Identical (27 page)

Any of those questions, although

I’d really, really like the answers.

Instead I say, “No more questions

right now, at least not about

conspiracies. But I’m seriously

thinking about majoring in history.

When I start looking at colleges,

will you help?” I still haven’t moved

my legs. Neither has he, and that

encourages my next move. I slide

my arm under the table, rest

my hand on his knee. Okay, now

this can go either way. “I’d like

your views on schools. And maybe

you’ll honor me with a good reference?”

Doesn’t run away.

In fact, he barely

even blinks.

All he does

is smile and cover

my hand with his own.

His palm is smooth,

and it wears a thin

patina of sweat.

You know you’re

my favorite student.

A good reference is no

problem at all. And of

course we can talk

about schools.

You still owe me

that cup of coffee. I’m

not likely to forget. Next time?

There’s going to be a next time,

and darlin’, it’s gonna be a lot

more private than this time,

I’m guessing. Don’t want to

look too anxious, though, so

I simply agree, “Next time.”

Neither of us has moved yet,

not a finger, not a knee. I think

maybe before my next history

class I’ll shave my legs, buy

some nylons, and make sure

my shortest skirt is clean.

Finally he lifts his hand away

from mine. I sigh and he smiles.

Thanks for an enlightening afternoon.

He lowers his voice slightly.

You really are an exceptional

young woman, you know.

I look forward to coffee and you

very soon. Better take my leave

before the gossip mill starts to spin.

My heart races and my brain

buzzes, replaying his words:

I look forward to coffee and you

coffee and you

and you

you.

Maybe I’m reading way too much

into it. It’s weird, because I so

believed there was something

between us, but now I’m not

so sure there really is, even

though just a second ago, I was.

I look forward to coffee and you

coffee and you

and you

you.

Take out the “coffee” and what

have you got? Words. Decaf words.

A “no rides with Brittany” edict.

But that was to Kaeleigh, not me,

and I really don’t feel like walking.

Besides, he’s probably halfway

to drunk by now. If I’m lucky,

he won’t notice me come in at all.

“Sure,” I agree. “Why not?” Just in case,

I point Brittany in the opposite direction,

around the block from how I usually go.

No need to tempt the devil, I always say.

As she cruises slowly up the street,

something makes me turn my head.

We’re passing Hannah’s house.

She’s the not-yet-nurse with the big

mouth, the one who busted Kaeleigh.

She’s standing on her front step,

talking to the devil himself. In fact,

she is standing very close to Daddy.

To an outsider, they are the picture

of propriety. Neighbor to neighbor,

discussing the weather, perhaps.

But I see something more

in the way he leans toward her,

close, as if he’s hard of hearing.

Darkness has closed in, but Hannah

might recognize Brittany’s car.

I think I am too obvious, and duck.

“Don’t slow down. Keep going.”

Yeah, sure,
she says, and she does,

apparently used to such deception.

I poke up my face, barely over

the seat, look out the back window,

fingers crossed I remain incognito.

Daddy and Hannah are lost in each

other, and Daddy’s body language

tells me everything I need to know.

Of body language: slant

of face, arc of hand,

frame of shoulder,

the whisper of knee

against willing knee.

I know that one well.

I recognize anger in

a certain arch of Mom’s

spine; obstinacy, double-

clenched in her jaw;

the tip of chin signaling

imminent tears.

Desire? Every man

displays it differently.

Some, like Mick, wear

it puffed up, peacocks

strutting ostentation

in lieu of real substance.

Men like Ty are harder

to read—granite-faced,

molded smiles that can

mean anything. You find

their fire in the unfathomable

pewter of their eyes.

Lawler-types store lust

not in sinew or bone, but

rather just beneath the skin,

a steady pulse at the wrists

and temples. And when need

rises, easy beat becomes throb.

But I know one man

better than the rest.

I know when it’s safe

to be near him—when

booze or pills divorce

every muscle from stress.

I know when it’s best

to sneak away—when

he comes in the door

stiff and heavy as iron,

eyelids wide and ears

practically steaming.

And I know when his

face flushes and his breath

comes in raspy little pants

and his red-rimmed eyes

fall on all the wrong places,

it’s definitely time to run.

Fall on all the wrong places,

and those places belong

to Hannah. I should yell,

“Run!” It doesn’t really

surprise

me that he’s hitting on her,

I suppose. She’s only a few

years older than me, and

looks like she’s twelve. I

guess

she’s about five feet tall

and size three. (And how will

someone that little handle ER

work, anyway?) She’s married,

I’m pretty sure, to some guy

who

I’ve never seen. Soldier?

Merchant marine? Jailbird?

No matter. He’s not around

much and hey, lucky her,

Daddy’s

just down the street, and

always up for some young-

looking meat. And just

maybe this little detour

means Daddy won’t be

screwing

Kaeleigh, too, at least not

for the foreseeable future.