Kindness at all costs. Sure. Nice Sunday school saying. My mother's favorite, in fact.

I wasn't thinking very much about kindness at that point. After four months here, I decided I had to find a girlfriend. Sure, I had a girlfriend back home. So call me a creep, which I probably was. I was far from home, lonely, and horny.

I didn't officially have a girlfriend back home, not really, at least I told myself I didn't, and that was almost as good as being true. So it wasn't as much of a stretch as you might think to decide that it was OK to find someone here.

They didn't talk about this in the orientation for exchange students. Spending a year abroad, away from parents, seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. A big adventure, I mean. It was a program for high school students. The chicken kids did it just for the summer. The rest of us for an entire calendar year.

You know the idea: learning about others means better understanding means world peace, or something like that. You live with a family somewhere else, go to school, make new friends, tell others about how great the USA is, blah, blah, blah. Oh, and how lovely to learn about your country, too. Right.

What they didn't tell you was how lonely it would be. You give up your friends, your girlfriend if you have one, your school routine, all of it. Parents, too, although at least at first that didn't seem to be that much of a deal.

So you end up in a new country, new town, new host family, as they're called, new set of "brothers" and "sisters," and that stuff. Too bad in my host family the only "sister" was like about nine years old. I was 16. She was a cutie, and later became absolutely stunning, but nine? Don't think so.

And then there was the thing about going to a single-sex school. A Catholic school, at that. Colegio del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús. Sacred Heart of Jesus High School. I'm from California, been in coed schools since kindergarten. Hell, since pre-school. What is this deal with guys only?

Ah, but after awhile I found out. Sure, it's guys only, but guess what? Guys have sisters. OK, call me slow, but it took me awhile to realize that. Unfortunately, my new best friend's sister was already going steady with my new second-best friend, so she was out.

Then I went to a party at the Martínez Villalobo house. Yeah, double last names, how weird is that. First one's the father's family name, second one is the mother's family name. Strange, and complicated, but you get a lot of information right off the bat. All new to me, obviously, but the town wasn't all that big, which meant that even if at first you didn't know this family, you knew from the start who had married whom, and chances were you knew someone from at least one of those families.

"Juan Carlos, hombre, cuándo me vas a presentar a tu hermana?" (Juan Carlos, man, when are you going to introduce me to your sister?)

OK, enough with the Spanish. You get the idea. Four months in, crash mental course to supplement my pitiful years of Spanish instruction in school back in California, and I was pretty fluent. Hormones. Competitiveness. Great motivators.

I pulled that on old Juan Carlos after seeing his sister, María Luisa, at that party I mentioned before. She was lovely: slender with nice curves, not too much, a little shorter than me, brunette as was just about everyone here. She was a year younger than us. Delicious-looking cafe-au-lait skin. Family a little on the darker side, putting the lie to her laughing claim later that "We are pure Spanish." The bad news was that I hadn't spoken a word to her at the party. Only found out later that she was his sister.

And, unfortunately, her brother was basically a Nazi-loving prick. Does anyone in this day and age have any doubts about who won the Second World War, and about what the Nazis represented? Well, old Juan Carlos the idiot apparently did. The country had a reputation for being a haven for Nazis. Maybe he was hoping to become one, I don't know.

Anyway, he wasn't any too pleased at my interest in his baby sister, but eventually he agreed. I've forgotten how it worked out, to be honest with you. I think maybe we met downtown for a Coke or something. At any rate, he introduced us.

I was in full campaign mode from then on. I'm not an asshole, at least I don't think I am, but I was intent on seeing how far I could get with María Luisa.

First step was to figure out where to meet her. I couldn't go to her house every day; we didn't know each other that well, and I had never met her parents. And of course we went to different schools.

"When can I see you?"

We had a moment alone while Juan Carlos went to the can before we left the coffee bar.

"You can't."

I think she was kidding, but I wasn't sure.

"Don't you ever leave the house?"

"I have a piano lesson near the main post office every Tuesday and Thursday. But you can't see me."

"What if I just happened to be around there? When is your lesson over?"

Still not sure whether she was kidding or not.

"4:30 p.m. But you can't see me."

"Well, if I happened to be outside the main post office at, say, 4:35 p.m., I would see you leaving, wouldn't I?"

"No. I wouldn't see you."

But she was smiling.

OK, I thought to myself, I'll play this little game and see where it goes. After all, this is modern times. We're all pretty liberated, more or less.

