Sex and Death in the American Novel by Sarah Martinez Read Free Book Online Page B

stages around the dance floor and look down on the writhing bodies and occasionally lock eyes with an interesting guy or girl. On nights when the music was really good, and I was really feeling it, I felt like a goddess. I was powerful, above it all, untouchable, unless of course I wanted to be touched.
    This night I felt a need to put everything away: my brother, my father, the comparisons I constantly made between their work and my own. No matter how many times I tried to focus on my success, I always looped back around to the fact that I was still disappointing my father, even in death. Tristan's mood had me worried that I had done too well; maybe my success had more to do with his feelings of failure than I had imagined.
    I danced until my slinky clothes stuck to my skin. Eric came to take me home, and as I hopped down from the stage I felt like I had just woken from a long sleep, though my heart raced and my senses were on full alert.
    We met Vlad outside at the alley, and as we were saying our goodbyes, a man about Eric's height, wearing filthy clothes and hauling a canvas bag over his shoulder walked by, eying first Eric, then Vlad, and settling his sticky yellow eyes on me. His hair hung in grimy streaks around his face. His skin was oily and stubbled. “Sweet little cunt you are. How about I show you what a real man can do?”
    I had my hand around Eric's torso. I felt the muscles of his arms and back go rigid. “What did you say?” he demanded.
    “He called me a cunt. How very creative,” I said, fielding a mix of emotions: part outrage, part amusement at the lack of creativity, and part disgust. I stepped forward on shaky legs, afraid, but ready to take my shoes off and use them on the guy if necessary.
    “You heard me,” the guy said. “Faggot.”
    Before I knew what had happened, Eric was grabbing the guy's collar and hauling him up the side of the wall; a street light threw both of their faces into harsh relief.
    Vlad was beside me. “Wait,” he said, taking my arm and holding me back.
    “Say you're sorry,” Eric breathed.
    “Fuck you,” he said and spit in his face.
    Eric wiped away the spit with the hand that was not holding the man to the wall, then stepped sideways when the man kicked out at him. I had never seen Eric so angry. Once or twice when we'd been out together and we were harassed, a dark look was enough to get the offending drunk to walk away, or at least back off mumbling under his breath.
    My voice was shakier than it should have been. “I don't want him to get in trouble.”
    “He won't. Don't worry,” Vlad said, coming closer.
    Just then the guy struck out with one fist and Eric punched him and he slid to the ground. The events happened in less than twenty seconds, but felt like they took forever. I moved toward Eric, took his hand and pressed it to my cheek. Vlad looked from Eric to the guy before he hunched down and with barely contained disgust, reached out and moved the guy's face from one side to the other.
    “He'll be fine,” he said before turning back toward the door to the club.
    I was more worried about Eric. When I met his eyes I saw a complicated mix of confusion and fear. When he saw me watching him he smiled and said, “He disrespected my bitch. What was I supposed to do?”
    I took Eric's good hand and dragged him to the street. We looked back once to make sure the guy stayed down.

Chapter 3
    We met in the spring for Tristan's birthday. I took a few days off work to stay out at the island and spend time with him. Looking through the notes he left me, I was reminded of how he had at least been distracted by teaching, when he did it—and he was good at it. I resolved to make my case when I saw him, citing all the lovingly placed notes containing advice that he left in my books. How could he waste this talent? He had to go out and encourage other writers as well. In that, he would recover his lost spark, I was sure of it. Mom took us to the pub in Coupeville