that?
No, she'll think I'm a stalker.
"Hey, Bobby," she said.
"Hey." He turned too quickly and bashed his elbow into his locker door. Owww! His funny bone, the pain so intense it momentarily blinded him.
"You read the history junk?" she asked.
He mumbled a "yeah" through the pain.
"The Civil War has too many battles," she complained. "I can't remember them all."
Bobby thought about saying he'd memorized the battles alphabetically from Antietam to Zollicoffer. But that would sound so dorky. "For the quiz, just know Gettysburg and both Bull Runs," he said.
"There's so much to read." A faint whine, but coming from her parted lips, it sounded musical.
Antietam, Bachelor's Creek. Chickamauga, Devil's Backbone, Ezra Church . . .
He couldn't help it. His brain was reciting Civil War battles from A to Z.
"Do you think you could help me?" she asked.
"You mean . . . study together?"
"I could come over to your house after school."
He tossed his shoulders, as if that would be okay, but no big deal. "Sure. Cool. You know where I live?"
She smiled, perfect teeth, the orthodonture having been removed at the beginning of the school year. "I know it's gotta be close. I've seen you outside my house."
Busted!
"I, uh . . . walk . . . sometimes. The neighborhood. Kumquat. Loquat. Avocado . . ."
Shut up already! You sound like a total wingnut.
"My hood, too." She stood up, and so did Bobby, miraculously managing not to drop his books or bang his shins into the locker.
"Give me your address," she said. "I'll come over around four."
Bobby wrote the address on a slip of paper. He knew that some people couldn't remember things the way he could.
"I'll bring some DVDs," Maria said. "If we get done early, maybe we can just hang and watch a movie."
"Great. Have you ever seen A Cinderella Story ? It's pretty cool."
"Are you kidding! I love that movie. I've seen it like a zillion times."
Another smile, and she spun on her heel and headed off, breathing a "See ya later" over her perfect shoulder.
Holy shit.
Maria Munoz-Goldberg was coming to his house with her history book, her DVDs, and her black panties. He watched her walk toward home room, the symphony of her voice still echoing in his brain, along with . . .
Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, Harper's Ferry, Irish Bend, Jenkins' Ferry, Kennesaw Mountain . . .
The names wouldn't stop. But they were so soft, he could still hear Maria's voice and could still see her parted lips, warm and sugary in his brain.
Three
GAFF FROM THE PAST
Steve parked the car and admired the twenty-foot-high likeness of himself. It was a part of the day he always enjoyed.
The two-story mural was painted on the chipped stucco wall of Les Mannequins, the modeling agency where Solomon & Lord maintained its offices. There was Steve, sitting on the edge of a desk, wearing a charcoal gray suit, reading a law book. Something he never wore, something he never did. Standing next to him was Victoria, in a ruby red knit suit with a two-button, ruffled-trim jacket, her breasts fuller, her hips rounder than in real life.
Artistic license.
Then the caption, in fancy script:
Solomon & Lord, Attorneys-at-Law
The Wisdom of Solomon, the Strength of the Lord
Call (555) UBE-FREE
Victoria had been appalled, of course. "Cheesy" and "blasphemous" were two of her kinder adjectives. The mural was the handiwork of Henri Touissant, a sixteen-year-old Steve had represented in Juvenile Court. One of the best graffiti artists in Little Haiti, Henri was busted while tagging an overpass with a drawing of President Bush having intimate relations with a goat. "Profound political satire," Steve argued in the lad's defense. The judge gave Henri probation, and Steve hired him to paint the mural, in lieu of attorney's fees.
Now, heading into the building, Steve was plagued by a question that had been bothering him all morning.
Just how much should I tell Victoria?
It was one of the recurring
No, she'll think I'm a stalker.
"Hey, Bobby," she said.
"Hey." He turned too quickly and bashed his elbow into his locker door. Owww! His funny bone, the pain so intense it momentarily blinded him.
"You read the history junk?" she asked.
He mumbled a "yeah" through the pain.
