteen. But, do you know when I actually knew I was in love with you? It was the year before.”

Memories rushed back to me, bringing a smile.

I swam hard, arms churning, muscles burning. The final twenty-five yards were the worst. I could feel myself flagging, my stroke rate slowing. Glancing to my right, Derek Olsic was almost level with me. Digging deep into reserves I didn’t have, heart racing, I started the hard kick to the finish, shoulders rolling, water flowing past, hands like paddles pulling me through the water. The black line at the bottom of the pool gave me distance and, as the final five yards arrived, I charged, reaching out at the last second to touch the end.

Gasping for breath, I rested on the lane buoys and glanced at the timing board. Second place, beaten by the length of Derek’s fingers. Shit! The 400 individual medley was my enemy, my least favorite event.

Scanning the stands, I saw Farrah in her usual attire; plain light blue T-shirt and jeans. She was watching me, her fingers fiddling with a plastic bangle on one wrist.

When I emerged from the changing room, she took my hand, her fingers intertwining with mine.

“Let’s walk to the park,” she suggested.

As we strolled in the warm summer heat, she told me, “You’re using your energy all wrong. You would have won the individual medley if you’d conserved your energy on the initial backstroke laps.”

“I had to build a lead,” I claimed.

“No. You were evenly matched to the others. You have a faster freestyle but you used up your reserves on the first three elements trying to stay ahead. If you’d let Derek ease ahead and turned it on at the end, you’d have beaten him by almost a second.” Her index finger was active, emphasizing her analysis.

“You can’t know that, Farrah.”

She glanced at me. “It’s simple mathematics, Huck. I know what your times are in each style. I know what the competitor’s times are, too. You tried to be faster in each instead of saving it for the final freestyle.”

We walked in silence as I pondered her advice. Maybe next time I’d try it her way.

The park, a large expanse with rolling lawns broken by stands of weeping willow and oak trees lining the winding path of a small river, was spotted with families enjoying the late afternoon weather, some sitting together, others throwing Frisbees, dogs barking and running.

We found a private spot in the shade next to the small river. Water flowed past over pebbles and around rocks at a lethargic pace, lush green water grasses at the edges waving. The river brought a cooling breeze.

Sitting side-by-side, I admired Farrah. Now fifteen, she was becoming more beautiful every month. Or maybe it was my perspective changing. She looked at me and smiled slightly, her pale green eyes so enchanting. At that exact moment, with dappled light playing over her tangled chestnut hair, wrists festooned with colorful bangles, and one sneaker lace still untied, I knew I loved her. I felt it as an ache in my chest, heaviness, my heart thumping. I felt so privileged - so lucky to be with her.

Giving into the urge, I leaned in and kissed her, my lips touching hers gently. On the breeze I caught her scent; subtle honeysuckle with a hint of spicy exotic. Farrah kissed me back, her eyes closing. Reaching across, I held the side of her body and, as the kiss deepened with a soft brush of the tip of her tongue, I eased my hand to her front and cupped her breast; the first time I’d touched her intimately, and boy was it exciting!

Farrah’s breast might have been small, but it was perfect; firm and sensual, cradled by a soft bra. I caressed her, growing erect. Farrah let me touch her, but when the kiss ended, she gently removed my hand, holding it, and leaned against me.

Farrah wasn’t the first girl I’d kissed, or the first girl I’d touched. She was, however, the single most exciting girl I’d ever been with. I loved her quirkiness: her passion for disciplined mathematics mixed with unscientific superstitions; her casual way of dressing; her tangled chestnut hair enhancing her beauty; and her enchanting pale green eyes.

Noticing a new, red enamel metal bangle on her left wrist, I asked her about it.

Lifting her hand and studying it, she told me, “Red is the color of energy, passion, action, ambition and determination. I wore it for your meet. It worked. You won the freestyle and the butterfly events.”

“Do you really believe that stuff?”

Farrah looked at me. “It worked, didn’t it?”

We spent a couple of hours chatting, kissing, and Farrah letting me touch her breast over her T-shirt every so often. The new intimacy between us was very exciting.

Over the summer break, Farrah and I spent more and more time together. While we hadn’t verbalized we were boyfriend and girlfriend, it was accepted between us that we were. Our parents had no objections. Dad had a quiet word with me, reminding me to be respectful of Farrah, and not to forget condoms if the relationship progressed that far. It didn’t.

Our relationship had started as a friendship and that remained the core between us. Long conversations were the norm, Farrah calmly countering my sarcasm or jokes with reason.

Spending time with her, I noticed things. While aware of fashions, she wasn’t interested in clothes. Farrah’s wardrobe consisted of plain, solid color Tees, jeans or occasionally cargo shorts, and the always-present sneakers; left shoe untied. She had a large selection of wrist bangles. Every day some, but not all, would be changed. However, one, a complexly braided stiff leather one, glossy and ebony-dark with age, was always on her left wrist, never removed. When I asked about that one, she’d give me her slight smile of amusement and refuse to tell me.