"OK."

So, there I was on the following day, Thursday, outside the main post office, standing on the sidewalk in the rain dodging women with their umbrellas, half-convinced she wouldn't show.

She did.

No kid had a car there, so we all walked everywhere. Sometimes a bus, sometimes a taxi if it was late at night, but otherwise it was walk or forget it. In her case, it was at least a 30-minute walk from downtown to her house, and I was going to make the most of it.

So we walked and talked about this and that. I discovered she had a brain or two in her head, in contrast to her idiot brother, and she had kind of a different take on things. Used to being in brother's shadow, I figured. Later on, I found out there was more to her story, including two younger siblings, twins, who died when they were five years old. She wasn't very old at the time, maybe 10 or so, but it hurt a lot then. Still did.

Did that make her some kind of tragic goddess? Not really. She was a girl, no boyfriend, and I knew, or at least I thought I did, how to deal with girls. After all, where I grew up every class had several of them. At least one blonde cheerleader and two blonde surfer chicks were required to be present. My school was no exception, even though I didn't live anywhere near the beach.

Meeting María Luisa became my routine on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We never stopped for coffee or a Coke, never went out of our way, just walked and talked. Later on, someone told me that most intercourse is verbal, and he or she was right.

Long after the point where back home I would have had the girl out on a date, parking somewhere after a movie, and, with any luck at all, her blouse open and bra unsnapped and both of us working as hard as we could to get skin-on-skin, María Luisa and I were still walking and talking. I'd never kissed her, never even touched her, except maybe to hold her elbow as we crossed the street. Hold her elbow, can you believe that? Oh, and I carried her books once or twice, too. Totally elementary school stuff.

But it was heaven, I tell you.

Not sure why María Luisa didn't have a boyfriend. Probably her brother was in the way, or maybe she was just shy. I imagine there were plenty of guys interested. Anyway, slow and easy was my strategy. Just be the nice guy. Plus, of course, being the only americano kid around was some advantage.

A few weeks later, her family threw a party for María Luisa and Juan Carlos and their friends. I was invited. Met her parents, matching short round people, danced a little. We didn't even hold hands, although we were slow letting each other go after each dance.

Apparently I passed some kind of test, because I was invited to Sunday dinner.

"María Luisa baked the cake."

Her mother was smiling when she said that.

"Then let him eat the whole thing."

That was her dad. I later found out María Luisa got her sense of humor from him.

At any rate, I didn't have to eat the whole stupid cake, although it was delicious. That was the final test. I passed. From then on it was clear sailing.

Well, to tell you the truth, "clear sailing" is a relative term. Where do you find privacy when no one has a car, you do all your meeting in public places and walking here and there? The answer was right in front of my nose. It's called a living room.

Sure, her mom, and sometimes her dad, were always around, but they usually left us alone. And her brother was out the way, too, off visiting his girlfriend. I'd met her. Perfect match. He liked to shoot off his mouth, and she liked to listen.

So, we talked, and we cuddled a little. And a little more. For a shy girl presumably without much experience, she was one hell of a kisser. I wondered about that. We spent hours, it seemed like, just kissing. Then, one Sunday afternoon, I moved my hand up to her breast. She jumped.

"What are you doing?"

"Touching you."

"Why?"

Huh? OK, I know she didn't mean that literally. After all, no one who kissed like she did could be unaware of what other fun possibilities there might be. She really meant, I think, "Are you serious?"

"María Luisa, I love you."

Well, I really liked her, anyway. Maybe it was love, who knows?

She smiled. And kissed me. And pressed herself against me.

Look, this isn't some kind of weird Latin American thing where the blushing virgin first feels the touch of the manly man and swoons, and one kiss means love ever after. We were kids, yes, but we were modern kids. She meant what she said. I figured it was just that she hadn't yet let anyone get that close to her. No one was getting married on the basis of hand-on-breast. Especially considering my hand was on the outside of her sweater.

The other place you find privacy, of a sort, anyway, is the movie theater. We went to a lot of movies. We didn't sit in the back row, but that didn't matter. Even in a crowded theater there's a certain amount of room to maneuver between your bodies. A hand can quietly cup a breast. Done right, no one else is likely to notice. That hand can also rest on a thigh. Especially nice since the girls wore skirts, not pants.

We practiced and practiced, and got pretty good at all of this. It was pretty much always my hand on her, not the other way around. And those kisses. Less is more, sometimes. We kissed for hours, it seemed like.

