Model Home by Eric Puchner Page B

truth. They stopped at a red light, under the glow of a streetlamp. She was definitely less attractive than Kira. She had fuzz between her eyebrows and there was a little mole, like an errant crumb, on her upper lip. Plus the scabby ears, which she kept picking at with her fingernail. There was something about her face—its unreadable smirk—that made him unhappy.
    â€œIs there, like, an unperverted reason you keep staring at me?”
    â€œWhat’s that in your hair?” he asked. “Peroxide?”
    She turned her face away quickly. “It’s a witch’s forelock.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI thought Kira only dated smart guys.” She kept her face turned. “Like a birthmark. They used to burn people at the stake if they had it.”
    â€œDoes your family know you’re here?” he asked.
    â€œRight. Ha-ha. They packed me a lunch.”
    Dustin frowned. “Just so they don’t think I have anything to do with it.”
    â€œI won’t tell a peep. A person. Don’t get your panties in a wad.” Taz tried to roll her window down, struggling with the lever. It came off in her hand. “Piece of shit,” she said, tossing the lever into the backseat.
    â€œHey!” Dustin said. “That’s a hundred-dollar part!”
    â€œAnd it doesn’t work? I’d say you got majorly ripped off.” Her eyes surveyed the front seat before settling on the steering wheel in Dustin’s hand. It was his favorite part of the car, wine-colored and big as a yacht’s. “Do you have some of those, like, fuzzy dice?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI thought only people with fuzzy dice drove cars like this.”
    At the 7-Eleven, Taz insisted on coming inside to pick out hercigarettes. Kira was right: she was a major pain in the ass. Who did she think she was? Girls loved the Dart; just last weekend someone on Hollywood Boulevard, a chick with a mohawk, had asked him for a ride. The 7-Eleven was as bright as a toothpaste commercial. Sweating on their little Ferris wheel, the hot dogs looked sad and immortal, as if consigned to hot dog hell. Dustin found himself wishing he had never left the house. He glanced at the mirror above the beer section and saw a friendly-looking surfer kid in a ridiculous belt buckle. His face flushed with shame. A guy wearing one of those travel vests with all the pockets on them came over and stood beside Taz.
    â€œTo beer or not to beer,” the man said, “ that is the question.”
    Taz looked at him. “Did you really just say that?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œâ€˜To beer or not to beer, that is the question’?”
    â€œI’m trying to decide.” The man winked at them, checking his watch. “It’s getting late.”
    â€œCongratulations,” Taz said, shaking his hand. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
    Dustin bought the beer with his fake ID, annoyed at his envy. He wished he had the balls to tell someone they were stupid. They headed back to the party, cruising down Western with its grubby-looking mini-malls, all of them the same Pepto-Bismol pink. He’d have to remember to put that in a song. “Pepto Abysmal,” he’d call it.
    â€œKira said you got kicked out of boarding school.”
    Taz scowled, lighting one of the cigarettes he’d bought her. “Kira doesn’t know anything.”
    â€œActually, she’s very smart. She’s worried about you like your parents are.”
    â€œ Actually, they couldn’t give two shits.”
    Dustin shrugged. What did he care? “If that’s true, then you must be a real fuckup.”
    â€œOr maybe they’re just, like, total hypocrites.” She yanked up a sock. “Everyone knows Kira smokes dope. She’s going out with you, for crap’s sake. She smokes out, screws to her heart’s content, but of course they treat her like some virgin-ass