American Outlaw - Jesse James [11]
“Can I help you?” A very pretty girl who appeared to be several years older than me, maybe a college freshman, was working the counter. She stood there, looking tan and cool, like she’d never sweated in her entire life.
I was still out of breath from my walk. “Yeah,” I huffed, then paused to compose myself. I never quite knew what to say to really pretty girls. “I need to get some . . . shirts.”
She smiled warmly. “We have lots of those. Do you know what kind of shirts you’re looking for?”
I blushed, momentarily at a loss. “Something . . . with a collar?” I mumbled.
“Something . . . with a collar,” she said teasingly. “Hmm . . . wait, what about this?” She moved to the nearest rack and pointed her elegant hand at a long-sleeved button-down Madras shirt.
“Yeah,” I said. “That looks good.”
“You know, we also have that shirt in red.”
“Okay.”
“Okay . . . to which shirt?” She smiled and leaned over the counter. The tiniest fraction of her bra could be seen down the front of her blouse. My pulse quickened.
“Both,” I said, woozy. “In fact,” I said, clearing my throat, “I’ll take every color you have in that size.”
“Every single color?”
“Every color,” I repeated, fingering my wad of stolen money. I looked up and met her gaze fully for the first time. “And then I’d like to look at some pants.”
She smiled at me. “Let’s get you all set up, hon.”
I walked out of GHQ half an hour later, my hands full of bags and boxes. I’d bought all the shirts they had in my size, plus about six pairs of nice pants, and a pair of slip-on boots with a black sole. Yeah, I was feeling like the preppiest punk in Riverside, indeed.
I threw on my new threads as soon as I got home. Primping in front of the mirror in my bathroom, I couldn’t believe what I saw reflected back at me. For the first time outside of the football field, I liked the way I looked. Repeatedly, I sniffed at my shirt, savoring its aroma: brand new.
Grinning, I waltzed into the living room, clad in new pants, new shirt, and new boots. I hung out there, watching TV, feeling pretty damn good. Then my dad came home from work. He took one look at me and frowned.
“Jesse.”
“What’s that?” I was watching the screen and didn’t look directly at him.
“I’m gonna need you to go change.”
“What are you talking about?”
He pointed at my shirt and my pants. “Go change out of that costume.”
“What are you talking about?” I was confused. “Why?”
“Doesn’t look right,” he said.
“Huh?”
“You look like a faggot in that!”
I stared at him, stunned.
“Go change.”
And he left the room.
I sat there for a few minutes, stung. Soon Joanna hovered over me, her arms crossed. “You heard your father. Hurry up and change into your regular clothes.”
“Beat it,” I muttered.
She took a deep breath. “Jesse, I don’t want to have to tell you again.”
I stomped out, slamming the door behind me. I knew what my dad was so pissed off about. It wasn’t that he knew I’d stolen money—he wouldn’t have cared about that. Rather, he’d realized I could survive without his help. I didn’t have to go through him anymore.
I set off down the road to Bobby’s. His house was only about ten minutes away from mine—we lived in the same shitty part of Riverside. I was still fuming when I got to his house.
“Jesse James, fuck me, you’ve gone fashion model!” He cackled, taking in my tacky new duds. “So, sexy, what’s happening?”
“Cut it out,” I said. “My dad’s already been giving me hell.”
“Sensitive,” Bobby observed.
“My stepmom is even worse,” I complained. “I hate that little bitch.”
“No way, James,” Bobby disagreed. “That stepmom of yours is cute, man.”
I groaned. “Come on, Bobby.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Disgusting?” Bobby asked. “I don’t think so, my friend. That blond hair? So darn cute. I’d do her