kids thinking it might be contagious, I found myself on the wrong side of a no-crossing zone. By high school, I sported the Goth look, you know, pentagram dangling from a chain and you only wear black? I stayed away from sports, the French Club, anything that might hold me up to ridicule. If it hadn't been for Caleb Stone, who had also lost a parent, I would have been completely friendless."
"Gee, I guess we've got more in common than either of us thought."
I slanted him a doubtful look.
He returned it with a hopeful grin.
"Why do you keep hitting on women who are totally uninterested?"
He shrugged. "It's just a game. You know, one out of twenty?"
"One out of twenty what—dates?"
He smirked. "Who said anything about dating?"
"Not even dinner or flowers?"
"Why go to all that expense? Dinner, flowers, a long night of shoving some skank around the dance floor, and for what—they either go to bed with you at the end of the night, or they don't."
"I knew I could depend on you to gross me out."
He chuckled. "Glad to see I didn't let you down. Now that you know all my secrets, you think we can be friends?"
I glared at his offer of a friendly handshake, suspicious that he might have one of those joke buzzers hiding in his palm.
But out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone shuffling towards us. The shabby hooded sweatshirt hid his face, but as he came closer to the car I got the distinct feeling that I should know him.
That walk—high school? Not everyone who was in my class made it in the real world.
Del put his cardboard coffee cup on the dashboard and hopped out of the car.
I got out, but a little slower, pulling my legs up to my chest, then angling them over the doorframe, and finally out onto the pavement. I vowed to take a taxi back to the AM/PM where I'd left the Caddy.
I followed Del to where the man had backed into the shadows, waiting.
When he asked Del for cigarettes, Del turned to me. "You got any smokes on you, Lalla?"
"I quit, remember?"
The man mumbled something, and hunched further into his dirty hooded sweatshirt.
That voice. Where had I heard it? "Do I know you?"
He pulled off the hood, and a rank body odor came with it. Under the harsh light of the street lamp, the planes of his face were bony, his eyes shadowed into deep sockets.
"I guess you do, Lalla Bains, and don't you look sweet. Smell sweet, too. Bet you've had a nice bed to sleep in and a nice shower anytime you want it."
It was Brad, the pilot I'd fired last year for doing drugs. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. I wouldn't feel sorry for him. I'd paid for two stays at rehab, and it wasn't my fault he couldn't make it stick.
"What do you want, Brad?"
"It's what you want, isn't it? Rich bitch like you wouldn't understand about giving a guy a second chance, would you? I'm blacklisted, lost my ticket as a journeyman ag-pilot, and now I can't get a seat anywhere, thanks to you. Way I see it, you owe me, but to prove I'm such a nice guy, I'm here to give you what you need to clear your lily-white name."
I bristled at Brad's remarks, though I shouldn't have expected him to be anything else except the self-centered drug addicted bum he'd become. His hard won career as a crop-duster was finished for good, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Del stood slightly apart, aloof and observant, the quintessential newsman waiting for the drama to unfold. Gone was the silly jokester, the gnome-sized Elvis. If this guy decided to pull out a knife and gut me, Del would probably report on the way my blood ran down to the pavement, then snap the whole scene as I dropped dead on the ground.
I looked back at Brad nervously bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.
"And you expect me to pay for the information, I suppose."
"Like I told you, you owe me. I need—" he licked at his dry, cracked lips then sneered at the spark of pity in my eyes. "I need enough to get out of this crap-hole town. A lot of money, and you're
"Gee, I guess we've got more in common than either of us thought."
I slanted him a doubtful look.
He returned it with a hopeful grin.
"Why do you keep hitting on women who are totally uninterested?"
He shrugged. "It's just a game. You know, one out of twenty?"
"One out of twenty what—dates?"
He smirked. "Who said anything about dating?"
"Not even dinner or flowers?"
"Why go to all that expense? Dinner, flowers, a long night of shoving some skank around the dance floor, and for what—they either go to bed with you at the end of the night, or they don't."
"I knew I could depend on you to gross me out."
He chuckled. "Glad to see I didn't let you down. Now that you know all my secrets, you think we can be friends?"
I glared at his offer of a friendly handshake, suspicious that he might have one of those joke buzzers hiding in his palm.
But out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone shuffling towards us. The shabby hooded sweatshirt hid his face, but as he came closer to the car I got the distinct feeling that I should know him.
That walk—high school? Not everyone who was in my class made it in the real world.
Del put his cardboard coffee cup on the dashboard and hopped out of the car.
I got out, but a little slower, pulling my legs up to my chest, then angling them over the doorframe, and finally out onto the pavement. I vowed to take a taxi back to the AM/PM where I'd left the Caddy.
I followed Del to where the man had backed into the shadows, waiting.
When he asked Del for cigarettes, Del turned to me. "You got any smokes on you, Lalla?"
"I quit, remember?"
The man mumbled something, and hunched further into his dirty hooded sweatshirt.
That voice. Where had I heard it? "Do I know you?"
He pulled off the hood, and a rank body odor came with it. Under the harsh light of the street lamp, the planes of his face were bony, his eyes shadowed into deep sockets.
"I guess you do, Lalla Bains, and don't you look sweet. Smell sweet, too. Bet you've had a nice bed to sleep in and a nice shower anytime you want it."
It was Brad, the pilot I'd fired last year for doing drugs. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt. I wouldn't feel sorry for him. I'd paid for two stays at rehab, and it wasn't my fault he couldn't make it stick.
"What do you want, Brad?"
"It's what you want, isn't it? Rich bitch like you wouldn't understand about giving a guy a second chance, would you? I'm blacklisted, lost my ticket as a journeyman ag-pilot, and now I can't get a seat anywhere, thanks to you. Way I see it, you owe me, but to prove I'm such a nice guy, I'm here to give you what you need to clear your lily-white name."
I bristled at Brad's remarks, though I shouldn't have expected him to be anything else except the self-centered drug addicted bum he'd become. His hard won career as a crop-duster was finished for good, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Del stood slightly apart, aloof and observant, the quintessential newsman waiting for the drama to unfold. Gone was the silly jokester, the gnome-sized Elvis. If this guy decided to pull out a knife and gut me, Del would probably report on the way my blood ran down to the pavement, then snap the whole scene as I dropped dead on the ground.
I looked back at Brad nervously bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.
"And you expect me to pay for the information, I suppose."
"Like I told you, you owe me. I need—" he licked at his dry, cracked lips then sneered at the spark of pity in my eyes. "I need enough to get out of this crap-hole town. A lot of money, and you're
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