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"If your friends were jumping off a cliff would you follow them?"

"If my friends were jumping off a cliff they'd be following me."

That was the last time Ellen Valentino's parents ever asked her that question. It was also the first time she ever saw me spit coffee across a room. I laughed so hard I thought I'd broken a rib.

When we were finally putting the seat belts on, and the tears had stopped streaming down my face, she asked me why I thought her comeback was so funny.

That answer was rather simple to give. You see it wasn't the look of shock and awe on her father's face, or the one of utter surrender on her mother's. No. The reason, was a matter of fact, "That was the same answer I gave my parents when they asked me that very same question."

I was fifteen. And they pretty much had the same reactions.

Ah! Memories.

"I knew we were friends for a reason," she laughs.

I caught her view in the seat next to me. She had her head out of the window enjoying the breeze on her face. Her blonde hair flowed over the headrest. The wind whipped it back, revealing about four inches of skin, shaved from her temples to the base of her skull, curving sensually above the tops of her ears.

She pulls back in, looks at me and grins. It's a forcible demeanor. Think, Bellatrix Lastrange playing Jack Torrence. "Here's Johnny!" She's about to be up to no good.

She is a beautiful girl. Stunningly so. You'll never see her wear even the slightest hint of make up. Faded blue jeans and tank tops are her go-tos.

Particularly mine.

I don't mind. They look better on her than they do on me. Particularly from the side. That sultry, diminutive curve that arcs just under the fabric. She buys me new ones all the time because she's just going to steal them anyway. But they never quite fit me the same, on the random occasion they made it back.

She stands tall. And at five foot nine that isn't very hard for her to do. She weighs all of one hundred and fifteen pounds. All muscle. Karate, kickboxing and weekends tossing hay see to that. She has small but firm boobs, that sit proud on her chest. And she has a really tight butt. I once joked you could probably break a bottle off it.

The girl is sharper than a razor.

And nuttier than chunky style peanut-butter.

She was a four point oh student all the way through high school. And an impressive four point five on the crazy scale. Out of five.

She is completely undisturbed at the way the rest of the world looks at her. Modern proprieties hold no sway over her judgement.

She looks at life with a critically, discerning leer.

The first day I met her was my seventh day in a new school. Tuesday. Lunchtime. The last period to get some institutionalized sustenance.

I was feeling antisocial.

New kid syndrome. Some of you know how that goes.

The one kid that had even bothered to talk to me ended up being a douche-bag. The kind of kid who comes to your house unannounced, sidles his way into dinner, then steals the change from your car on his way out.

Which is exactly what he had done the night before.

I knew if I found a table with any empty seats he would make himself at home. And I just didn't feel like dealing with his shit. Or anybody else's for that matter.

I was pondering my options when I found myself fixated on her presence. I think my eyes intuitively went right where they knew sanctuary would be. She always ate at the same spot. She always sat alone. Always.

Everybody in that place was scared shitless of her.

At first I thought it was her looks they were afraid of. A trope. The girl so beautiful that no one would approach. It seemed a common theme in movies those days. Art imitates life. Isn't that what they say. What they don't tell you is, life always find's a way to imitate art right back.

But then I considered the possibility that her father may have been a mob boss. Or a gangster. Or maybe even an assassin.

Bald Hitman, not hooded Creed.

But then I heard the nicknames they cautiously whispered. When they talked about her after she was passed. And was far enough away that they thought they couldn't be heard.

Vicious Valentine. Psycho Barbie. Bloody Buffy. That last one was my absolute favorite.

'Fuck it.'

I walked right up and plopped myself down in the seat directly across from her. She looked up from her book, laid eyes on me, then went right back to reading whatever text she had been so absorbed in.

I was halfway through a thinly sliced, round meat, thing, smothered in gravy. Stuff they tried to pass off as food. Last period lunch sucked. You took the least unappealing thing they had left. Or starved. No pizza squares. No burgers. Not even spaghetti and meatballs. All of those choices were always gone.

'Hot open turkey? Since when is turkey grayish-brown?'