I truly enjoyed her oddball beliefs. Her quirks defined her character and made her evermore fascinating. She liked ice cubes in her drinks except for Coke. Coke was ice-free because “It waters down the flavor.” She never, as in never, bad-mouthed anyone. She believed it would only tempt fate. Given she’d been made fun of by so many, it demonstrated the strength of her character that she refused to reciprocate.

And Farrah was completely, utterly unaware of how beautiful she was, inside and now out. She couldn’t see it.

When school resumed in the fall, I gloated every time Farrah politely brushed aside other guys’ approaches, and listened to my friends telling me what a lucky bastard I was. They had no concept.

Intimacy was slow to develop. In late October, when she’d come back to my house after school and we were alone, after chatting and eating a snack in the kitchen, I kissed her as she stood at the counter. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed herself against me and I finally held her buttocks. Her ass matched her tall and reed slender body perfectly, two wonderful buttocks with such shape, swelling out sensually.

When she pressed herself against the lump of my erection, making me even hornier, I eased one hand up under her plain green T-shirt. For the first time I touched her bare skin, traced her spine, touched her bra strap, and, with mounting excitement, brought my hand around to her front, my pulse racing.

Farrah eased her chest away from me and I experienced the thrill of cupping her bra-covered breast. Her bra was soft cotton, her breast supple but petite inside it. I caressed and tested its resiliency, then discovered the bump of her nipple. All sorts of sexy thoughts tumbled through my mind; lifting her bra, actually touching her bare breast, maybe seeing it.

Still kissing, tongues playing, Farrah pulled my hand out from her T-shirt. The kiss ended. She smiled slightly, kissed my lips gently and backed away.

“Why did you stop?” I asked, suffering from horniness.

“To make sure I can,” she answered.

Confused, I told her, “Of course you can. I’d never force you into anything.”

The corners of her lips turned up slightly, an expression I was beginning to recognize. It came when I did something that amused her.

“I meant, to make sure I could stop myself. You kiss really well, and when you touch me, it’s hard to resist you.”

I grinned, feeling rather proud.

Farrah studied me. “I’m not ready to go all the way, Huck. I hope you can accept that.”

“I can wait as long as you want. But kissing is mandatory.”

She moved into me and we kissed again, soft and fun, tongues teasing. The way she pressed herself against me had me hard again. And, man, did she have a great ass!

“You’d get me so damn horny back in high school,” I told my sleeping wife.

A multi-colored LED display provided a constant update on her condition. I tried to ignore it. Shuffling slightly, I sat fully on her bed turning my back to the monitor, kissed her slender hand, placed it down gently, and rubbed her leg. Maybe she could feel my touch. Maybe it would provide some comfort.

As sadness rose suddenly, helplessly and uncontrollably, once again threatening to overwhelm me, I continued talking to her, reminding her of better times.

“Did you know how jealous my friends were? They all claimed they’d seen the potential in you in your first year. They were full of it! You weren’t what anyone would call pretty back then. Even I had no clue how you’d turn out. Then you magically transformed into this elegant, gorgeous girl with brains. It was intimidating. I constantly worried you’d dump me for a better-looking guy.”

With a quiet chuckle, I told her, “I know you still don’t believe it, but I didn’t tell you I love you just to get you into bed. If I’d known it would work so well, I would have tried it long before you turned sixteen.

“In a way, I’m glad I didn’t. I would have missed our journey of intimacy, and that was the most amazing experience. I now know you set the pace back then, allowing me to do only what you wanted. It sure made for some painful erections.”

I chuckled again. Mom and Dad had drummed respect for women into me for as long as I could remember. It never occurred to me to be anything less with Farrah. But, Jesus it was agony at times, and caused a lot of dampness in my shorts.

“Do you remember the first time you let me touch your breast?” I asked her.

“How about coming over on Saturday?” I asked Farrah as we sat in the cafeteria, students loud around us. “Mom and Dad are going out to a party. We’d be alone.”

Her pale green eyes studied me. I could swear she could read me like an open book. The corners of her lips curled slightly, amused.

“How about taking me to a movie instead?” she offered.

Resigned to my failed plan, I nodded. “Sure.”

“I love your enthusiasm, Huck,” she commented.

Quickly, I corrected myself. “No. Really. I’d love to. I’ll even let you choose the movie!”

Farrah smiled, eyes twinkling. “You had plans, didn’t you? Thought you’d get me alone and what? Seduce me?”

I laughed. “Can’t blame me for trying. I’m a guy.”

Reaching across the table, she took my hand. “You’re a great guy, Huck.”

Saturday, in the cinema, I wasn’t really into the movie. I was more interested in Farrah. In the dark, sitting way up in back, we kissed and shared a bucket of popcorn. Farrah, almost absentmindedly, fed me. I had my arm over her shoulders. It was so much fun; she fed herself popcorn, then she fed me some. We’d pause for a kiss, then her head would settle against my shoulder. A couple of minutes later, the routine would be repeated.