Page 88 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

our eyes staying on each other.

I cup his cigarette and light it for him.

He drags deep before smoke spills out of him and ghosts down my throat.

“Now, tell me,” I say. “What the hell is the myth of Andrew Harding?”

He laughs hollow as he leans back. “Oh, we goin’ straight there? Right now? You wanna know the myth of Andrew Harding, huh?”

His gaze settles on me, and my face falls serious. “Aight. But first you gotta know how the whole mess started.”

He points his cig at me.

“And you ain’t gonna like it.”

TRACK NO. 11: WHY DO FOOLS FALL IN LOVE

FRANKIE LYMON, THE TEENAGERS

// ANDREW - THE HARDINGS - UNION CITY, NJ //

Cue Sundays at the Hardings⁠—

Gravy simmerin’ on the stove, whole house smellin’ like garlic and onion, and the record player spinnin’ some doo-wop shit—“Earth Angel” and “Come Go with Me.” Moms danced through the living room, feet bare, hair tied up in bandanas.

And there was Andrew at the dining table, seven years old, school uniform still buttoned up like he worked the dinner shift, crayons scattered everywhere as he scribbled up menus, misspellin’ the whole damn thing. He’d say, ‘Welcome to Where My Moms Eat’ as they sat down, water in wine glasses, napkins folded fancy. He’d speak the specials with a grown-up voice and a hand on his heart.

‘Tonight’s meatballs come with a side’a class,’ he’d say.

They laughed, clapped, and kissed his forehead.

After dinner service, he’d pull out this busted little guitar Uncle John scored for ten bucks at some pawnshop off Kennedy. The strings buzzed, half the frets fucked, but it sang anyway, and so did he.

His go-to was “Why Do Fools Fall in Love” ‘cause a thirteen-year-old wrote it. He never understood how some kid already knew heartbreak, but people were still singin’ it seventy years later.

Maybe the kid knew more than most men ever would. That’s when he learned: Kids love to give, and grown-ups love to get.

Then later, when his moms crashed early, he didn’t stop. He’d roll cream cheese into salami slices, lay ‘em out on paper plates with crackers, and knock on their door. ‘Room service, ma’ams,’ like he was workin’ at the fuckin’ Waldorf.

And they’d sit in bed laughin’, mouthin’ ‘this fuckin’ kid,’ eatin’ up every bite, every word, sayin’ he was the cutest maître d’ in the tri-state.

That was the happy part.

He didn’t know what the opposite of happy was yet.

He only knew his moms smiled when he served ‘em dinner, when he sang, when he pretended to be someone else, so he kept doin’ it.

They’d bought the house on Catalano that year. Their first one.

Half the outlets were shot and the roof leaked, but it had a stoop. And if he leaned out the bathroom window just right, he could see the city skyline.

He didn’t know they were broke. All he knew was that if the heater gave out, he built caves out of the couch cushions and burrito-wrapped in a blanket. If the lights went out, he’d deal poker in the dark with flashlights. If the stove died, he called it picnic night and made Nutella and ricotta on Italian bread, dusted with powdered sugar or a drizzle of honey, then passed them out wrapped in napkins. He didn’t know he was turnin’ broke into magic, make-do into make-believe.

He was the center of it even then, makin’ ‘em smile. But it was the times they didn’t smile that stuck with him.

His ninth birthday—July ninth, hot as balls—they asked what he wanted, and he told ‘em, Jordan 4 White Cements. He spotted ‘em once in the window of Urban Wear. All white leather, speckled grey like street gravel. He even sketched ‘em on notebook paper and wrote the name across the top so they didn’t get the wrong ones.

They weren’t just sneakers. In Jersey, Jordans were royalty, status, a sense of belonging. You didn’t matter unless you had a gold chain around your neck and Js on your feet. The older boys wore both like armor. They shined their chains, laced their shoes. Js on their soles, swagger in their bones, walkin’ with chins high, a boss stride, ownin’ the fuckin’ block.