Cherokee Bat and the Goat Guys by Francesca Lia Block Read Free Book Online Page A

moon.”
    Later, in the dark kitchen, lit only by the luminous refrigerator frost, they ate chocolate chip ice cream out of the carton and each other’s mouths.
    But in the morning Cherokee’s throat burned and her chest ached, dry. There were no more birds or flowers or window-moons, and when she tried to kiss Raphael he turned away from her.
    The band played more and more shows. Cherokee’s skull was full of music, even when it was quiet. Smoke made her chest heave when she tried to run. She remembered drinks and matches and eyes and mouths and breasts coming at her out of the darkness. She remembered brushing against Witch Baby’s wings, feeling the stage shake as Raphael galloped across it; she remembered the shadow of horns on the wall behind them and Angel Juan massaging his temples. When she woke in the morning, shefelt as if she had been dancing through her sleep, as if she had been awake in the minds of an audience whose dreams would not let her rest. And she did not want any of it to stop.
    Some days. Angel Juan would drive Cherokee, Raphael and Witch Baby to school and then go to work. But more and more often they all just stayed home, piled in Weetzie’s bed, watching soap operas and rented movies, eating tortilla chips and talking about ideas for new songs. At night they came to life, lighting up the house with red bulbs, listening to music, drinking beers, taking hot tubs on the deck by candlelight, dressing for the shows. At night they were vibrant—perfectly played instruments.
    Sometimes Cherokee wanted to write to her family or visit Coyote, but she decided she was too tired, she would do it later, her head ached now. They would be out of school soon anyway, so what did it matter if they missed a few extra days, she told herself, running her hands over Raphael’s thigh in the haunch pants. And they were doing somethingimportant. Lulu from The Vamp had told Raphael that she thought they could be the next hot new band.
    Angel Juan and Witch Baby were kissing on the carpet. Through the open windows, the evening smelled like summer. It would be night soon. There would be feathers, fur and bone.

Dear Everybody,
    I know the film Is very important but sometimes I wish you were home. Maybe The Goat Guys can be in your next movie.
    Love,      
Cherokee

Hooves
    S ummer came and the canyon where Cherokee lived smelled of fires. Sometimes, when she stood on the roof looking over the trees and smog and listening to the sirens, she saw ash in the air like torn gray flesh. She wondered what Coyote was thinking as the hills burned around him. If lineshad formed in his face when he had discovered that the horns were gone. Lines like scars. She had not spoken to him in weeks.
    That summer there was dry fragile earth and burning weeds, buzzing electric wires, parched horns and the thought of Coyote’s anger-scars. There was Cherokee’s reflection in the mirror—powder-pale, her body narrow in the tight dresses she had started to wear. And there were the shows almost every night.
    The shows were the only things that seemed to matter now. More and more people came, and when Cherokee whirled for them she forgot the heat that had kept her in a stupor all day, forgot the nightmares she had been having, the charred smell in the air and what Coyote was thinking. People were watching her, moving with her, hypnotized. And she was rippling and flashing above them. Onstage she was the fire.
       And then one night, after a show. The Goat Guys came home and saw the package at the front door.
    “It says ‘For Cherokee.’”
    Witch Baby handed over the tall box and Cherokee took it in her arms. At first she thought it was from her family. They were thinking of her. But then she saw the unfamiliar scrawl and she hesitated.
    “Open it!” said Angel Juan.
    “You have a fan, I guess,” said Raphael.
    Cherokee did not want to open the box. She sat staring at it.
    “Go on!”
    Finally, she tore at the tape with her