Peter said he wanted to see me ride the carousel, but I didn’t want to; didn’t he realize I was too old for that? As usual, I let him have his way because it was easier than listening to him nag. As the lighted mirrors and pastoral scenes turned under the pavilion, I hid my face in my wet hair, smelling the salt of the Atlantic in its tangled strands. I’d gotten into this habit of draping my long hair over my face like a sheepdog and wearing dark sunglasses even on overcast days. Every time we went, Peter repeated his stories of a Brooklyn gang he’d run around with when he was fifteen. The initiation was to stand perfectly still while the gang shot at him with homemade guns that never fired straight; it was terrifying to stand with their tiny bullets whizzing all around him. He told me of how they beat him up every day until he’d agreed to join; how they robbed women walking on Mermaid or Neptune Avenues, to get money to ride the attractions at Steeplechase Park. Once, Peter left the beach to walk to the bathrooms, and as I stood with my feet in the surf, a good-looking Hispanic boy in drenched basketball shorts came over.
