The Scandalous Summer of Sissy LeBlanc (30 page)

Bourrée began bringing a few comforts out to the woods with

them. An old red wool blanket to spread over the rocky ground and

a heavy leather jacket to wrap her up in afterward when her teeth

began to chatter.

Bourrée unbuttoned his jeans but he always kept them on. He

didn’t want to get naked in front of that smooth young body.

Besides, it had turned cold. He marveled that the little girl was still

so amenable to letting him take off all her clothes. She’d sit on top

of him, working that round little butt, grinding it into him, naked

to the wind and the world. A bitch in heat will do anything, he

thought.

He always brought along a flask of dark, warm moonshine,

which they’d drink after having sex, before he took up his shotgun.

Because in spite of the pleasures Sissy afforded him, Bourrée was

not one to let a mere girl interfere with duck-hunting season. It was

too short. And he always had a fresh supply of condoms. As many

as it took. He felt they had lucked out the first time and he had no

intention of getting a sixteen-year-old girl in trouble. Although if he

did, he doubted that father of hers, Hugh Thompson, would have

the guts to come after him. Still, Bourrée hated scenes. He had

enough trouble at home, with Peewee whining at him all the time.

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“But it’s my turn! Senior year, you always take the boys duck

hunting.”

“Not this year,” said Bourrée, pouring himself a cup of coffee,

wishing his wife weren’t so dead set against liquor in the house.

“But I’m a senior. Last year you took Tommy Lee and two years

before that you took Bert.”

“This year’s different.”

“Why?” But Peewee already knew. He was different. His father

had never paid attention to him. He wasn’t big like Tommy Lee or

smart like Bert. He was always just Peewee. Hand-me-downs were

good enough for Peewee, the runt of the litter.

He’d thought things would change once they were out in the

woods together, man to man. He’d show his daddy what he was

made of. He’d secretly taught himself how to load a gun and he was

sure he’d shoot more ducks than either of his brothers. He’d make

his daddy proud of him.

“You’ll just have to wait, that’s all.”

“But I might not be here next year! What with the war in Europe

and all!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” said Miss Lily, cutting herself a third

helping of yellow cake with chocolate icing. “Have pity on the boy,

Bourrée. Take him hunting.”

Peewee saw his father looking at her. Saw his father’s lip curl. “I

don’t want pity, Mama! If Daddy doesn’t want to teach me to

shoot, then he doesn’t. I can learn without him.” Peewee was fight-

ing tears.

Bourrée pushed away from the table. “Jesus H. Christ! Can’t a

man get some peace and quiet in his own home!”

“Bourrée, you know I will not have the Lord profaned in my

house.”

Bourrée grunted, “Don’t worry, woman. I won’t bother you or

the Almighty in this house again tonight.” He grabbed his coat and

stormed toward the front room, wishing he’d listened to his parents

and married a Catholic. But he’d wanted to escape the strictures of

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his upbringing. Lily Moffat, fat and sassy and just seventeen,

looked like a great escape.

But a couple of years of marriage had driven her to religion. And

when she took Jesus Christ into her heart, she threw her husband’s

liquor out the door.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Lily called after him.

“Out!” he yelled, slamming the door.

Miss Lily pursed her lips and all her chins trembled into her ruf-

fled shirtwaist. She turned to Peewee. “See what you’ve done now?

See what happens when you get your daddy all upset.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Peewee. “I see.”

He never said another word about hunting, but every afternoon

he’d see his father coming home with his guns and his dogs and his

game bags not nearly as full as in previous years. That’s because

he’s hunting alone, thought Peewee. If I was with him, we’d fill

those game bags. He pretended to be immersed in the short-wave

radio he was building. He’d show his father yet. But inside some-

thing that had been warm and eager just shriveled up.

Bourrée couldn’t stand to see his son’s mute suffering. Its

very presence began to interfere with his daily pleasure in Sissy’s

young body. Besides as the novelty wore off, she was taking up less

and less of his thoughts and energy. He wanted to spend more of his

precious time in the woods hunting, especially now the birds were

thinning out. But Sissy was always there, every damn day, waiting

for him with those adoring puppy eyes, eager as a dog and just as

demanding. Bourrée was getting real tired of teenagers.

Boys are easy.

Rule Number Forty-one

The Southern Belle’s Handbook

C h a p t e r 1 4

Sissy looked at her watch. Ten more minutes and cheerlead-

ing practice would be over. Twenty more minutes and she’d be sit-

ting next to Bourrée bouncing out to the creek with his fingers

sliding under her skirt. She felt the pull of that golden cord. Mon-

days were always the best. She hadn’t seen him since Friday. It was

going to be so exquisitely hard to wait until they got to the woods,

especially now that hunting season was officially over and they

wouldn’t have any other distractions.

It was too cold to make love outside on the ground, but they

could fool around in the cab of his truck. There was plenty of room.

She’d been seeing Bourrée five days a week for a month. It

seemed like her whole life. She was besotted with him. Her limbs

felt languid. She was so marvelously sated.

Her notebooks were covered with Parker’s initials in big fluid

script. But underneath she’d drawn BLB in a tortured cryptic code

that seemed to fit their relationship. Parker was sunlight. Bourrée

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was shade. Parker was bright and healthy. Bourrée was like a sinful

addiction.

She imagined herself straddling him in the truck, right in the

cemetery, her back pressing into the horn. Pushing herself into him

as her back arched and the horn honked and a crowd came out to

see what was going on.

“Sissy, will you please face the squad!” said Miss Robbie. “I

should think you—especially—would want to get this right.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sissy.

