Chapter 1

1977-1981

I met Maria when we were both 8 years old. I was the spoiled-rotten rich kid who had it all and knew it all.

Although most know me as Josh now, my given name is Robinson Joshua Berisford III.

Maria was the daughter of my mother's maid, and often came to the house with her mom.

I took savage delight in proving to her that she was inferior to me. I would taunt her, ridicule her clothes or her hair, play with my new toys in front of her and never let her touch them.

My mother often watched these exchanges with glee. After all, we were rich. And Maria was just a poor servant's daughter.

More times that I care to count, I sent Maria home crying either in frustration, anger or shame.

Sometimes, when I was feeling benevolent, I would lower myself to play games with Maria. Cheating to win was one of my favorite pasttimes. Maria always caught me cheating, but if she said anything, I wouldn't play with her for weeks at a time. Just to teach her a lesson.

I remember her as a brilliant student now. But at the time, she was a freak because she liked to read. When I was at my worst, Maria would just take a book, sit in the shade and close herself off from my behavior.

As I grew older, my impression of Maria changed. As I hit puberty, I became much nicer to her, hoping she'd let me feel her up or give me a blowjob. After all, she was just a servant's daughter. A low-class girl whose only worth was her body. That is what my mother taught me.

I tried flattery, I tried threats, I tried bribes. Nothing worked. Maria wasn't willing to give me what I wanted.

Finally, I tried force.

One summer day, shortly after I turned 12, I grabbed Maria and pulled her aside. She was too startled to protest when I grabbed her face and kissed her. At first she stiffened, then, slowly, she relaxed and returned the kiss.

I drifted off in a dream world only to return to reality when her knee smashed directly into my balls.

As I lay on the floor, nearly puking, Maria stood over me.

"If you ever try that again, I'll cut 'em off," she said, glaring at me. "I don't know who you think you are, R.J., but I know who I am. I am not something you can buy or take."

Then, for good measure, she spat on me and walked out.

I laid there, mostly because there was no way I could move at that point, thinking about what she said.

I had found out when I was about 10 years old that there was very little I (or my mother) couldn't buy. What we couldn't buy outright, we could coerce until it was ours.

Most of my friends at St. Paul's Prep School were the same.

Maria showed me for the first time that some things aren't for sale. That was when I fell in love with her. I know that now. Then, well, let's just say that I was too stupid to think like that.

Then, all I thought of was trying to find another way to get to her.

Maria didn't come with her mother for almost 3 months. I guess she told her mother what I did, because her mom wouldn't even speak to me. I am sure her mother didn't tell mine. But I am equally as sure that if she had, my mother wouldn't have cared.

The longer she stayed away, the more I realized that I missed her. Not tormenting her, not frightening her, not lusting after her.

I just missed seeing her. Talking to her.

Finally, after about 2 months of Maria's absence and her mother's silence, I walked up to Maria's mom and asked if I could talk to her for a minute.

"Mr. Berisford, I can't imagine what we could talk about. If you'd like something to eat or drink, just tell me, and I will get it," she said.

"Well, I, I," I stammered, "I just want you to tell Maria I'm sorry."

Maria's mother just looked at me. Sorry was not a word she was used to hearing from either me or my mother.

"I'm sorry not just for the last time she was here, but for the way I've treated her forever," I continued. "I wrote a letter to her, and I hope you give it to her. It just says what I told you, so if you want to read it to make sure, it's OK."

I handed Maria's mother the letter and walked back to my room to listen to the stereo.

About a month later, right after school started again, I was surprised when Maria was at the house with her mother.

I just smiled at her and left her alone, reading in the living room. I went to the den, and started on my schoolwork for the evening.

Although my mother wasn't much at disciplining me, one sure way to get her angry was to bring home a C on a grade card.

Midway through my math, I glanced up and saw Maria standing in the doorway.

I just smiled sheepishly and lifted my hand off the desk in greeting. I was nervous about what she might say. But, I was more nervous about what I felt seeing her standing there.

"I got your letter," she said, simply.

"I'm glad," I told her. "I didn't know if your mom would give it to you."

"She didn't at first," Maria told me. "I think she wanted to see if you were sincere or just playing one of your games. She told me yesterday that she's watched you since you gave it to her. You seem to be a lot nicer than you used to be. Or you're getting more conniving and better at lying."

That stung me. When I think about it, it stings me still. But I could hardly refute it, in light of my past.

"I know. I really meant what I wrote. I'm only sorry it took a kick in the crotch to make me realize it," I told her, trying to lighten the tension.

"If I would have known that's what it took, you'd have gotten one earlier," Maria told me, finally smiling. "God knows you've deserved a few over the years."

I stood and walked over, holding my hand out.

"Friends again?" I asked.

Maria took my hand and said, "For now. But remember, I am not something you can buy. I will be your friend as long as you deserve to have friends."

At the time, that sounded pretty good to me.

1981-1988

From that day forward, I guess Maria and I were friends. Not in the spend-all-day-everyday-together sense, but in some ways, closer.

Over the next two or three years, we spent time studying or talking about books or movies, but we didn't socialize outside of my family home.