It was that or tuna surprise, in a hot dog roll. I didn't want to know what the surprise was. One of the kids on line in front of me said something about getting your stomach pumped or not. Made perfect sense to me. Especially at this time of the day.

Something moved into my space.

I saw the black and white of a text book come into view at the top of my tray.

I took a glance and she was pointing her finger at a specific sentence on the page. Tapping.

Her fingernails were clean, unpolished, short and rough. There was dry cracked skin, a suggestion of callouses, on the inner edges of her fingers, just before the web.

It took a few seconds for the words printed on the leaf to sink in.

Under the sponsorship of Queen Isabella of France, Christopher Columbius sailed in search of a new trade route with the East indies.

I looked up, with squinting eyes, "Well, that doesn't seem quite right. On quite a few of levels."

"I'm not crazy then? It was Spain? Right?"

"I don't know. I never heard of the Columbius guy."

She looked at the sentence again, "Hmmmm. So the same time that Christopher Columbus sailed from Spain, a Christopher Columbius sailed from France. What are the odds of that? That's gonna be a real pain in the ass to remember for a test."

"Never mind the fact that this Isabella chick was screwing two different Kings in two different countries. At the same time."

"What a two-timing hooker. That must have been a bitch, keeping that a secret." She scratched her chin with her thumb, " I wonder what happened to that Columbius guy? He just disappears from history. You think, maybe, pirates?"

"Devil's Triangle."

"Devil's Triangle pirates from Zeta Reticuli."

She went quiet. One arm on the gray laminate. Her chin propped up on her fist. Staring at me while I finished my lunch.

When I was done I leaned back in my seat and caught her sizing me up.

She cocked her head to the side, curious, "What's your story?"

"Lord of the Rings. Yours?"

"One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. Haven't you heard?"

" Ah! Juicy Fruit."

Her eyes shot open and she bit back a laugh, trapping it behind an intrigued grin, "That was the movie, not the book. Close enough though. You pass." Then she leaned across the table and kissed me, quick, right on the lips. "You've got balls," she stated, matter of factly, "I'm Ellen. See you for lunch tomorrow? Strider."

It took nearly a whole second for my brain to reboot, "You've got boobs. I'm Chris. Why the hell not.... Chief."

She shot me a look and smiled. Then she gathered her stuff and walked out.

The crowd at the door parted before her. Like the Red Sea for Moses and the Israelites.

Then they parted for me as I walked out a few minutes behind.

Seems, crazy, is contagious. Or I was now guilty by association. I honestly didn't care. It was nice not having to say excuse me fifty times. And be ignored and bumped into for twenty.

Even douche averted his eyes, turned around and slunk away. But that could have been guilt. Though honestly, I doubt that.

I never quite made it to the lunchroom the next day. Or the day after. Or many days after, if I'm being honest.

She had caught me in the hallway outside, put her right arm around me, merged her tongue with mine, and dragged me out of that place. To "The Hill".

That moniker was a bit of an exaggeration. It was little more than a bump with a tree on it. Over by the parking lot. Off the football field. Still it was a nice place to go NOT to have a smoke or a toke. We just didn't do those things back then and besides it wasn't allowed. Wink, wink. That was sarcasm.

A pair of deliciously greasy sandwiches emerged from one of those round top construction worker lunchboxes. She had brought lunch. For the two of us. Philly style cheesesteaks. I asked her to take a bite of mine, just to prove it wasn't poisoned. She punched me in the shoulder. Took a good humored bite out of the middle, then made me take a bite out of hers. Just to even things up.

When we were done, she sat on my lap and curled herself into me. "I spent three weeks at the Letch."

"What's that?"

"An Asylum."

"They fix you up?"

"I don't think there was anything that needed fixing. Truth be told."

"Well, I always had the feeling, if a Psychiatrist said you were normal, it only meant you were the same fucked up as the majority of the people on this maniacal space rock."

"Don't you want to know how I ended up there?"

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Considering that your hand is gripping my crotch, I don't think I want to rile up the crazy person."