"The Civil War has too many battles," she complained. "I can't remember them all."
Bobby thought about saying he'd memorized the battles alphabetically from Antietam to Zollicoffer. But that would sound so dorky. "For the quiz, just know Gettysburg and both Bull Runs," he said.
"There's so much to read." A faint whine, but coming from her parted lips, it sounded musical.
Antietam, Bachelor's Creek. Chickamauga, Devil's Backbone, Ezra Church . . .
He couldn't help it. His brain was reciting Civil War battles from A to Z.
"Do you think you could help me?" she asked.
"You mean . . . study together?"
"I could come over to your house after school."
He tossed his shoulders, as if that would be okay, but no big deal. "Sure. Cool. You know where I live?"
She smiled, perfect teeth, the orthodonture having been removed at the beginning of the school year. "I know it's gotta be close. I've seen you outside my house."
Busted!
"I, uh . . . walk . . . sometimes. The neighborhood. Kumquat. Loquat. Avocado . . ."
Shut up already! You sound like a total wingnut.
"My hood, too." She stood up, and so did Bobby, miraculously managing not to drop his books or bang his shins into the locker.
"Give me your address," she said. "I'll come over around four."
Bobby wrote the address on a slip of paper. He knew that some people couldn't remember things the way he could.
"I'll bring some DVDs," Maria said. "If we get done early, maybe we can just hang and watch a movie."
"Great. Have you ever seen A Cinderella Story ? It's pretty cool."
"Are you kidding! I love that movie. I've seen it like a zillion times."
Another smile, and she spun on her heel and headed off, breathing a "See ya later" over her perfect shoulder.
Holy shit.
Maria Munoz-Goldberg was coming to his house with her history book, her DVDs, and her black panties. He watched her walk toward home room, the symphony of her voice still echoing in his brain, along with . . .
Fredericksburg, Gettysburg, Harper's Ferry, Irish Bend, Jenkins' Ferry, Kennesaw Mountain . . .
The names wouldn't stop. But they were so soft, he could still hear Maria's voice and could still see her parted lips, warm and sugary in his brain.
Three
GAFF FROM THE PAST
Steve parked the car and admired the twenty-foot-high likeness of himself. It was a part of the day he always enjoyed.
The two-story mural was painted on the chipped stucco wall of Les Mannequins, the modeling agency where Solomon & Lord maintained its offices. There was Steve, sitting on the edge of a desk, wearing a charcoal gray suit, reading a law book. Something he never wore, something he never did. Standing next to him was Victoria, in a ruby red knit suit with a two-button, ruffled-trim jacket, her breasts fuller, her hips rounder than in real life.
Artistic license.
Then the caption, in fancy script:
Solomon & Lord, Attorneys-at-Law
The Wisdom of Solomon, the Strength of the Lord
Call (555) UBE-FREE
Victoria had been appalled, of course. "Cheesy" and "blasphemous" were two of her kinder adjectives. The mural was the handiwork of Henri Touissant, a sixteen-year-old Steve had represented in Juvenile Court. One of the best graffiti artists in Little Haiti, Henri was busted while tagging an overpass with a drawing of President Bush having intimate relations with a goat. "Profound political satire," Steve argued in the lad's defense. The judge gave Henri probation, and Steve hired him to paint the mural, in lieu of attorney's fees.
Now, heading into the building, Steve was plagued by a question that had been bothering him all morning.
Just how much should I tell Victoria?
It was one of the recurring
Similar Books
Renewal 2 - Echoes of the Breakdown
Jf Perkins
The Disfavored Hero
Jessica Amanda Salmonson
Cactus Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy)
Shirl Henke
Untamed
Anna Cowan
God's Dog
Diego Marani
Close Quarters: A Novel (Zane Presents)
Shamara Ray
Catalyst
Viola Grace
High Lonesome
Stacey Coverstone
Easton
Paul Butler
Illicit Canvas: political romance and stand alone romance
Joanna Mazurkiewicz