Hanging by a Thread by Karen Templeton Read Free Book Online Page B

from the not exactly au courant jukebox, I take off my hat and gloves, shoving them in my coat pockets as I blink, willing my eyes to adjust to the dim, albeit smoke-free these days, light.
    â€œHey, Ellie, how’s it goin’?”
    My gaze sidles over to Jose, wiping down the bar. A year or so older than me, Jose’s been the night bartender here for the past couple of years. He’s got this whole pit bull thing going. Solid, you know? Not necessarily looking for a fight but up for one should the occasion present itself. In the summer, when he’s wearing a T-shirt, the tattoos are nothing if not impressive. The man on the stool closest to me bestirs himself long enough to give me the once-over. I give him a withering look, then pop out the dimples for Jose.
    â€œPretty good,” I say, then ask about his wife and kids—they’re doin’ okay, thanks, he says—then I ask if he’s seen Tina.
    â€œYeah, she came in a while ago. In the back. She looks like shit.”
    Hey. If you’re looking for diplomacy, steer clear of Pinky’s.
    I spot her in the booth farthest in the back, waving, so I grab a bowl of pretzels off the bar and head in her direction. Except the woman sitting at the table turns out to be Lisa Lamar, who sat next to me in half my classes all through high school and who will be forever after known as not only the first girl in our class to give a boy a blow job, but to pass on her newfound knowledge to a select few of us the following day. An actwhich solidified my standing in the ranks of the “cool” girls, which means I owe Lisa my life.
    So of course we have to do the thirty-second catch-up routine. Only thirty seconds stretches into a good two minutes while she introduces me to her date, some guy named Phil whose unibrow compensates for the receding hairline, then fills me in on Shelly Hurlburt’s parents’ divorce after thirty-six years, could I believe it? (actually, I could) and asks me if I know whatever happened to Melody McFadden’s cousin Sukie, who was supposed to marry that baseball player, whats-his-name (I don’t, but I tell her I’ll ask around, one of the Scardinare daughters-in-law probably knows). Then after noisy hugs and both of us swearing we’ve got to get together, soon, I continue back to Tina.
    Jose’s assessment was, unfortunately, not an exaggeration. Even in the murky light, she looks like holy hell.
    While neither of us is, or was, a raving beauty—at least not without a lot of help—Tina’s always had a knack for making the most of what she has. No taller than I am, and in no danger of being mistaken for an anorexic, either (we were known in high school as the Boobsey Twins), her eyes might be set too far apart and her nose could use a little work, but with enough lip gloss and a Wonderbra, who cares? And she’s the only woman I know who can actually get away with that cut-with-a-weedwhacker-hairstyle—it hides a narrow scar over her right ear from where her mother threw a bottle at her when she was six—albeit with dark brown hair instead of blond. But tonight we’re talking Liza Minelli, The Dissipated Years.
    â€œI know, I know, I look like crap,” she mutters as I slide into the booth. As usual, she’s wearing black, a heavy knit turtleneck that hugs her breasts. If I know her—and I do—the ass-cupping black jeans and hooker boots are right there, too. And in the corner, I see a hint of fake leopard. Mind you, none of this stuff is cheap. It’s just that Tina never really caught on tothe concept of subtle. “I’m two screwdrivers ahead of you, so catch up.”
    At least the girl’s getting her Vitamin C. However, since I haven’t eaten, and since that experience at Ryan O’Donnell’s left me bitter and disillusioned, I opt for a Coke. She makes a face and slugs back half her drink. I don’t like this. See, there