"You're an ass," she snickered, "Besides, you have one hand up my shirt and the other down my pants."

"They were cold. And you are really toasty."

"They do say Psychos run hot."

"Hmm. I'm liking crazy more and more every day."

She sighed, put her nose to my cheek and gave me a tender kiss. She put her head back on my shoulder and spoke. Her voice was distant and low. "I stabbed my next door neighbor with a croquet stake."

"Ahhh. So that's where Bloody Buffy came from! Fucking ingenious. No wonder this school is rated top five in the country."

"Wanna know why?"

"Look. You're the most comfortable person I've ever been around. I mean I've only known you two days but it's like we've been us for a long time. Always have been. Even the boob in my hand feels like it belongs there. It just feels right. You don't need to justify yourself to me." I gave her a squeeze, "You have really nice nipples by the way."

"Thank you. Glad you approve. You have a pleasant feeling dick."

"Thanks. Speaking of can you maybe adjust it up a..." She slid her hand down my pants and adjusted me to a more comfortable angle. "Ahhhh. Much better." I sighed. "Thank you. You're the best."

"No problem. Anytime."

"I'll hold you to that."

"No! I'll hold YOU to that." The Cheshire cat would have been jealous at the teeth I was seeing.

She put her hand back on the outside of my jeans, over my zipper. Brushed her head up under my chin and continued, "I found three dead dogs in the woods behind my house that summer. One day I heard something whining. I grabbed the stake from my yard, you know for protection. Little girls going into the woods need weapons. To fend off bears."

"And wolves," I interrupted.

"Do I look like Little red to you?"

"You do look good enough to eat."

"Jack ass. Anyway. When I got close to the noise I saw him choking a poodle."

"That sounds like a euphemism."

"Hah. It does. But It's not."

"Did he live?"

"Yeah. I was ten. Just kinda jabbed. He was hospitalized though. I broke a rib, punctured a lung and gave him a whole bunch of stitches. I guess angry adrenaline packs a punch. He lied and said I was the one that was killing the dogs and that I got angry when he tried to stop me. I had a stake and I guess a really pissed off look. He had blood, tears, a reputation and standing."

"I'm guessing it took three weeks for them to figure out you weren't that way?"

"No. It only took two days. It was a court order. It took the police three weeks to prove it was him. I'd probably still be in there if the doctors hadn't vouched for me. Between my parents calling every single day, and the doctors getting on the judge's ass, they didn't have much choice but to consider my case a priority."

On rainy days we'd eat in her car. She was a year ahead of me and I only had my learners permit. I wouldn't get a license until I was almost eighteen. I got stuck with the same tester three times. He hated under age male drivers. I failed one test for running over a paper bag that blew in the street.

She started taking me to her Aunt's farm on the weekends a couple of weeks later. To help out. Her Uncle had died and it was too much for the woman alone. She was a nice lady. Tough, demanding, but nice. And a great cook. My parents were more than happy to get a break from me. And she paid us good. So they were even happier not having me ask for cash all the time.

The first time we adventured into the realm of sex it was late November. You'd think all the touching and groping we did, all the time, would have teased us into a frenzy long before then. But the way we touched and talked, like that first day on the hill, in her car and any of the other places we could get away with it, that actually had seemed to calm us. There was no rush. It was an intimacy that didn't need to have a pace.

It was a cold, wet, icy Friday night. Her Aunt was visiting a sick friend in Jersey. We had our list of chores and she was going to cook us a feast when she got back on Sunday.

Some time around midnight, I felt her crawling under the quilt next to me on the pull out sofa. The fire was still crackling but her body was warmer than the heat the burning logs gave off. She settled around me with a radiance.

I could smell her need.

It was intense.

I wrapped my arms around her and realized she was completely naked.

We made love for hours. It was slow, deliberate, pleasing and passionate. Neither of us had ventured down this path before, but together, it was like just like breathing. Natural. With a flow.

I woke up the next morning and she was on top of me. Kissing me with the dawn in her eyes. I was inside her, rising. Like the sun.

