Every Time I Think of You by Jim Provenzano Read Free Book Online

figured out our passage from the back alley, past garbage cans, around the block. Cautiously, back onto the street, I peered nervously around the corner and saw my mother’s car.
    The argument on the porch continued. I remained resolute in our escape. Everett followed as we crossed the street, slowing our pace until we reached the car.
    Yosemite Sam’s glance past his irate customers led the attention of the two other men, one of them the loud one, to us.
    “Start the car,” Everett muttered.
    “Is that them?” One of the men jumped from the porch steps in a bound. I scrambled to unlock my door, got in, started the car, then leaned over and pulled the other door lock up.
    Everett darted inside as my limited parallel un-parking skills were further hampered by a skinny angry man who thought we were someone else. He pounded the hood. On the porch, the other man and Yosemite Sam began a sort of shoving match.
    A soft metal crunch assured me that backing up any more would be prevented by the car I’d just hit. Suddenly searing with adrenaline, I abruptly veered the car out into the street, as the confused hoodlum gave the car another fist pound.
    Several blocks and two run stoplights later, I glared at the rear-view mirror, then to Everett. Despite the temperature outside, his face was coated in a sheen of sweat.

    “You happy?” I snapped.

    “What! I didn’t know–”

    “You wanted an adventure. You got it.”

    “Just … It wasn’t our fault.”

    “Fault? I’m not talking about fault. You–”

    “I just wanted to–”

    “Show off?”

    “Well–”

    “Just shut up.”

    He did, surprisingly, for a few blocks, before muttering, “I’m sorry.”

    I silently shrugged off his apology and kept driving.

    “I gotta check the fender,” I said, to break the tension.

    “Let’s just get back to Holly’s first.”

    “Fine.”

    “…which is the other way.”

    Having approached a wide and empty intersection, I screeched to a halt, pulled a U-turn, spinning on a patch of ice, and raced the car in the other direction.

    Everett whistled. “Well, fuck me, Starsky.”

    “I will.”

    Gripping the steering wheel, I held onto my anger for a few more blocks, finally slowing the car down to a reasonable pace.

    “What?” I snapped.

    Everett had been staring at me, but all along with an amused grin.

    “‘I will!’” he repeated, imitating my growled anger. And then he laughed, and eventually, so did I.

    “After we get stoned.”

    “And have pizza?” Everett begged in a childlike tone.

    “And have pizza.”

    More silence followed, until Everett began singing, softly at first, “Mommy’s all right, Daddy’s alright, they just seem a little weird …”

 
     
    Chapter 8
     
    Fortunately, Holly had arrived home soon after we’d returned. Instead of feeling relaxed while alone with Everett, I felt edgy and frustrated, despite his flirty small talk and attempts to calm me.
    We’d changed into more comfortable sweatpants, and for myself a T-shirt and Everett a rather cute thermal undershirt. He’d warned me that Holly’s apartment could be a bit drafty. We’d waited for her arrival before stuffing the small bong with the frighteningly acquired pot. I didn’t want to meet her while high, and Everett understood.
    Holly turned out to be as wild, gregarious and self-aware as her younger brother, and as beautiful. Her long brown hair kept her tugging it back behind her ears. We had ordered a pizza from a flyer attached to the fridge by a magnet, which pleased her as she dug in while Everett told of our minor misadventure.
    “Oh. My. God. I have to call Barry.” She abruptly left for the kitchen, where it seemed the only phone was. So that was the name of Mr. Young Republican.
    Promising to “clear things up,” she assured us that no tattooed felons would come banging on her door, and that the gun was her dealer’s way of showing off. The distant one-sided conversation in the kitchen