“Fitzgerald, he created these very sad, very complicated characters,” she continues. “They’ll remind you of so many people you know. And then there’s the whole death-of-the-American-dream thing. And the language it’s written in—to die for.”
“Okay, what do I have to do to get you to write my report? Name your price. I’ll go as high as five dollars.”
Charity smirks and pushes my notebook back at me. “Read the novel. I really think you’ll like it. Y’know, I’m crazy about the Jazz Age.”
“You dress kinda jazzy.”
“It’s not just the look and the music, which I admit I love, but it’s the whole mentality. The flappers were really the first feminists. They weren’t obsessed with marriage and babies. They drank, smoked, didn’t go to church, didn’t obey society’s rules—they weren’t defined by men. That’s why my idol is Louise Brooks.”
“Louise Brooks?”
“She was the best actress of the silent era—and the most outrageous. Way ahead of her time. Anyhow, read the book and tell me what you think.”
“I will. By the way, you still interested in being my magician’s assistant for the talent show?”
She nods vigorously. “I’ve already started making my costume—you’ll die when you see it.”
“That’s it, you two!” Mrs. Armortrout says, snapping her fingers at us. “Separate right now.”
Charity leans in and whispers, “Meet me at the Frosty Queen after school.”
When I step into the coolness and fry smell of the Frosty, I spot Shelleby coming around the counter holding a coffeepot. And then I see her face: her right eye is blackened and swollen shut. Geez. Did that Leo do that?
She skids to a halt at the sight of me.
“Uh, hi,” I say.
She motions me to an area by the restrooms.
“So, how’s Ray doin’?” she asks in a low, shaky voice.
“He’s very sore,” I say. “How . . . how are you?”
She brushes off my question.
“Will you tell him I’m thinking of him?” she asks.
“Sure, of course.” Man, this is sad.
I head over to the window table where Charity is seated and perusing the menu of songs on the 1950s tabletop jukebox.
“Let’s see now,” Charity says. “Which would you rather hear? Johnny Paycheck, Conway Twitty, or Boxcar Willie?”
“None of the above, thank you very much,” I say as I slide in across from her.
“I swear, this town is frozen in time.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say.
She leans in. “So, Les, how well do you know Kristy Lynn Hagel?”
“Well, let’s see. She’s into basketball, and she . . . wait, is she . . . like you?”
She nods and sucks on her milk shake straw.
“I hate to break it to you, but girls like you don’t exist in Harker City.”
“That a fact?” she says. “You know, you’d be surprised how many girls have tendencies.”
“Even if Kristy Lynn has ‘tendencies,’ she’ll never admit it,” I say. “I mean, her dad is head deacon at our church, and her mom is choir director.”
“But Kristy Lynn doesn’t strike me as the religious type.”
“Look, Charity, I just think it’s very dangerous for you to ‘approach’ this in any way, shape, or form.”
She scoffs. “C’mon, I’m not going to shove my tongue down her throat during home ec class or anything. Give me a little credit here.”
“I’ve lived in this town my whole life,” I say. “If it was to get out that you put the moves on a girl, it would be disastrous for you and your family. Harker City is not St. Louis. Not by a very long shot.”
“I appreciate your concern,” she says, smiling reassuringly. “And I have no intention of doing anything stupid. But Kristy Lynn, she’s—”
“Your type?”
“I admit I find her very cute,” she says.
“Really.”
“I gather you don’t.”
“I don’t go for the manly types,” I say.
“Ha ha. You know, Les, I really admire the way you stepped up to the plate and went after me like you did. I mean, it showed real gumption. Actually, you made me realize that if there’s someone I’m interested in, I have to stop thinking it to death and just go for it.”
“There you are!” says a familiar voice.
I turn as Howard—what’s he doing here?—strides toward us.
“Well, well, well. What an amazing coincidence. Mind if I join you?” he asks, smiling big.
Before I can protest, Howard nudges his big ass into the booth. He waves at Shelleby, calling out, “A large Dr Pepper for me! Charity, you want anything? My treat!”