We got up and made breakfast. We ate in the nude on a bench by the window. We cleaned up the living room, showered together and dressed each other. Very slowly. Then we went about our day. Feeding and watering the animals. Milking the cows. Pulling hay bales from the loft to make them new beds. And cleaning up their shit. There was always tons of shit.

When night fell we had dinner and watched TV.

Nothing had changed. There was no grand revelation. No embarkation onto foreign shores. Our comfort and familiarity was still strong.

She was there like she always had been. Sitting on my lap with her head on my shoulder and her hand on my crotch. The only thing different was the lack of clothes. My hands still touching the places where they felt they belonged. She was their home. She made me hers.

We slept together that night. Just slept. Forehead to forehead and dreaming.

Janie, her aunt, came home around noon on Sunday. She kept looking at us with a smirk all day. Overtly, whenever we were in the living room with her. There was an essence that permeated the room. A certain undeniable scent that centered on one particular piece of furniture. We had cleaned the sheets and the patchwork but somehow we hadn't thought to spray a little freshener on the couch itself.

She never said a single word to anyone.

We even found ourselves in the house alone on a few more occasions. She even cleaned out the guest room for me. It had a pass through bathroom to Ellen's. We never took advantage of that situation though. It would have been rude.

And we had the hay loft. For times when the urges over-ruled the fatigue of the toil.

Now, here we are, seven years later. Traveling down the road toward another crazy destination. Skydiving. I had gone once. While she was at college. She was taking agriculture classes, animal husbandry and business. I was working the farm full time.

This trip was the impetus that drove her parents to ask that question about who follows who.

The one that ended with me cleaning coffee off of their kitchen floor.

Our folks keep asking us when we're getting married. I don't have the heart to tell them we already are. Have been since my eighteenth birthday.

We went bungee jumping that morning. Had lunch with my parents, a little after noon, to celebrate. She bought me a rifle. A Henry 45-70, lever action. After lunch with the folks she took me rock climbing upstate. When I got to the top I was met by a sight that made me pause. A portable church box on a stand, a justice of the peace. A picnic table with food and drink. And two hang gliders. Prepped and ready to fly.

I was proposed to before I had fully stood up on the ridge. I was a married man twenty minutes later. We ate. And jumped off that cliff together. Strapped to two seasoned pros.

When I say the girl is crazy I wholeheartedly mean it. Spontaneous. Unafraid. Unashamed. Like it should be.

And apparently I'm not far behind. I had a good teacher. Well maybe not a teacher, more like a partner in crime that nurtured my better attributes.

"STOP. Turn around." I hear from above me. In a loud jovial tone.

I look up to see what the commotion is about and spy the bottom of two perfect breasts, top-lit, through the sunroof. It's captivating. Her tops off. She standing on the seat.

That belly makes me growl.

I would never have believed you, if you said a belly could turn me on as much as hers did at just that moment.

I pull the car to the side, kiss her stomach and pull a quick u turn. No questions asked. We never asked.

A few hundred feet back, down this four lane road, and she's pointing to the right. I pull over by the guardrail. She jumps out and grabs her tank top, off of a bush, on the other side of the metal divide.

It's actually my tank top. Semantics.

A trucker sounds his appreciation. She twirls the shirt over her head in triumph.

We laugh.

She slips into the passenger seat, pulls her pants off and sighs.

She closes her eyes and seat dances. The song, 'Slow Ride'. The band, Foghat. It's blasting on the radio. The dance? It's more of a stretching, twisting wiggle. But it's the sexiest dance I've ever seen. Raw. Unbridled. Happy.

"Hmmm. You trimmed. Is that a heart?"

"Mmmhmm. You like?"

"I love."

"I see a bit of pit hair growing too."

"Yeah. I figured I'd give that a whirl. I hate shaving under there. It gets raw." She stretches her arms up high. "Whatdaya think?"

"Just more things on you to play with and run my fingers through. You gonna let the legs go too?"

"Hmm. I don't know. Never thought about it. I'm not really keen on that look. I think it looks dirty and not in the sexy way."

