can.”
“You drink coffee?”
She nodded. We walked to the kitchen, and I poured us each a cup. Brittney sat on a barstool, her bare feet dangling. I stood beside her.
“This coffee sucks,” she said. “When did you make it, last week?”
“It’s fresh. I like it strong.”
“I’ll say. You got something I can dilute it with, like a gallon of paint thinner maybe?”
“How about some milk? They say turpentine is bad for your health.”
“Milk would be nice. You got a cigarette?”
“Those things are
definitely
bad for your health.”
“Lots of things are.”
I couldn’t argue with that. We walked out to the back porch, and I gave her a little stainless steel pitcher of half-and-half for her coffee and a Marlboro. My fine Dominican Republic butt from last night was squashed and wet in the ashtray. I took the ashtray inside and wiped it clean, walked back out and sat beside Brittney in one of the deck chairs, lit a cigarette for myself.
The sky was aspirin white, a thin layer of benign clouds blocking the morning sun. The guy with the drum mallets had stopped beating so hard.
“Did you sleep okay?” I said.
“Like a fucking rock.”
I coughed out about three lungs worth of smoke. “Okay. Rule number one. Nice girls don’t say fuck.”
“Your girlfriend said it.” Brittney dribbled half her coffee onto the deck and replaced it with some of the cream.
“Yeah, well, who said she’s a nice girl? You heard that?”
“Uh-huh. Then I fell back to sleep.”
“Okay. Nice fifteen-year-old girls don’t say fuck.”
“She sounds mean. She doesn’t want me here.”
“Juliet’s not mean. She was surprised, that’s all. She was tired from working all night. You’ll see. She’s really a nice person. How’s your coffee now?”
“Why can’t I stay at your house?”
“My house is a seventeen-foot camper on a rental lot on the lake.”
“Sounds cool.”
“There’s only one bed, and it hurts my back to sleep on the couch.”
“I’ll take the couch,” Brittney said.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Come on in and we’ll get some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then come on in and watch me eat some breakfast.”
I cracked a half-dozen eggs into a clear glass Pyrex mixing bowl, handed the bowl and a whisk to Brittney, told her to scramble the eggs for me.
“I don’t know how,” she said.
“You’ve never made scrambled eggs?”
“So? Have you ever read Dante’s
Inferno?
Can’t we just go to Burger King or something? This is stupid.”
I took the bowl and demonstrated. “Now you try,” I said. “It’s not stupid to learn how to take care of yourself.”
“Maybe, but Burger King has better coffee.”
After a while she got into a rhythm and mixed the eggs while I turned on the electric griddle and started laying out strips of bacon. Pretty soon the room smelled good and I was starving.
“You’re going to cook the eggs,” I said.
“I don’t know how to cook. Nobody ever showed me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
I showed her how to set the stove and melt butter in a skillet. Once the butter started bubbling, I told her to gently pour in theegg mixture. The eggs landed with a satisfying sizzle, and I showed her how to keep stirring and turning them with a spatula so they wouldn’t burn. I put four slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster.
“I don’t like brown bread,” she said.
“This is for me. You’re not hungry, remember?”
“Maybe I’m a little hungry.”
We sat at the table and ate bacon and scrambled eggs and toast.
“Wicked delicious,” Brittney said.
“Wicked
delicious?”
She smiled. “I knew a girl in school from Cape Cod. She was always saying wicked this and wicked that.”
“Oh. What was your friend’s name?”
Her smile disappeared. She shook her head slightly and didn’t say anything.
I filled our mugs, mine with coffee and hers with coffee-flavored milk. Brittney drank it and ate the wheat
“You drink coffee?”
She nodded. We walked to the kitchen, and I poured us each a cup. Brittney sat on a barstool, her bare feet dangling. I stood beside her.
“This coffee sucks,” she said. “When did you make it, last week?”
“It’s fresh. I like it strong.”
“I’ll say. You got something I can dilute it with, like a gallon of paint thinner maybe?”
“How about some milk? They say turpentine is bad for your health.”
“Milk would be nice. You got a cigarette?”
“Those things are
definitely
bad for your health.”
“Lots of things are.”
I couldn’t argue with that. We walked out to the back porch, and I gave her a little stainless steel pitcher of half-and-half for her coffee and a Marlboro. My fine Dominican Republic butt from last night was squashed and wet in the ashtray. I took the ashtray inside and wiped it clean, walked back out and sat beside Brittney in one of the deck chairs, lit a cigarette for myself.
The sky was aspirin white, a thin layer of benign clouds blocking the morning sun. The guy with the drum mallets had stopped beating so hard.
“Did you sleep okay?” I said.
“Like a fucking rock.”
I coughed out about three lungs worth of smoke. “Okay. Rule number one. Nice girls don’t say fuck.”
“Your girlfriend said it.” Brittney dribbled half her coffee onto the deck and replaced it with some of the cream.
“Yeah, well, who said she’s a nice girl? You heard that?”
“Uh-huh. Then I fell back to sleep.”
“Okay. Nice fifteen-year-old girls don’t say fuck.”
“She sounds mean. She doesn’t want me here.”
“Juliet’s not mean. She was surprised, that’s all. She was tired from working all night. You’ll see. She’s really a nice person. How’s your coffee now?”
“Why can’t I stay at your house?”
“My house is a seventeen-foot camper on a rental lot on the lake.”
“Sounds cool.”
“There’s only one bed, and it hurts my back to sleep on the couch.”
“I’ll take the couch,” Brittney said.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Come on in and we’ll get some breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then come on in and watch me eat some breakfast.”
I cracked a half-dozen eggs into a clear glass Pyrex mixing bowl, handed the bowl and a whisk to Brittney, told her to scramble the eggs for me.
“I don’t know how,” she said.
“You’ve never made scrambled eggs?”
“So? Have you ever read Dante’s
Inferno?
Can’t we just go to Burger King or something? This is stupid.”
I took the bowl and demonstrated. “Now you try,” I said. “It’s not stupid to learn how to take care of yourself.”
“Maybe, but Burger King has better coffee.”
After a while she got into a rhythm and mixed the eggs while I turned on the electric griddle and started laying out strips of bacon. Pretty soon the room smelled good and I was starving.
“You’re going to cook the eggs,” I said.
“I don’t know how to cook. Nobody ever showed me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
I showed her how to set the stove and melt butter in a skillet. Once the butter started bubbling, I told her to gently pour in theegg mixture. The eggs landed with a satisfying sizzle, and I showed her how to keep stirring and turning them with a spatula so they wouldn’t burn. I put four slices of whole wheat bread in the toaster.
“I don’t like brown bread,” she said.
“This is for me. You’re not hungry, remember?”
“Maybe I’m a little hungry.”
We sat at the table and ate bacon and scrambled eggs and toast.
“Wicked delicious,” Brittney said.
“Wicked
delicious?”
She smiled. “I knew a girl in school from Cape Cod. She was always saying wicked this and wicked that.”
“Oh. What was your friend’s name?”
Her smile disappeared. She shook her head slightly and didn’t say anything.
I filled our mugs, mine with coffee and hers with coffee-flavored milk. Brittney drank it and ate the wheat
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