“Howard,” I sigh, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” he says, and smiles big at Charity. “Sure you don’t want anything? How about a refill on that shake?”
“Howard,” I sigh. Charity gives me a questioning look.
“Charity, I’m going to cut to the chase,” Howard says. “Les and I need your help. We’re desperate to meet girls, and, frankly, we don’t know how to do it—”
“Speak for yourself!” I protest.
“I mean, let’s face it,” Howard continues, “all we really know about girls is what the jocks brag about in gym class, and we suspect that’s mostly bullshit. You see, Charity, you can provide us with insider tips on what chicks really want in a guy.”
“Howard, shut up. I’m begging you.”
“Now, Les, let me hear the guy out. So, Bachbaugh,” Charity says. “What’s in it for me?”
Howard hands her a menu and says, “Order anything you want, as much as you want.”
Howard and I watch as Charity downs a cheeseburger and fries, a chocolate milk shake, and a slice of coconut cream pie. Who knew a girl could eat so much?
“Okay,” Howard finally says, rubbing his hands together, “what’s the secret to making women want us?”
Charity wipes her mouth with a napkin, belches a little, and says, “Here’s the thing. It’s got to be all about her.”
“Huh?” he asks.
“I mean, be genuinely interested in her,” she says. “I see these boys—I’m hit on by them all the time—who think they have to act like ‘real tough guys.’ They just don’t get it. A woman wants a good, honest, caring friend.”
“But I’ve always heard girls want excitement and fun,” I say.
“We want both!” she says. “A fun and exciting friend. If you’re capable of being that, you’ll get some, and then some.”
“Okay, I’ve got one—how do girls like to be kissed?” I ask.
“Take it slow and let her lead the way,” she says. “Pay attention to the way she kisses you and do like she does. I like it soft and slow.”
“Do girls play with themselves?” Howard asks.
“Not nearly as much as guys, I don’t think.”
“What about you—do you play with yourself?” he asks.
“Oh, Howard. Next question.”
“Is it true that girls’ boobs get hard-ons?” I ask.
“Now, that’s a retarded question,” Howard says.
“Kinda,” Charity says, “but only our nipples harden.”
“Wow.”
I glance out the window and see the four o’clock Trailways bus pulling in off the highway.
“Be prepared to do a lot of listening,” Charity counsels. “Girls like to talk. And if you’re a guy who’s willing to listen—and I mean really listen and pay attention—then you’re set.”
“When I asked you out,” I say, “did I do all right? If, uh, circumstances were different, would you have gone for me?”
“Definitely. You seemed really sincere.”
“So why doesn’t Mr. Sincere ever see any action?” Howard asks.
“Oh, he will,” she says. “He definitely will.”
I turn
away to hide my gloating grin and watch as the bus hisses to a stop and the accordion doors open.
“I have a feeling everything is going to change in high school for you guys,” she says.
“Man, I hope so.”
Howard, looking out the window, says, “Whoa. Wait. Well, hello there.”
I turn and see HER alighting from the bus. Tall and curvy, skin the color of coffee with lots of milk, breasts pushing out of her halter top, tight blue jeans giving eloquent evidence of a perfect butt. A little dog is under her arm.
“My future has arrived on a Trailways bus,” Howard quips.
“In your dreams,” I laugh.
Wraparound sunglasses conceal HER eyes. Her curly black hair is pulled into a ponytail.
“A black woman in Harker City,” Howard says. “Gotta be a first.”
“She is hot,” Charity says, shaking her head. I’ve never heard a girl comment on another girl like this before. That’s hot.
Howard holds his hand to the window and makes slow, hypnotic-like gestures with his fingers, and in a low voice utters, “Come to me. Come to Howard. Look my way.”
And suddenly she does!
“Shit!” I drop my face flat on the table.
Charity’s giggling face is also on the table.
“It worked,” Howard says—he is also one with the Formica.