"I think your hair is light enough and fine enough. You could probably make it look hot."

"Do you want me to?"

"Could be different."

"Sure. I could always shave it if I don't like it. Maybe go back and forth. I do like the smooth feel. But. Why the hell not."

The car ride ends in a wide open field. She dressed while I found us a spot to park.

We stretch and make our way to the sign up office. It's a trailer. There are two of them we have to go to. Well the office is more of a repurposed food truck. The place for the paperwork and the 'try and scare you out of this endeavor' vid, is the trailer.

Not a trailer home, an actual trailer, from an eighteen wheeler, with the wheels off. Up on cinder blocks. It looks like so many of the cars, on the side of the deserted streets of Hunt's Point, that I used to see as a kid while going to my grandparents house in Brooklyn.

Their burnt out shells still haunt me to this day.

Inside, this shoddy make shift school, there are some seats and tables and a tiny TV - VCR combo.

The tape starts.

Static and a wobbly picture.

Distorted people take shape.

The color's so faded you can barely tell the blues and reds from the gray.

A voice comes through the speaker, warbled and out of pace. Warning of peril.

Disfigurement.

DEATH.

I look to my left and she's smiling. It's that, I'm up to no good beam that I'm so used to seeing just before she says, "Hey let's go....." or "Fuck yeah! I'm in. Let's do that."

Or when she hands me her tee shirt to hold onto from the back of the motorcycle.

I've seen it in the mirrors on the handlebars.

"That video was shocking." She mocks.

"Yeah! Who knew falling from fifteen thousand feet could be so dangerous."

We get suited up in zip front jumpers. Unceremoniously stuffed and bound into harnesses. They are hella uncomfortable in the crotch. She whispers she's glad she trimmed. I'm not glad. Not because she trimmed but because I didn't. I should have remembered.

There's a pull.

We board a twin prop plane, squatting. An otter I think they called it.

"Funny, I didn't know an otter could fly."

"Maybe they let it go for a swim in the pond when it's done for the day."

We ascend fast, in a spiral. All we can hear is the engine at first. Then the moaning of metal takes our ears. The tink, tink, tunk of what sounds like rivets popping. Time to go. Couldn't have come sooner.

Just like the first time I'm out the door before my tandem counts three. She'll give me hell for it on the ground just like the other guy did.

The wind rushes past. Ten thousand feet fly by in heart beats. I pull the t-handle at five. The canopy opens with a ruffling and a whoomf. The world stops coming, then pulls away.

Freedom.

Weightlessness.

Clarity.

Invincibility.

I wish I could stay up here for days.

But gravity has jurisdiction over those desires.

"I couldn't wait to get off that thing. I swear I heard a piece fly off. I thought if I didn't jump I was going to die..."

"When the plane broke apart on the way down and you ended up in a fiery heap on the ground?"

"YES!"

"That's exactly how I felt my first time on that relic."

"Maybe it's psychological? Incentive to jump."

"Makes sense. It worked on me. Both times."

She grabs me by the hand, pulls me into the woods and takes me right then and there, in the leaves. One hundred feet from the runway. Fifty from the pro-shop.

Only one person has a comment as we walk back to the car. And all she says is,"Eat, Fuck. Skydive," right as we're passing her by.

"Catchy."

"I think we're doing it backwards."

We go into town to get some heroes. Meatball parm. I drive us over to a nice little park with a pond. The lady at the deli told me about it the last time I was here.

There's a little spot with a rise and a tree on it. Just like old times.

She sits on my lap with her head on my shoulder. One of my hands is under her shirt, a warm, perfectly hard nipple pokes my palm. My other hand is nestled under the waist band of her jeans, my fingers are teasing at her heart shaped bush.

She has her hand on my crotch. Like always.

"So! Bloody Buffy. Vampire slaying next weekend?"

"I was thinking whitewater rafting... In the nude."

"You can take the girl out of the country. But you can't take the country out of the girl."

"Why would you want to?"

I honestly say, "I have no, fucking clue."