leaves rustle in the wind, and playing with her necklace. I go out the back door, or attempt to. It sticks, since it’s totally off-limits for the kids and never used. The girl looks up. I jump off the last two steps and go over to her.
“Hey,” I say. She stands up with the book in her hands, then turns and puts it cover down on the bench, as if to hide the title. She takes off her hat before turning back around. “How’s it going? I’m Reuben.” She blushes deep red. Wow. I haven’t seen a girl blush like that since sixth grade. “You didn’t have to get up.”
“It’s not very good—the book, I mean.” She’s prettier up close than I expected. “I’m Emmy.”
“You from California?”
“Yeah.” She touches her ponytail, which is low and off to one side. “And you?”
“Here. I’m from here.”
“Of course.” She smiles. “Sorry.” Definitely pretty. Those teeth. What do they put in the milk down there?
“Sorry for what?” Now I feel nervous. Keep it cool. “You from L.A.?”
“Never even been there,” she admits. “Lame, huh?”
“I’ve never been there either.”
“I’m from Sacramento.”
“The capital, right?” She nods. “Palm trees?”
“And sycamores.”
The diamonds in her heart necklace look real. Cheap imitations can be bought at Walmart for under ten bucks or on HSN for under twenty plus shipping. A cowboy at the bar bought one for Mom. She exchanged it for a new toilet brush, a can of Folgers, and three two liters of Coca-Cola. A married white man once bought my sister a cross necklace with a real diamond in it. Are this girl’s teeth real? They’re distracting.
“Visiting your aunt and uncle?” I ask. ”How long’s it been?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That long, huh?”
“I mean, I don’t remember them at all.” Her voice gets shaky, or it’s been that way. “My aunt thought I would, but I was just a baby. They’re so nice to me. I wish I did.”
“You okay?” She’s scared shitless so far from home.
“Sure.” She takes a moment to get control. I give it to her. She’s way more fragile than I expected, except those teeth. I want to run my tongue over them. “I was born here.”
“No shit.”
“That’s the first swearword I’ve heard all week.”
“My apologies.”
“No. It’s refreshing.” She takes off her sunglasses. Her eyes are blue. No, gray. She squints them in the sun. I can’t tell. I like brown-eyed, dark-haired Indian girls, obviously, but white chicks—give them to me straight: blond hair, blue eyes.
“What book are you reading?” I ask. “It looks pretty thick.”
“Um—” She looks back at the book on the bench. “It’s boring.”
“Can I see it?” She hands it to me. Her fingernails are painted a funky turquoise, but she doesn’t wear a lot of makeup. I read the title. “
Sister Carrie
. Is it about a nun?”
“No.” She smiles.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s boring.”
“You said that already.” I can hear the kids thumping around in the trailer. They were entranced in cartoons when I snuck out.
“My mom’s a college English teacher. She makes me read old literature.”
“Ouch. So, what’s the book about?”
“A girl.”
“Named Carrie.”
We both laugh.
“She moves to Chicago during the Industrial Revolution. She compromises herself.”
“That part’s not boring, I’m sure.”
She blushes again and puts her sunglasses back on. I almost fucking blush. I’m standing in a garden discussing literature with a professor’s kid. What the fuck?
“It’s about railroad strikes and stuff,” she says. “Carrie becomes an actress.”
“And lives happily ever after?”
The thumping gets louder in my sister’s trailer. The kids must be hungry.
“Not at all. Dreiser is no Jane Austen.”
“Who?”
“No one,” she backtracks. “Never mind. Sorry.”
“Sounds like you’ve read the book already.” I examine its bulk. “Can I borrow it?”
“For
“Hey,” I say. She stands up with the book in her hands, then turns and puts it cover down on the bench, as if to hide the title. She takes off her hat before turning back around. “How’s it going? I’m Reuben.” She blushes deep red. Wow. I haven’t seen a girl blush like that since sixth grade. “You didn’t have to get up.”
“It’s not very good—the book, I mean.” She’s prettier up close than I expected. “I’m Emmy.”
“You from California?”
“Yeah.” She touches her ponytail, which is low and off to one side. “And you?”
“Here. I’m from here.”
“Of course.” She smiles. “Sorry.” Definitely pretty. Those teeth. What do they put in the milk down there?
“Sorry for what?” Now I feel nervous. Keep it cool. “You from L.A.?”
“Never even been there,” she admits. “Lame, huh?”
“I’ve never been there either.”
“I’m from Sacramento.”
“The capital, right?” She nods. “Palm trees?”
“And sycamores.”
The diamonds in her heart necklace look real. Cheap imitations can be bought at Walmart for under ten bucks or on HSN for under twenty plus shipping. A cowboy at the bar bought one for Mom. She exchanged it for a new toilet brush, a can of Folgers, and three two liters of Coca-Cola. A married white man once bought my sister a cross necklace with a real diamond in it. Are this girl’s teeth real? They’re distracting.
“Visiting your aunt and uncle?” I ask. ”How long’s it been?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That long, huh?”
“I mean, I don’t remember them at all.” Her voice gets shaky, or it’s been that way. “My aunt thought I would, but I was just a baby. They’re so nice to me. I wish I did.”
“You okay?” She’s scared shitless so far from home.
“Sure.” She takes a moment to get control. I give it to her. She’s way more fragile than I expected, except those teeth. I want to run my tongue over them. “I was born here.”
“No shit.”
“That’s the first swearword I’ve heard all week.”
“My apologies.”
“No. It’s refreshing.” She takes off her sunglasses. Her eyes are blue. No, gray. She squints them in the sun. I can’t tell. I like brown-eyed, dark-haired Indian girls, obviously, but white chicks—give them to me straight: blond hair, blue eyes.
“What book are you reading?” I ask. “It looks pretty thick.”
“Um—” She looks back at the book on the bench. “It’s boring.”
“Can I see it?” She hands it to me. Her fingernails are painted a funky turquoise, but she doesn’t wear a lot of makeup. I read the title. “
Sister Carrie
. Is it about a nun?”
“No.” She smiles.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s boring.”
“You said that already.” I can hear the kids thumping around in the trailer. They were entranced in cartoons when I snuck out.
“My mom’s a college English teacher. She makes me read old literature.”
“Ouch. So, what’s the book about?”
“A girl.”
“Named Carrie.”
We both laugh.
“She moves to Chicago during the Industrial Revolution. She compromises herself.”
“That part’s not boring, I’m sure.”
She blushes again and puts her sunglasses back on. I almost fucking blush. I’m standing in a garden discussing literature with a professor’s kid. What the fuck?
“It’s about railroad strikes and stuff,” she says. “Carrie becomes an actress.”
“And lives happily ever after?”
The thumping gets louder in my sister’s trailer. The kids must be hungry.
“Not at all. Dreiser is no Jane Austen.”
“Who?”
“No one,” she backtracks. “Never mind. Sorry.”
“Sounds like you’ve read the book already.” I examine its bulk. “Can I borrow it?”
“For
Similar Books
