up, Mom. I won't ride on the roller coaster.
It's not even running."

I grab a sweater and gloves and money and get out before they can start
anymore questions. On the subway I start wondering if Mary will show up.
It's almost two months since we made this sort of crazy date, and the
weather sure isn't helping any.

Coney Island is made to be crowded and noisy. All the billboards scream at
you, as if they had to get your attention. So when the place is empty, it
looks like the whole thing was a freak or an accident.

It's sure empty today. There's practically no one on the street in the
five or six blocks from the subway station to the aquarium. But it's not
quiet. There are a few places open--merry-go-rounds and hot-dog shops--and
tinny little trickles of music come out of them, but the big noise is the
wind. All the signs are swinging and screeching. Rubbish cans blow over
and their tops clang and bang rolling down the street. The wind makes a
whistling noise all by itself.

I lean into the wind and walk up the empty street. My sweater is about as
warm as a sieve. I wonder if I'm crazy to have come. No girl would get out
on a boardwalk on a day like this. It must be practically a hurricane.

She's there, though. As soon as I turn the corner to the beach, I can see
one figure, with its back to the ocean, scarf and hair blowing inland
toward me. I can't see her face, but it's Mary, all right. There isn't
another soul in sight. I wave and she hunches her shoulders up and down to
semaphore, not wishing to take her hands out of her pockets.

I come up beside her on the boardwalk and turn my back to the ocean, too.
I'd like to go on looking at it--it's all black and white and thundery--but
the wind blows your breath right back down into your stomach. I freeze.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come on a day like this," I say.

"Me too. I mean I was afraid _you_ wouldn't."

"Mom and Pop thought I was crazy. I spent about an hour arguing with them.
What'd your mother say?"

"Nothing. She thinks I'm walking alone with the wind in my hair, thinking
poetic thoughts."

"Huh? What for?"

Mary shrugs. "Mom's like that. You'll see. Come on, let's go home and make
cocoa or something to warm up, and then we'll think up something to do. We
can't just stand here."

She's right about that, so I don't argue. Her house is a few blocks away,
a two-family type with a sloped driveway going down into a cellar garage.
Neat. My pop is a