they yelled. They saw the knife before she did. They saw Angel Juan make the slash marks across his bare chest like a warrior painting himself before the fight. They reached out, hoping to feel his blood splash on them.
It was only surface cuts; The Goal Guys saw that later when they were at home cleaning him. But Cherokee’s hands were trembling and her stomach felt as if she had eaten a live thing. She took the horns off Angel Juan’s head.
He sat in a chair, his eyes half-closed.Witch Baby was kneeling at his feet with a reddened washcloth in her hands, Raphael stood by himself, smoking a cigarette. They all watched Cherokee as she put the horns on the floor and backed away from them.
“We have to give them back to Coyote,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The horns. They don’t belong to us. Coyote was here while we were out.” Cherokee reached into her pocket and held out three glossy feathers she had found tied to the front door, “We have to give back the horns.”
“You can’t do that now,” Witch Baby said. “Tomorrow night we’ll have at least two record companies at our house! We need the horns!”
“Yeah, Cherokee, cool out,” Angel Juan said. “You’re just uptight about tomorrow.”
“Look at you!” She pointed to his chest.
“He’s all right. Lots of rock stars get carried away and do stuff like that. And we won’t drink anything tomorrow,” Raphael promised her.
She wanted him to hold her but lately theyalmost never touched. After the shows they were always too exhausted to make love and collapsed together, chilled from their sweat and smelling of cigarettes, when they got hack.
“And we’re not even playing at a club. It’ll be like my birthday party,” Witch Baby said.
“Belter! We’re so much hotter now. Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Elvis.”
“I’m not doing any more shows ’til we give back the horns,” Cherokee said. “Don’t you see? We have to stop!”
“Don’t worry,” Raphael said. “Coyote gave us the horns. Why are you so afraid?”
Witch Baby began gnawing her cuticles, her eyes darting from Cherokee to Raphael, When Cherokee saw her, she just shook her head silently at Raphael. She couldn’t tell him and Angel Juan the truth about the horns because she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to forgive her and Witch Baby for what they had done.
When she fell asleep that night, Cherokee dreamed she was in a cage. It was littered with bones.
The night of the party, the house was crammed with people. They wore black leather and fur and drank tall, fluorescent-colored drinks. Some were in the bedrooms snorting piles of cocaine off mirrors. They were playing with the film equipment, pretending to surf on the surfboards, trying on beaded dresses and top hats, undressing the Barbie dolls and twisting the Mexican skeleton dolls’ limbs together. There were some six-foot-tall models with bare breasts and necklaces made of teeth. Men with tattooed chests and scarred arms. The air was hot with bodies and smoke.
Before The Coat Guys played live, Raphael put on their tape—his own loping, reggae rap. Angel Juan’s salsa-influenced bass. Witch Baby’s rock-and-roll-slam drums, Cherokee’s shimmery tambourine and backup vocals. A few people were dancing, doing the “goat.” They rocked and hip-hopped in circles, butting each other with imaginary horns.
Cherokee was drinking from a bottle of whiskey someone had handed her when she saw Lulu go over to Raphael. Lulu waswearing a very short, low-cut black dress, and she leaned forward as she spoke to him. Cherokee could not hear what they were saying, but she saw Raphael staring down Lulu’s dress, saw Lulu take his hand and lead him away. On the stereo, Raphael’s voice was singing.
“White Dawn,” Raphael sang. It was a song he had written when the band first started, a name he never used anymore.
Cherokee followed Raphael and Lulu into Weetzie’s bedroom. She watched
It was only surface cuts; The Goal Guys saw that later when they were at home cleaning him. But Cherokee’s hands were trembling and her stomach felt as if she had eaten a live thing. She took the horns off Angel Juan’s head.
He sat in a chair, his eyes half-closed.Witch Baby was kneeling at his feet with a reddened washcloth in her hands, Raphael stood by himself, smoking a cigarette. They all watched Cherokee as she put the horns on the floor and backed away from them.
“We have to give them back to Coyote,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
“The horns. They don’t belong to us. Coyote was here while we were out.” Cherokee reached into her pocket and held out three glossy feathers she had found tied to the front door, “We have to give back the horns.”
“You can’t do that now,” Witch Baby said. “Tomorrow night we’ll have at least two record companies at our house! We need the horns!”
“Yeah, Cherokee, cool out,” Angel Juan said. “You’re just uptight about tomorrow.”
“Look at you!” She pointed to his chest.
“He’s all right. Lots of rock stars get carried away and do stuff like that. And we won’t drink anything tomorrow,” Raphael promised her.
She wanted him to hold her but lately theyalmost never touched. After the shows they were always too exhausted to make love and collapsed together, chilled from their sweat and smelling of cigarettes, when they got hack.
“And we’re not even playing at a club. It’ll be like my birthday party,” Witch Baby said.
“Belter! We’re so much hotter now. Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Elvis.”
“I’m not doing any more shows ’til we give back the horns,” Cherokee said. “Don’t you see? We have to stop!”
“Don’t worry,” Raphael said. “Coyote gave us the horns. Why are you so afraid?”
Witch Baby began gnawing her cuticles, her eyes darting from Cherokee to Raphael, When Cherokee saw her, she just shook her head silently at Raphael. She couldn’t tell him and Angel Juan the truth about the horns because she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to forgive her and Witch Baby for what they had done.
When she fell asleep that night, Cherokee dreamed she was in a cage. It was littered with bones.
The night of the party, the house was crammed with people. They wore black leather and fur and drank tall, fluorescent-colored drinks. Some were in the bedrooms snorting piles of cocaine off mirrors. They were playing with the film equipment, pretending to surf on the surfboards, trying on beaded dresses and top hats, undressing the Barbie dolls and twisting the Mexican skeleton dolls’ limbs together. There were some six-foot-tall models with bare breasts and necklaces made of teeth. Men with tattooed chests and scarred arms. The air was hot with bodies and smoke.
Before The Coat Guys played live, Raphael put on their tape—his own loping, reggae rap. Angel Juan’s salsa-influenced bass. Witch Baby’s rock-and-roll-slam drums, Cherokee’s shimmery tambourine and backup vocals. A few people were dancing, doing the “goat.” They rocked and hip-hopped in circles, butting each other with imaginary horns.
Cherokee was drinking from a bottle of whiskey someone had handed her when she saw Lulu go over to Raphael. Lulu waswearing a very short, low-cut black dress, and she leaned forward as she spoke to him. Cherokee could not hear what they were saying, but she saw Raphael staring down Lulu’s dress, saw Lulu take his hand and lead him away. On the stereo, Raphael’s voice was singing.
“White Dawn,” Raphael sang. It was a song he had written when the band first started, a name he never used anymore.
Cherokee followed Raphael and Lulu into Weetzie’s bedroom. She watched
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