Downers Grove by Michael Hornburg Read Free Book Online Page B

I just thought it would be fun, you know, at least we’ll be parked.”
    â€œWhy don’t you go to a motel, at least there’s a bed,” she said, mimicking my voice.
    I threw the
TV Guide
at her, propped my legs up on the coffee table. “Have you heard anything about those guys?” I asked.
    â€œWhat guys?”
    â€œLast night!”
    â€œWhat’s to hear?” She laughed to herself. “Action speaks louder than words.”
    â€œA couple of Chuckie’s friends showed up at the Steakhouse while I was talking to Bobby. I freaked out. Do you think I hurt him?”
    â€œI hope so.”
    â€œWhat if they come after us?”

    â€œDid you give him your phone number?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œWell how are they gonna find you? He doesn’t even know your name.”
    â€œIt’s a small town. They’ll ask around. They might see your car!”
    â€œIf they see my car they better duck.” She pulled me out of my chair. “C’mon, you’re making me nervous.”
    We went upstairs to Tracy’s room. The shades were drawn, the bed unmade. Red shag carpeting smothered the floor. Her walls were buried with posters of various rock stars and CK boys posing in their underwear. There was a scratched-up desk and matching dresser, both originally painted white, now graf-fitied with swirling rainbows of Magic Marker. She had a collection of old dolls and stuffed animals piled in the corner, which seemed like an installation dedicated to her past life, and a corkboard with souveniers of one-night stands pinned one over another as a celebration of her present one: buttons, bottle caps, concert tickets, dead flowers, even torn-open condom wrappers. Her dresser was brimming with stolen merchandise. Tracy was a kleptomaniac at the mall.
    There were three library books stacked up on the edge of her desk. “What’s with these books?” I picked up the top one.
    â€œI have to do that stupid report,” she said.
    â€œWhat’s it about?”
    â€œLook at the covers.” She nodded toward them.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œThey all have clouds on them, don’t you think that’s weird?”
    â€œSo what’s your point?”

    â€œThat is my point. How many points do I need?”
    â€œI’ve heard of
Generation X
and Bret Easton Ellis, but what’s this big fat one?”
    â€œIt says he lives in Bloomington, Illinois. Not much happens here, so you can just imagine what it’s like in Bloomington. He probably has a lot of time to write. Check out the author photo. He’s kind of cute in that thirty-something English teacher way.”
    â€œWhat’s with the bandanna? Is he in a gang?”
    â€œI’ll speculate on it in my report,” she said.
    Tracy clicked open her tape player and slipped in her sleazy-listening compilation. Mancini meets Manson is how I would describe her latest musical tastes. She calls it wife-swapping music.
    â€œWhat do you wear to a fire?” Tracy opened one of her drawers and pulled out one item after another: short pants, leather pants, suede skirts, cotton T-shirts. In the next half hour Tracy put together just about every ensemble imaginable, then suddenly turned around with a devilish smile. “Why don’t you wear nothing at all? Just a long gray raincoat and high heels.”
    â€œI’m not a slut!”
    â€œYeah, but you want to be.” She laughed knowingly, holding up the brown suede halter top she swiped from her mom’s collection. “You’re as horny as a Prince song.”
    â€œShould I make the first move?” I asked.
    â€œOnly if you have to.”
    â€œWhen will I know?”
    â€œYou stare at that fire long enough and you’ll know.” Tracy handed me her baby blue angora sweater. Its hairs stood onend from static, wiggling with a cosmic life all their own. “Wear this,” she said. “It works