When I finally have the guts to lift my face up, the woman is gone. Just then Shelleby appears at our table, holding out a bulging doggy bag with a sealed envelope stapled to it. “Les, will you please give this to You Know Who. He just loves our cheeseburgers.”
I take the bag.
“Be sure he reads the note,” she says pointedly.
***
After Howard pays the bill (eleven dollars, and worth every penny), the three of us head outside. Our mystery woman is nowhere to be found. Then Howard tugs on my arm and points at the little motel office, where, through the window, I see that she’s exchanging cash for a room key. Her sunglasses are off and that’s when—
“Holy smokes!” I say. “I know her!”
“Who is she?” Charity asks.
“You know her?” Howard asks.
“My uncle has, um, pictures of her.”
“Is she a hooker?” asks Howard.
“I don’t know. She was naked in the pictures. Really, really naked.”
“Maybe she’s going to set up shop at the Sleep Inn Motel here,” Charity says.
“She knows my uncle. Her being here can’t be a coincidence.”
“But why would she check into a motel?” Howard asks. “Why not go straight to your house?”
The motel office door opens, and she emerges with the little dog. The three of us duck around the side of the restaurant. After a moment we peek out and watch her disappear into room number three (I make a mental note).
Howard turns to me and whispers, “Call me the moment your uncle tells you who she is.”
“Well, y’see, I can’t exactly ask him.”
His eyes beg for an explanation.
“I, uh, found her pictures when I was snooping in his stuff.”
Charity smiles as she straddles her bike. “Well, Booger, it looks like you’ve got a real mystery on your hands.”
I guess I do. A sexy mystery.
Seduction Tip Number 10:
Your Breast Work
The Seductive Man knows that women don’t like pinchers, squeezers, or biters when it comes to their breasts. Proceed at a slow, gentle pace. Never grab or be rough with her lovely orbs. Stroke the breast in a soothing manner, much like you would a Persian cat. Brush your hands and fingers softly and slowly over the nipples. If you’re unsure of yourself, practice first on a grape. If the skin breaks, you’re being too harsh.
Pushing open my bedroom door, I see Uncle Ray, wearing Dad’s red plaid robe, propped up on pillows, staring despondently out the window. His face is more black and blue than yesterday, with shadow-like pouches under his eyes.
I hand him the hamburger bag with the envelope on it.
“What’s this?” He tears open the envelope, reads the note, then balls it up and tosses it across the room.
“Whatever you do,” he says through his puffy lips, “don’t you let that Shelleby into this house, understand me? I want nothing to do with that needy bitch.”
He points to the blue plastic jug beside the bed. “Now will you please empty my piss pot.”
In the bathroom I plug my nose as I pour the pee into the toilet. When I return, Uncle Ray is snoring. I reach down, pick up the note, smooth it out, and read:
Dear Ray,
I’m so very sorry about what has happened. I love you so much. I miss you so much. I’m willing to divorce Leo to be with you. Please call me. I need to talk to you. You mean so much to me.
Yours forever,
Shelleby
Another sad, complicated Daisy. With no Gatsby to save her.
***
“Lester Eckhardt, count yourself lucky you didn’t break Brett’s nose,” Mom huffs, then turns to Dad, who is chewing his Special K casserole. “Roger, what do you think his punishment should be?”
Dad clears his throat and says, “You know, Bev, the boy has a right to defend himself.”
“Roger!” Mom gasps. “He hit someone!”
“What should he have done?” Dad takes another bite of his dinner.
The bigger question is: what’s come over my mild-mannered dad?
“Think about how this will reflect on our family and the practice,” Mom says. “What are we supposed to tell people?”
“How about you tell me why we are always so damned concerned about what everyone in this town thinks all the time?” Dad snaps.
Mom stares at Dad, flabbergasted. “Well,” she splutters, “if you’re not going to punish him, I will. First off, young man, you’re grounded—”
The phone rings, shattering the exchange. I answer it before the second ring.
