Jazz Funeral by Julie Smith Page B

why shouldn’t she simply go get them? The need to do it was almost overpowering. Dr. Richard talked sometimes about impulse control—her mom and dad both had poor impulse control, and so, sometimes, did Melody. If she managed not to embarrass herself by grabbing this strange boy on a street corner, that would be a step in the right direction. She knew this thing that was happening to her, she’d felt it before—she just didn’t know how to handle it. She knew perfectly well it was caused by the runaway truck called hormones, but that didn’t make it any easier. Or any less delicious.
    It occurred to her suddenly that she could do it with this boy. This strange boy with the perfect skin, the pretty planes in his face—if he wasn’t involved with the female bass player, she could do it with him. She felt her face go hot. Her palms started sweating again.
    I could do it tonight.
    Tonight! This afternoon, half an hour ago, there had been nothing, and now there was this. The only reason she’d never done it with Flip was fear. She’d hardly ever let him touch her below the waist because it got her too hot. If they did that too much, she’d do it, she knew she would, and then someone would find out and her father would kill her. She might get pregnant, that was always a possibility, but it wasn’t as bad as her father’s wrath. Actually, she didn’t know if he’d kill her. But he’d yell, and she couldn’t stand the yelling.
    God, what a baby! I don’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve sacrificed my womanhood because I’m afraid of my daddy yelling.
    She hadn’t put it to herself quite that way before. She was ripe, she was ready, she felt as sexual as anybody else, she was pretty damn sure of that, and yet she was a virgin. All because she was intimidated by a geriatric parent. It shamed her to think of it.
    Tonight could be the night. It would be a rite of passage. She’d become a woman in more ways than one.
    The band stopped playing. What were they doing? Gathering up their money, it looked like. Going.
    Suddenly, reality intruded in a big way. Now was the time to talk to them, before they got away. But what was the use? They were going to hate her. He was, especially. What had she been thinking of? Did she imagine she could get anybody she wanted, any strange boy on the street? Was she crazy—what on earth would he want with her? She was just a kid with a biggish nose and fuzzy-looking hair. Anyway, he was probably involved with the bass player, the redhead.
    Okay, she had to do it. Had to or go home, and she had no home. She spoke to the woman because she felt shy and it was easier that way. “I really liked your music.”
    The woman had on a white tank top that made her look washed-out. Her hair was a peachy color, like Sissy Spacek’s, and she wore no makeup. She looked friendly, though, and she had a nice smile. “Thanks.”
    “Are you leaving?”
    The drummer, who was overweight and whom she’d hardly noticed, gave her a look that made her cringe. He’d noticed her. He had little pig eyes that looked hostile. “We think we’ve got enough to go eat. What’s it look like, Chris?”
    The blond had been counting the money. He said, “Eight bucks, give or take.”
    “Shit!”
    “Okay. Let’s crank up again.”
    The drummer player said, “What do you want to hear, Jailbait?”
    Realizing he meant her, Melody felt embarrassed. “My name’s Mel—” She stopped just in time, head spinning at what she’d almost done. “Janis!” she said, shouting to cover her mistake.
    “This one goes out to Janis,” he said, and smiled, his eyes crinkling. He looked almost appealing. “What’ll it be?”
    “How about ‘Breakaway’?”
    “Not without Irma Thomas,” he sneered.
    “I can sing it,” Melody said. She was surprised they even knew it.
    He rolled his eyes. “Oh, great. An audition.”
    The woman said, “Oh, hell. Let’s just do ‘Jambalaya.’”
    Melody thought the blond—Chris,