My mother saw to that.

I had some girlfriends and I am sure Maria had plenty of boyfriends. She was beautiful, funny, friendly and intelligent. How could she not?

But, we never broached on relationships. Still, I watched how she would treat people. How she carried herself with dignity and pride. I learned a great deal during those years.

Somehow, hours of sitting next to each other reading, our legs touching, took on a different meaning now. It only seemed natural that we began to hold hands whenever we thought we were out of sight of my house.

Then, I started going to wherever I knew Maria would be. Then she started doing the same thing with me. I amazed at how easily she fit in with my friends, how she was respectful but made sure she was respected.

I made friends with Maria's circle, too. Especially her best friend, Miranda.

It was Miranda who set up Maria's and my first real kiss. Somehow, the one I forced her to give me when I was 12 didn't seem like it should count.

Miranda flirted with me outrageously. I was insecure enough to know it only was for Maria's benefit.

At least I hoped it was. Miranda was pretty, too. But she wasn't Maria.

Miranda used to playfully pinch my butt when I walked past. Or she would take my arm when we walked somewhere. She always made sure to sit next to me at the park or on the bus.

I liked it, because as soon as she would get up, Maria always took her place, sitting closer or holding my arm a little tighter than Miranda had.

Although I offered to treat them to a movie or to dinner, Maria never would let me. She resolutely refused to think I was buying her. So, we did free things. And I can't think of anything more fun in my life.

We would go to library or find a nice spot on the grass at the park. Sometimes we would throw a frisbee or chase butterflies. But, always, we ended up sitting on the benches, talking and just enjoying the other's company.

One day, while Maria had walked over to get a drink of water, Miranda leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

"Uh, thanks," I said. "What was that for."

She just answered crypticly, "You'll see."

When Maria got back, Miranda decided she needed a drink and headed toward the fountain.

As soon as she was gone, Maria started joking about me dumping her for Miranda. I turned to tell her that wasn't true, but she interrupted.

"Do you remember when we were 12?" she asked.

I knew immediately what she was talking about and blushed bright red.

"I'm still very sorry about that," I told her, earnestly.

"Do you think we could try it the right way," Maria said, now blushing as much as I was.

So we did.

It was the most romantic moment of my life. I had kissed other girls, but, outside of the one time that left me gasping for air on the floor when we were 12, never Maria.

When our lips touched, it was like a bolt of lightning was sent straight to my heart.

It was a sweet kiss, a gentle kiss. In the years since, I have had kisses with more passion, but never with as much sensuality.

When we pulled apart, I was left gasping for breath once more.

"Wow," I started. "That was nice."

"Much nicer than the last time, huh," Miranda mentioned from behind us.

I blushed for one reason, Maria for another.

As always, when she got on the bus to head to her home, I stood watching as we wiggled our index fingers at each other.

As your average 15-year-old, I thought my mother was the most clueless person on the planet.

In same ways, her ideas and her beliefs, I still think she was. But she was not so clueless as to not recognize my infatuation with her maid's daughter.

And you can bet that she took great lengths to stop it.

At age 16, I was sent to different prep school, one about 100 miles away. Maria and I would talk about once per month when I was home. Our lives were different. Our worlds were different. We just fell back into the comfortable mode of friends. OK, friends who would kiss occassionally, but mostly just friends.

The summer of my 17th birthday, Maria's mother fell and couldn't continue her job with my family.

Maria's family needed the income, so my mother hired Maria to work for her.

"Remember, R.J., my mother told me. "Girls like Maria can only get out if they latch on to some rich guy. The best way to do that is to get pregnant. You stay away from her. Do you hear me?"

I heard her alright. I just didn't listen.

That summer, as I could see happening from when I was at school, my relationship with Maria changed further.

In a way, it hurt me when it did, but in another, I understood.

I also recognized that, once we were grown and on a level playing field, very little about me would interest someone as wonderful as Maria.

During the summer, about once a week, I would meet Maria at the library and we would study for our SATs together. I knew her well enough to know that she would do fine. I also knew me well enough to know that I didn't give a shit. My mom would make sure I got to go to a good school. Why work?

"Why work?" That was motto for as long as I could remember when I was younger.

I would watch Maria's mother, then Maria, bustling around. Cleaning up my messes. Doing my laundry. Cooking my meals.

For all the changes I went through in my teens -- from being a petulant, petty brat to someone I considered to be considerate and friendly -- it never dawned on me that there was something wrong with the way I viewed people. Outside of Maria's mom and some other workers at the house, I had very little knowlege of how the real world lived.

The SATs were just another step in proving I am always right, and that life isn't fair.

Maria scored in the top 2 percentile, and was awarded a partial scholarship to San Diego State.

I scored well below and got accepted to Brown.

Even at the prep schools I attended, I was richer than the rich and was accorded special treatment because of it.

At Brown, I was just another student. A face in the crowd. No one special. I wasn't used to that, and actually had to develop a personality of my own. Most of it, I stole from Maria's, I must admit. I tried to treat people like she did. I tried to have the same dignity about me, even when I knew I shouldn't.