“Fact or wishful thinking?” Howard asks on the other end. “The hot babe who stepped off the bus today, her bathroom window happens to be open.”
“Fact?” I ask.
“Fact indeed,” he says. “Ten o’clock tonight, behind room number three. Be there or be square.”
I no sooner hang up the phone than it rings again.
“Hi there, Les. It’s me, Shelleby. Did you give Ray the note and cheeseburger?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah.”
“What’d he say?”
I turn away from my parents and say, “I don’t really know.”
“Oh. Well, will you please put him on the phone.”
“Er—he’s sleeping. Sorry. Gotta go.” I hang up.
“Who was that?” Mom asks.
“A . . . friend of Uncle Ray’s.”
“Who?”
“Some guy named . . .” I scan the kitchen. “Stove—Stover. Ed Stover, I think he said the name was.”
“Huh,” Mom says.
“Uncle Ray,” I say to the ceiling over the top bunk, “did you have a girlfriend in Kansas City?”
“I almost always have a chick in my life,” he mumbles from the bottom bunk. “Often more than one.”
“Your latest ones, what’d they look like?”
“I don’t want to talk about women.”
After a moment I ask, “Why’d you go with Shelleby if you knew she was married?”
“Jesus H. Christ, kid! What’s with all the questions?!”
“Just curious.”
“Look, I never force no one to do nothin’. It’s not my problem if a chick’s married.”
I lean over the edge of the bed. His bruised, whiskery face is immobilized in his stained and dirty neck brace. “No offense, Uncle Ray, but it kinda is your problem now.”
Uncle Ray flips me the bird before looking away.
Mom isn’t snoring until almost twenty past eleven. I tiptoe past Dad’s “ham shack,” where he’s honing in on static-filled voices from the Great
Beyond, then slip out the back door, jump on my bike, and race to the motel. A light is on behind the drawn front curtains of room number three. When I slink around the motel’s weed-overgrown back side, I spot Howard standing on a pile of boards, peering into a small, cracked-open, frosted-glass window.
“Scoot over,” I whisper. I step onto the boards and they creak a little. The bathroom is dark, but the bedroom beyond it is lit by the flickering blue light of the TV. All I can really make out are her bare feet at the end of the bed.
“She’s been lying there watching TV for over an hour,” Howard whispers.
“She naked?”
“Got me.”
We stand there, staring and waiting.
“You’re lucky I’m even talking to you, Bachbaugh. I mean, grilling Charity like that.”
“She’s not your lesbian, Eckhardt. And it worked, didn’t it?” he whispers. “She gave us both some great tips.”
“That’s not the point, Howard, and—”
He nudges me. My pulse quickens. Her silhouette appears in the bathroom doorway. She switches on the light, and both Howard and I lean back a little. We watch her reach in and turn on the shower. God, that belly-button ring is so what’s the word? Kinky? She’s probably really wild. Stepping back, she pushes down her jeans, revealing her black silk panties, which she takes off. Sweet Jesus! I’ve never seen a real live naked woman’s hoo-ha. She’s furrier than in Uncle Ray’s pictures. She reaches up and strips off her halter top. Boobs! Huge brown boobs! Setting foot in the shower, she closes the curtain. Her sopping wet breasts are now at our eye level, the water sluicing down her nipples. There’s the smell of watermelon-scented soap mixed with steam. As she lathers her chest, I hear something: Howard’s panting. And oh, wait, so am I.
The next morning, in the hallway in front of the water fountain, I pass Brett. His nose is swollen and bluish. Did I do that? He lasers me with his stare, and I feel ice creep up my spine. In English class Howard slips me a note: “Let’s go back tonight with my dad’s camera. We must immortalize her in Polaroids.”
I decide not to write back.
Thank God, today is only a half day (some kind of end-of-the-year teacher conferences). Just shy of noon I’m riding my bike home, and as I start to round the corner onto our street, I hear some lady yell, “Open this door right now, you son of a bitch!”
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