My New American Life by Francine Prose Read Free Book Online Page A

would pay money to meet. She said, “You think I’m crazy enough to start smoking when cigarettes are fifteen dollars a pack?”
    â€œSeven dollars. Oops. Was that a trick question?”
    â€œPlease don’t smoke,” said Lula.
    â€œI don’t,” Zeke said. “One cigarette a week.”
    â€œThat’s too much.”
    â€œOkay. One cigarette a month.” Zeke picked up the newspaper. “Awesome old lady.”
    This morning, Lula had walked into the kitchen to find the newspaper left open to a feature story about Albanian sworn virgins dressing and living like men to support their widowed mothers. The pretext for the article was that the custom was dying out, but really it was an excuse to run a photo of a butch Albanian lady in cowboy drag, her knees apart and a rifle slung across her lap.
    Lula said. “Every time the paper has something on Albania, your dad leaves it out for me to read.”
    â€œDo you think my dad has a crush on you?”
    â€œNo,” Lula said. “I think he misses your mom.”
    Zeke said, “I don’t know. Mom calls every so often and asks for money, and he sends a fat check wherever she is. So he must still care or feel guilty. Or something. Did you know any old ladies who dressed up like that?”
    â€œNo,” said Lula. “But I had this great-aunt . . . once someone stole some of our firewood, and she shot the guy.”
    â€œDid she kill him?”
    â€œNo. But she popped the guy in his kneecap from ten meters away.” The firewood had been a good touch. So had the shattered kneecap. If Zeke asked if her story was true, she’d confess she made it up.
    Zeke said, “How long is a meter?”
    â€œLook it up. You’re a senior. Don’t you study math?”
    Zeke said, “Do you think you got her DNA?”
    â€œShe never married. Nobody got her DNA.”
    â€œDon’t you know anything about DNA? You could both have Genghis Khan’s DNA. Didn’t you study science?”
    Was it Hoodie or Leather Jacket who’d said all Albanians had the same DNA? Would sex with Alvo be incest?
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Zeke said.
    â€œWhy?” Lula said.
    â€œYou looked weird for a minute.”
    Lula said, “It’s hostile to tell people they look weird. Or tired. This waitress at La Changita was always telling people they looked tired and ruining their whole evening. Every time she said it, they had to run look in the mirror.”
    â€œDoes weird always have to mean bad? Couldn’t someone look weird good?”
    Lula said, “Do you want a sandwich? Red pepper paste and cream cheese.”
    â€œNo thanks,” said Zeke. “I don’t eat anything the color of blood.”
    â€œPizza is the color of blood. Ketchup is the color of blood.”
    â€œThey’re the color of tomatoes.”
    â€œWhat kind of vampire are you?” Lula said. “Okay, I’m making pizza.”
    Stewed peppers and microwaved tomato sauce canceled out three cigarettes. All the same, Lula kept sniffing the air. When Mister Stanley got home, his nostrils didn’t so much as flutter. Lula leaned against the counter while Mister Stanley sipped a glass of cold water into which he had squeezed the juice of a lemon he cut into wedges and kept, plastic-wrapped, in the fridge. Lula liked Mister Stanley, who was kindhearted and decent, who only wanted the best for his son, and who always treated Lula with perfect consideration. So the fact that she was sometimes revolted by the sight of him drinking his nightly glass of water filled her with guilt, and also with anger at herself that spilled over onto Mister Stanley, like the droplets that sometimes dripped down his chin.
    â€œHow was work?” asked Lula.
    â€œUneventful,” said Mister Stanley. “Another day of wishing I’d never quit teaching.”
    â€œYou could go back,” said