Читать книгу Dreamland City - Larina Lavergne - Страница 6

I thought I was in love with Beau was when I was thirteen. That must sound disgusting to some folks, but it doesn’t make it go away. Beau taught me how to ride a bike, he played with me, and he took care of me. Mama was hardly ever around, or when she was, she’d be passed out stone cold from whatever she’d smoked, or the booze. I’d throw a blanket on her while she slept it off, and before Beau came back home, I would cook dinner with whatever we had in the house. He always said ‘thank you’ so nice and polite even when the food was burnt and gross, and after dinner, he would try to help me with my homework as best he could.

It was a ploy, really. I didn’t need help with homework, and certainly not from Beau with his eighth grade education, but I liked how I felt when he leaned over me to squint at my books, and how he smelled of clean sweat and honest work and…man.

So many nights, I would lie awake and listen to them having sex, my mother’s loud moans and screams reverberating in our trailer. At first, I tried to cover my ears, but I couldn’t block out the sounds even when I buried my head under a pillow. It was hard looking them in the eye every day knowing what they were doing, and how much they enjoyed it. I couldn’t help wanting to feel the same way.

One day, Mama was out doing an all-night gig at one of the clubs, and I made Beau dinner as usual. That night it was pork chops—an unusual treat. We sat across from each other at the small dining table and I tried to memorize his face; the etched traces of lines on his forehead that made him look so grave and soulful, his jowls moving up and down as he chewed disconsolately on the meat. We didn’t say much while eating, and after dinner, he came into my bedroom. I had my homework spread out on the bed and was lying on my stomach on the covers.

“Ready to get started, Lil?” he got on the bed next to me. I nodded and sat up, pulling my history book in close.

“What we gotta do this time, honey?” he asked.

He was so close, and I could smell the whisky he always had after dinner on his breath. He’d had a few more than his usual that night, and his voice was a little unsteady as he looked at me.

“History?” I suggested.

“Right, history,” he said. He reached over me to grab a book and saw that I was staring at him.

“Hmmm?” he said, freezing. “Something wrong, hon?”

“Nothing,” I replied, swallowing hard.

His eyes were darker than I had ever seen, and there was a look in there I hadn’t seen before my boobs grew out.

“When’d you get all pretty?” he asked suddenly, tracing my jaw with a long finger. He was so close, looking at me almost the same way he looked at my mother.

I blushed and looked away, but his finger didn’t go away.

“You’re gonna be prettier than your mama,” he said solemnly to me.

“No one’s prettier than mama,” I protested. It was true. My mother might’ve been a whore, a drug addict and possibly the worst mother in world, but she was also undoubtedly beautiful.

“Nah, you’re wrong, I swear to God,” he insisted. He pushed back a curl of my hair, and I stared wordlessly at him, not sure what was going to happen and praying whatever it was, that it would happen immediately, and that my mother wouldn’t hate me more than she already did.

“You know I love you so much, honey,” he said, his voice thick. “You’ll always be my girl.”

An uncomfortable, nagging, yet incredible heat built up in my stomach from the look in his eyes.

“OK,” I said.

And he kissed me. I was breathless. He tasted of salt and whisky, and I had never tasted anything so sweet.