Talk about a close call. Saying goodnight to María Luisa one night in her doorway, we started kissing and kept going. Pressing against each other. Sure, she was wearing a dress and I was wearing a suit and tie, but we could feel each other. I started moving and couldn't stop. Humping myself partly on her thigh, partly flat against her center. Just as I spasmed, the door opened and her mother looked out. Mouth and lips smiling, eyes not so much.

"Time to come in."

I have a feeling her mom knew exactly what had happened.

I was frantic at that point. A little taste. I wanted more. Pretty sure she did, too. My chance came a week later.

The roof of her house was flat. It was late spring by then, very warm, very humid. Thundershowers getting more common. One night a line of showers passed through. Everything drenched, but then it was a little cooler.

"Want to go up on the roof?"

María Luisa looking at me with a little smile as she spoke.

"Sure."

She insisted I go up the ladder first. Didn't want me looking up her dress, I guess. Once on the roof, we leaned over the rail to watch the street below, houses across the way, sky clearing, stars coming out.

Her parents were out for the evening, which meant they wouldn't be back until well after midnight. Juan Carlos out, too, thank God. Arms and thighs touching as we looked and talked.

Then we were kissing. And kissing. Lips apart a little. Taking a break to work my way down the side of her neck and back up. Tongues. Her center pressed against me, and I liked it. She had to be able to feel me. I could feel her rubbing against me.

More kissing. My hands tight around her back, then down to cup her bottom and keep her tight against me. She moved a little more against my cock, and that was almost enough to set me off. Hands back up to cup and palm her breasts. She liked that.

Light summer dress. Buttons down the front. We broke apart, and I started unbuttoning, hands trembling. I'd waited a long time for this. She stopped me. Took over the job. Dress open to her waist. Bra unsnapped from the front. My hands now on her bare breasts, her nipples stiff, her mouth on mine, tongue exploring. Then down her neck again, jumped to first one nipple, then the other. She tried to get closer.

I was harder than ever. Another tongue duel. Turned her to face the rail. It was dark enough, no one would see us. Kissing the side of her neck. Raised the hem of her dress, hands on her hips, drew her panties down and let her step out of them. Nothing could stop me now. She didn't want to, that was for sure. I didn't have to ask. I could tell.

My trousers and boxers down. My hands back on her hips. Nudged her legs apart, stepped up, and slid inside. She was so wet. I guess she'd been waiting for this, too. Horseback riding or something had taken care of her hymen. No worries there. She moved hard back against me. My hands around to cup her breasts as I began to stroke. God.

It didn't take long, no surprise. In a minute I was slamming her, holding her hips and ramming myself in as far as I could get. Her breasts swinging with each thrust. Moving my hands from her hips to capture them, holding, squeezing, rubbing my palms over her nipples, then back to her hips. Little grunts, moans.

I was there. Throbbing, spurting. Quiet, now. Just held her, my cheek against hers as I softened and slipped out. Turned her around. Kissed her firmly, not too hard. Looked into her eyes.

I didn't understand what I saw.

She was furious.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? What kind of an asshole are you, anyway?"

I was speechless. This was not the demure little sister I'd been seeing all this time.

"What, you thought that just because I liked to kiss, I wanted this? Asshole. Asshole."

"María Luisa, I thought you wanted to. Didn't you?"

"Shut the fuck up. What gives you the right to say what I want?"

Oh, shit.

"Is this all you can think about? Kiss a girl, touch her, and fuck her? Is that the way you do things in California?"

My mouth open. Catching flies. No idea what to say. She was right, though. That is the way we do things in California.

"Fuck you. Get out of here."

Well, to say I felt like shit is the understatement of the year. Worse yet, I had no idea where I went wrong. After all, doesn't the girl have some responsibility here? I mean, isn't that what "Which part of 'no' don't you understand?" is all about? I was also pissed off.

Shit.

Kindness at all costs, my mother always said. Now what?

Flowers. A note. María Luisa, could we meet somewhere for coffee? Please? I'd like to talk with you.

Nothing.

Suspicious looks from Juan Carlos in school the following week. He didn't say anything, but he knew something had happened.

Another note. I'll be at the coffee bar tomorrow at 5:30 p.m. Please meet me there. Bring a friend if you like.

I was there early. 5:30 came and went. 5:45. 6:00. Shit. This wasn't going to work.

Then she walked in. Looked exhausted. She'd been crying.