Roxy’s Story Read Free Page A

had been considering.
     It wasn’t difficult this time, because it fit so well in the inside pocket of the
     oversize man’s leather jacket I was wearing. Despite being caught at it three times,
     I was almost as good as a Las Vegas magician when it came to “now you see it, now
     you don’t.” I left the store right after he did, and when he stopped to look at some
     clothingin a window, I came up beside him and took out the book. I stood there looking at
     it, and then he looked at me with a smile of incredulity.
    “You just buy that book?” he asked.
    “Sorta,” I said.
    “Sorta? What’s that mean?”
    “Sorta means ‘sort of,’ ” I said, and he laughed. “Here,” I told him, handing it to
     him. He looked at it in my extended hand.
    “ ‘Here’? You want to give it to me? Don’t you want to read it?”
    “The last thing I read was a ticket for jaywalking, and you know how hard that is
     to get in New York City.”
    He laughed again, looked at the book suspiciously, looked back at the store and then
     at me.
    “Don’t worry. It was a clean sorta,” I said, jerking the book at him. “Take it. I
     don’t want it.”
    He finally took it. “If you don’t want it, why did you do this?”
    “I saw you read the cover with interest and then put it back. On a budget?”
    “Sorta,” he said, smiling.
    “There you go, then. You have what you wanted at no cost.”
    “Yes, but why did you want to do this for me? Who are you?”
    “I’m not an undercover policeman working out an entrapment or anything. Don’t worry.
     You looked like you really wanted it. I liked your look, so I did one of the things
     I do best. I made some good-looking guy happy.”
    He laughed but shook his head incredulously. I could tell he had never met anyone
     like me. But then again, few people had. “My name is Roxy Wilcox,” I added, and offered
     my hand.
    He looked at it as if taking it would doom him.
    “No diseases,” I said.
    He took it, holding it very gently, almost too gently for a man who looked as fit
     as he did. “Steve Carson. You liked my look?”
    “Sorta,” I said, and he did that smile and shaking of his head again.
    He looked around—to see if anyone was noticing us, I guess. Then he turned back to
     me. “I guess you live in New York?”
    “Right. East Side. You?”
    “I’m going to Columbia. Junior. Born and raised in Rochester, New York.”
    “Raised? What are you, corn?” I asked, and he laughed.
    “You’re funny, all right. You go to school or what?”
    “Mostly ‘or what,’ but I’m still enrolled in school. At least today.”
    “College or . . .”
    “High school,” I said. “A senior, but don’t hold it against me.”
    He nodded. Then he looked at his watch.
    “Heavy date at the dorm?” I asked.
    “No. I don’t live at the dorm. I took a studio apartment on Jerome Avenue.”
    “Oh, a loner?”
    “I’m just not into the college rah-rah stuff. Can’t afford to fail anything. Besides,
     I like being on my own.”
    “Makes two of us.”
    “So you’re a senior in high school?”
    “I’m old enough. Don’t worry about that. I was left back three times,” I added, half
     in jest. He looked as if he believed it and smiled a little more warmly now. I could
     see he was very attracted to me, not that most boys weren’t.
    I think that was a big part of what confused my parents and my teachers. I was, in
     all modesty, quite beautiful, with a terrific figure, but as Billy Barton, a boy in
     my class, was fond of saying, I was “hell on wheels.” The contradiction probably kept
     me from suffering more severe punishments. Whenever I had been brought before a judge,
     I could see the confusion in his face. Why would someone who looked like me be so
     bad? Who was I, the daughter of Bonnie and Clyde? I knew how to be sweet and remorseful,
     too. Each time, I was sent off with warnings. Most men, especially some of my teachers,
     were easy to manipulate. But not