The Jealous Kind Read Free Page A

then, as I do now, that most of them would go down with the decks awash and the cannons blazing, as George Orwell once said about people who are truly brave.
    The Ford pulled to the curb, the twin custom mufflers throbbing. “Looks like you’re lost,” said a greaser in the passenger seat.
    â€œI sure am,” I replied.
    â€œOr you’re selling Bibles.”
    â€œI was actuallylooking for the Assembly of God Church. Y’all know where that’s at?”
    I saw his eyes take note of the bad grammar and realized he was more intelligent than I thought, and no doubt a more serious challenge.
    â€œYou’re cute.” He put a Lucky Strike in his mouth but didn’t light it. His hair was jet-black, his cheeks sunken, his skin pale. He scratched his throat. “Got a match?”
    â€œI don’t smoke.”
    â€œIf you’re not selling Bibles and you don’t have a light, what good are you? Are you good for something, boy?”
    â€œProbably not. How about not calling me ‘boy’? Hey, I dig y’all’s heap. Where’d you get the mufflers?”
    He removed the cigarette from his mouth and pinched it between his thumb and index finger, shaking it, nodding as though coming to a profound conclusion. “I remember where I’ve seen you. That bone-smoker joint downtown, what’s it called, the Pink Elephant?”
    â€œWhat’s a bone-smoker?”
    â€œGuys who look like you. Where’d you get that belt buckle?”
    â€œWon it at the junior RCA rodeo. Bareback bronc and bull riding both.”
    â€œYou give blow jobs in the chutes?”
    My eyes went off of his. The street was hot and bright, the lawns a deep green, the air swimming with humidity, the houses an eye-watering white. “I can’t blame you for saying that. I’ve shown the same kind of prejudice about people who are made different in the womb.”
    â€œWhere’d you get that?”
    â€œThe Bible.”
    â€œYou’re telling us you’re queer?”
    â€œYou never know.”
    â€œI believe you. You got a nice mouth. You ought to get you some lipstick.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself,” I said.
    He opened the door slowly and stepped out on the asphalt. He wastaller than he had looked inside the car. His shirt was unbuttoned, the sleeves filling with wind. His stomach was corrugated, his drapes low on his hips. His eyes roved over my face as though he were studying a lab specimen. “Can you repeat that?”
    I heard a screen door squeak on a spring and slam behind me. Then I realized he was no longer looking at me. Valerie Epstein had walked down her porch steps into the yard and was standing under the live oaks, on the edge of the sunlight, shading her eyes with one hand. “Is that you?” she said.
    I didn’t know if she was talking to me or the greaser on the curb. I pointed at my chest. “You talking to me?”
    â€œAaron Holland? That’s your name, isn’t it?” she said.
    â€œYes,” I said, my throat catching.
    â€œWere you looking for me?” she said.
    â€œI wondered if you got home okay.”
    The greaser got back in the Ford and shut the door. He looked up at me, holding my eyes. “You ought to play the slots. You got a lot of luck,” he said. “See you down the track, Jack.”
    â€œLooking forward to it. Good to see you.”
    He and his friends drove away. I looked at Valerie again. She was wearing a white sundress printed with flowers.
    â€œI thought I was marmalade,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThose hoods.”
    â€œThey’re not hoods.”
    â€œHow about greaseballs?”
    â€œSometimes they’re overly protective about the neighborhood, that’s all.”
    The wind was flattening her dress against her hips and stomach and thighs. I was so nervous I had to fold my arms on my chest to keep my hands from shaking. I tried to clear my