Parker had run ninety-five yards for the winning touchdown in

the game against Hammond last week. Now Coach wanted a spe-

cial cheer to spur him on to further victories. And he wanted it

ready for the next week’s game. It wasn’t enough that Sissy jump up

in the air, throw her legs apart, and come down in the splits. She’d

worked on that for weeks last spring and it almost killed her. But

then it seemed so much more important to make Parker proud of

her. Before he’d found solace in his “cousins.”

Now Coach wanted the girls to do a series of squats and leaps,

waving their pompoms around and yelling, “Go, Davidson, go!”

while Sissy did back flips front of them.

But Sissy was voted head cheerleader because she was popular,

not because she was a tumbling champ. And when her first back flip

turned into a back flop, she refused to try again.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” insisted Miss Robbie.

“No, I won’t,” Sissy assured her and then suggested they let Betty

Ruth do her Twirl of Fire. Everyone was horrified.

“You can’t do that, Sissy!” said Doreen McAlister. It was the

head cheerleader’s privilege to stand in front of the squad. No one

had ever heard of a head voluntarily giving up that privilege.

“Beside, what would Parker think?” Sissy didn’t know. The only

time she’d seen him in the last six weeks was at school. And she’d

heard there had been a series of “cousins.”

Coach was pissed. The girl wouldn’t even do a simple back flip

when his boys were breaking their arms and legs for the team. But

T h e S c a n d a l o u s S u m m e r o f S i s s y L e B l a n c 2 0 5

she was adamant. He suggested she start with a graceful back bend

and finish with a nice slow kick-over. But Miss Robbie pointed out

that Sissy might still be upside down while Parker completed a

touchdown, and no one would see him, because every man and boy

in the stadium would be straining to peek up Sissy’s pants.

Sissy said she was willing to do a series of quick cartwheels.

Coach didn’t think that would look so good.

“It would look a heck of a lot better than me back flopping in

front of the whole school.”

Coach left shaking his head.

“Just watch the other girls and count,” said Miss Robbie.

Sissy watched as the girls squatted, twisted, jumped, and

screamed, “Go, Davidson, go,” and then dissolved into giggles as

she found herself hanging upside down and backward over Parker’s

shoulders.

“Parker Davidson, you put me down, right now.” He had tackled

her from behind, and was holding on to her by her ankles, her

knees draped over his shoulders. Sissy yelled and tried to beat on

his back from the indignity of her position.

“Coach said you wanted to learn to do a back flip.” He was care-

ful to keep his hands on her knees and not on some indecent place

on her thighs.

“Parker, you put me down now, or say your prayers!”

“Ow-wee,” said Parker, laughing to the other girls. “This gal’s

tough.” He set her back on the ground and touched her shoulder.

Sissy jerked away from him, but Parker just laughed again.

Miss Robbie announced the end of practice. It was beginning to

rain.

Parker put his arm around Sissy protectively as they walked over

to their coats. “Harlan’s parents are in Baton Rouge today, so a

bunch of us are going over to his house and listen to records. What

do you say?” He leaned into her as if to tell her a secret and kissed

her hair. A shiver went through her. “Our parents won’t know.”

A biting, wet wind hit her in the face. Sissy imagined herself in

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Harlan’s knotty-pine living room with a fire in the fireplace, horsing

around and dancing to Coleman Hawkins and Duke Ellington. She

could almost smell the fresh popcorn and cocoa. “I wish I could.”

A longing swept through her. It would be like old times.

“Well, if you’re real nice to me, I’ll see if I can swing an invita-

tion.”

“I have to go to the cemetery,” she said, and for the first time, she

almost wished she didn’t have to.

“Dammit, Sissy.” And then, recovering himself, Parker apolo-

gized. “I’m sorry, babe, I didn’t mean to swear, but I hate to see you

standing out there in the rain. I know what Norman meant to you.

He meant a lot to all of us, but he wouldn’t want you to catch pneu-

monia at his graveside. What do you say? We haven’t been together

in weeks.”

“I know, but I can’t. Not today.”

“But these afternoons are all we have. Don’t you miss me?”

“What do you think?” Sissy asked. She did miss him. She still

wanted to be Parker’s girl.

Parker cast around for an alternative. “Okay, if visiting Norm is

so important to you, I’ll have Harlan give us a lift and we’ll wait for

you in the cemetery.”

“No!”

Parker looked mystified. He put his hands on her shoulders.

“Hey, we don’t have to go to Harlan’s if you don’t want to.”

A shiver went through her. She’d always loved it when Parker

touched her. But now she was in love with Bourrée, so Parker’s

touch couldn’t mean as much. It would be immoral if it did. She

would be immoral. She was so confused.

She hadn’t thought Parker wanted her anymore. Not with all his

“cousins.”

She had to put Parker out of her mind. She’d made her choice the

afternoon she’d first made love to Bourrée. It was a hard choice.

And she couldn’t go on making it day after day, not and keep her

sanity. She pulled away from Parker.

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“What if I borrowed Harlan’s car and we go out to the creek, just

the two of us?”

“No! Parker, I can’t. Not today.” She saw the hurt spread over

his face. Oh, this was terrible.

“When?” he asked, his voice soft and even.

“I don’t know.”

“Tomorrow after school?”

She shook her head.

“Wednesday?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

He dug his hands into his jacket. “I get it.” And without another

word he walked off to the parking lot.

“Parker, don’t be like that!” Southern Belle’s Handbook, Rule

Number Eight:
A girl who lets a boy go away mad risks letting him

go for good
. “Parker!” she called. She wanted to run after him, to

tell him not to be mad at her, tease him out of it, but there just

wasn’t time. She didn’t know what would happen if she were late.

Bourrée wasn’t the type to wait around.