Hick by Andrea Portes Page B

just—”
    “Well, good, cause you know I don’t like naysayers.”
    “Yeah, um, me neither.”
    “That’s what I thought.”
    Angel heads inside the gray shack. Glenda strides back into the bowling alley. She starts laughing hard, cracking a joke. I sit there a moment, trying to get a fix on this new situation, Glenda’s bag of tricks thrown at me on the fly. I check my money in my fancy bag. Still there. I decide to trust in Glenda and the end of the day and Indian summer, most of all, and make my way over the rickety porch inside.
    I saunter into what looks like the living room and find it immaculate clean. Everything inside looks like it’s been waiting here since the Forties, placed pristine and never moved. There’s white lace doilies on the tables and Old West kerosene lamps. From the middle of the wall a cattle skull stares down in the moonlight. The wooden floor is covered with an old-style rug, trodden and ancient, burgundy battered into gray. That skull looks like it’s just waiting for you to ask for directions.
    Angel is putting the finishing touches on my makeshift bed, preening a bit, making it extra-special. I watch him start to make up his own bed on the floor, far less careful. I guess I get the good quilt.
    “You don’t have to sleep on the floor. I’ll take the floor. I don’t mind.”
    He doesn’t respond and, instead, lays purposeful down on the floor, tucking himself snug under the quilt. He turns away from me, closing his eyes.
    It seems early to go to bed, but I guess when in Rome do whatever. I lay down in my good quilt bed and stare at the ceiling. Glenda’s bar laugh drifts through the wood-panel walls. The crickets keep planning their attack, softer now, getting sneaky. There’s a little breeze, crisp, like fall’s sending its regards from the sidewalk before stepping across the threshold. I close my eyes and try to bury the day.
    I get woke by a weird stillness. There’s a quiet now, a pitch black hovering. Then I realize that Angel has crept up next to me, kneeling beside me on the floor. I pretend not to see him. I make believe I’m still asleep, curious.
    He sits over me, staring underneath the blanket. He’s looking at me like I’m made of crystal, a new invention.
    I half-hearted toss and turn, throwing the quilt over my eyes so I can peek through the yarn without him knowing. His eyes swirl in the moonlight. We stay this way for a long time.
    Finally, just as I’m about to sleep or move or speak, he reaches his hand out and touches my bare skin. I stay still. He looks at me, tentative, wondering if I’ll wake. My stillness is near impossible to maintain. I try not to move a muscle.
    I want to see what comes next.
    He moves his hand down my arm and onto my thigh. Then he stops and looks at me, checking. So far, so good. He traces my leg down towards my ankles. Again, he looks at me. Again, I play dead.
    And I don’t know why I let him, but I do. Maybe I just like watching myself, strange and quiet and real. There’s a suspense to it, like the music just got spooky. Even the crickets outside are hushed up and waiting.
    He moves his hand up the inside of my leg. He stops and looks, making sure. I hold my breath. He moves his hand up over myhipbones and over my chest. His fingers are shaking. His movement is awkward, boy-like, fragile.
    He stops, staring at me. He runs his fingers over the pink part, making an outline, tracing. I hold my breath.
    The bar door slams, outside, breaking the moment in two. Then a fall. Then a cackle. Glenda reels in Blane’s arms, the gravel crunching beneath their feet.
    Angel recoils to his position on the floor, guilty.
    The front door slams shut behind Glenda, tipsy. Blane leads her to his room, quiet, slow, concerned. He closes the door gently behind.
    Angel stares up at the ceiling, bothered.
    I turn away now. Tired. Wondering. Exhausted by my thoughts and the endlessness of the day. The crickets turn back on, lulling me to