AND BARRY WAS HIS NAME, OH!

Fenwick Preparatory was our brother school. They went to class downtown, where the streets were narrow and close, in a brick building with yellow iron fire escapes snaking down the front of it and the sides. We hardly ever saw them, until late September when Astrid met Barry.

Astrid said, “Barry’s got a deviated septum. Or he had one. Now it’s just a kind of scar. I think it’s sexy.”

“Barry’s arms are the size of telephone poles. Big, just how I like them.”

“Barry’s got practice.”

“Don’t laugh. Barry calls me ‘Sexy Sexerton from Sexville.’ I said don’t laugh.”

“Barry called last night.”

“Barry lives on Lakeshore Drive. You’ve seen it, that monster Georgian with gardens all the way down to the lake. He says he throws a kegger every spring. He wants us all to come.”

“He bit me. Right here.” She thumbed a purple hickey on her shoulder. “Ouch,” she said. “But, like, not really.”

“Barry says Ronald Reagan is a fucking corporate pawn.”

“He’s got this voice, Jesus, whispering in my ear like Mickey Rourke or something. I’m serious as all get out.”

“Barry said, ‘You’re an emotional cripple. But otherwise, yeah, you’re cool.’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“He doesn’t like smokers. He says girls who smoke have sexual problems.” Astrid paused and lit up a Kool. “What a bunch of BS, right?”

“I don’t think Barry would like this blouse. It’s too frilly Prince.”

“He hasn’t called. Why hasn’t he called?”

“We saw Goonies last night. I have no clue what happened.”

“Barry drives a baby blue BMW with heated seats. He lets me play with the radio while he’s driving.”

“Barry said he likes Fenwick. That he wouldn’t want to go to school with girls. ‘Too distracting,’ he said. And then we made out till we fell asleep.”

“Barry’s Italian-German, I guess. Although his mother’s always making casserole.”

“He chews Clorets.”

“He says, ‘You make me wanna do something bad.’ ”

“Barry’s dad is a vice president at Miller Brewing. You know what I’m saying: cash-ola.”

“He’s a wicked kisser.”

“Look. Barry gave me his pin,” Astrid said, sliding into Juli’s lemon-colored Audi and pulling open the flap on her army jacket. There, poked through the red cotton of her zippered hoodie, was Barry’s brass Fenwick pin shaped like a flaming torch.

We said, “Wow, no shit.”

When we did finally meet him, Barry was standing in a parking lot in front of the 7-Eleven with all his Fenwick friends. He wore a Fenwick letterman jacket, white leather and red boiled wool, over plain old acid-washed jeans. He had his big, beefy arm fitted around Astrid’s neck like a vise.

“The way she talked about him, I thought he’d be, I don’t know, like a god, you know?” Juli whispered.

“What’s so special about a Fenwick linebacker with a perm?”

Later, Astrid called and said, “Barry does this thing. Where he lies across me, all his weight like a ton of bricks, and goes, ‘This is a drill. Okay, I’m dead. You get out from under me.’ And I can’t. I can’t even breathe. And I love it. Crazy, whoa.”