I just thought it would be fun, you know, at least weâll be parked.â
âWhy donât you go to a motel, at least thereâs a bed,â she said, mimicking my voice.
I threw the
TV Guide
at her, propped my legs up on the coffee table. âHave you heard anything about those guys?â I asked.
âWhat guys?â
âLast night!â
âWhatâs to hear?â She laughed to herself. âAction speaks louder than words.â
âA couple of Chuckieâs friends showed up at the Steakhouse while I was talking to Bobby. I freaked out. Do you think I hurt him?â
âI hope so.â
âWhat if they come after us?â
âDid you give him your phone number?â
âOf course not.â
âWell how are they gonna find you? He doesnât even know your name.â
âItâs a small town. Theyâll ask around. They might see your car!â
âIf they see my car they better duck.â She pulled me out of my chair. âCâmon, youâre making me nervous.â
We went upstairs to Tracyâs 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. âWhatâs with these books?â I picked up the top one.
âI have to do that stupid report,â she said.
âWhatâs it about?â
âLook at the covers.â She nodded toward them.
âSo?â
âThey all have clouds on them, donât you think thatâs weird?â
âSo whatâs your point?â
âThat is my point. How many points do I need?â
âIâve heard of
Generation X
and Bret Easton Ellis, but whatâs this big fat one?â
âIt says he lives in Bloomington, Illinois. Not much happens here, so you can just imagine what itâs like in Bloomington. He probably has a lot of time to write. Check out the author photo. Heâs kind of cute in that thirty-something English teacher way.â
âWhatâs with the bandanna? Is he in a gang?â
âIâll speculate on it in my report,â 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.
âWhat do you wear to a fire?â 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. âWhy donât you wear nothing at all? Just a long gray raincoat and high heels.â
âIâm not a slut!â
âYeah, but you want to be.â She laughed knowingly, holding up the brown suede halter top she swiped from her momâs collection. âYouâre as horny as a Prince song.â
âShould I make the first move?â I asked.
âOnly if you have to.â
âWhen will I know?â
âYou stare at that fire long enough and youâll know.â Tracy handed me her baby blue angora sweater. Its hairs stood onend from static, wiggling with a cosmic life all their own. âWear this,â she said. âIt works