American Boy by Larry Watson

was drunk, all right. I’d only seen her in that condition once before, at a party after the Homecoming Dance, but I remembered the signs. Debbie McCarren was vivacious and seldom had trouble making her moods and feelings known. But after a few drinks every expression of emotion seemed artificial and overwrought. Now, for example, she had furrowed her brow and pursed her lips in an attempt to look sad, but the effect was closer to a little girl’s pout, and an unconvincing one at that. That said, her mascara was smeared as if she had been crying, and her cat’s-eye glasses were askew. Her dark brown hair, usually lacquered into a smooth helmet, was mussed as well.
    I used the cold as an excuse to jam my hands into my pockets. “Do you?”
    “I mean it, Matty. I do.” She leaned even farther out the window, and Jilly pretended to attempt to pull her back into the car. From the front seat, smart-ass Bonnie Wahl said over her shoulder, “ Matty ? That’s cute.”
    “Shut up,” Debbie snapped at her friend. “Can we talk, Matt? Please?”
    “About what?”
    “About us.”
    “I didn’t think there was an ‘us.’”
    A light snow was falling, and Debbie batted at the flakes as if they were the only obstacle to agreement between us. “Please, Matt? In private?”
    The Valiant was parked around the corner, and I nodded in its direction. “We can talk in Johnny’s car.”
    Debbie scrambled out of the car and immediately linked her arm in mine.
    Before we could walk away, Bonnie Wahl asked, “What the hell are we supposed to do?”
    Debbie shrugged and said demurely, “You can go.”
    Jilly Daniels leaned out the window again. “Hey, Matt. If we can’t go in, can you at least bring some beer out? We’ll pay.”
    “Sorry. Our supplies are limited.”
    “Oh, who needs them,” said Bonnie. “We still have some vodka left.”
     
    Debbie McCarren was short, full-breasted, and widehipped, and she walked with a kind of waddle. She had large brown eyes, a pug nose, and an upper lip more prominent than the lower. She never would have been mistaken for beautiful, but somehow she worked what she had to her advantage. Or at least it worked for me, and Debbie knew as much.
    Once we were ensconced in the Valiant, she scooted across the backseat and, in contrast to the way Louisa Lindahl had brusquely removed my hand from her body, Debbie pulled my arm around her and fitted herself snugly to my side. “Doesn’t this feel ... right?” Her breath smelled like vegetable soup mixed with rubbing alcohol. “What if we never broke up? What would we be doing tonight?”
    I didn’t know what to say. First of all, we hadn’t broken up. Debbie McCarren had dropped me. Second, we likely would have been doing exactly what we had been doing—playing poker and drinking beer in my case, riding around with a pack of girls and handing a bottle of vodka back and forth in hers. And if we had passed on those activities for each other’s company, we almost surely would have been doing exactly what we were doing now—seeking each other’s heat in a parked car.
    Debbie proceeded as if I had already answered. “And would we be going to the Frost Festival Dance tomorrow night?”
    I knew then what this reconciliation was all about. I pulled her closer, and she rose to meet my kiss with all the old familiar ardor and intensity.
    After a few minutes of running our tongues around each other’s mouths, I decided to test the depth and sincerity of her renewed fond feelings for me.
    Trying to negotiate around and under coat, muffler, sweater, blouse, and brassiere seemed too complicated. It also presented too many opportunities for Debbie to stop me along the way. So I opted for a different route. I slid my hand up her skirt, high up her thigh. I was surprised she didn’t immediately grab my hand or clamp her legs together to halt my progress. She squirmed under my touch, and while she might have been trying to wriggle away from my