American Outlaw - Jesse James [14]
The year I spent alone with my father was unlike any other part of my childhood. It was exciting and gratifying. The most compelling moments came when my dad would take odd, brief fits of interest in me. One night over dinner, as he sipped from his Coca-Cola, he regarded me with a curious kind of look.
“Do you even like girls?”
“What . . . what do you mean?” I said, blushing.
“I mean just what I say, kid. Do you like girls, or what?” He chuckled. “Not that complicated.”
“Sure, I like girls,” I said defensively. “Of course I do.”
“Ya ever DONE anything with one, though?” he said, picking up a thigh from the take-out box of fried chicken that lay there between us. He gazed at me with a kind of intensity.
“I mean . . . there’s a girl at school who I kind of like.” That was true. Her name was Rhonda. She was the prettiest girl in the whole high school, as far as I could tell.
“You like her, huh?” My dad had an evil grin on his face.
“Yes,” I said protectively. I didn’t like the way he was smiling.
“Why don’t I ever see her over here, then?”
“Because, well . . . we’re not even together or anything. She doesn’t even really know I like her, in fact.”
My dad sighed. “Say no more,” he said, holding up his hand. “I get it.”
“What do you get?” I said angrily.
“You’re a goddamn virgin,” he said.
“Whatever.” I reached for some potatoes, awkwardly scooped a huge portion onto my plate.
My dad continued watching me for a second.
“Hey, it’s fine. You’re just a kid. No hurry.” Then he frowned, adding, “Christ, you eat like an ox, kid. Did you realize that? Leave some for your old man. You’ll eat both of us right into the poorhouse.”
I didn’t think much of our conversation until about a week later. It was late afternoon. I carried my book bag over my shoulder. There’d been no one to pick me up from school, so it had been the bus for me. Another long ride.
I opened up my front door and let myself into my house. The house was quiet, as usual. I dropped my bag and went into the kitchen, where I opened up the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of juice.
“Mind if I have some?”
I jumped, startled.
“Who are you?”
A girl extended her hand to me. “My name’s Tracy.” She was about nineteen or twenty, and pretty. She was slim with a fair complexion.
“Oh,” I said, not sure of what to say next. “I’m . . . um . . . Jesse.”
“Hi, Jesse.” She smiled widely. “It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Did you . . . did you want some juice?” I asked.
“I’d love some.”
Carefully, I opened up a kitchen cabinet and searched for a clean glass for her. My dad had all kinds of vintage glassware, but like I said, we weren’t the best housekeepers, so it took a moment. Finally I found a passable tumbler. I reached into the freezer, unstuck a few cubes of ice, and plopped them in the glass. Then I poured some from-concentrate orange juice into the glass and handed it to the strange girl who was in my kitchen.
“Thank you,” she said pleasantly. She sipped from the glass and smiled at me again. “Yum.”
I shifted uneasily. “Uh . . .”
“Yes?”
“Who are you?”
“I told you. I’m Tracy.” She giggled. “I’m a friend of your dad’s.” She spooled some of her pretty hair around her fingers and played with it coquettishly.
“Is he home?” I asked.
“Nope.” She giggled again. “You are, though.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so I just stared at my feet. Tracy sipped at her juice, looking at the framed posters my dad had put up on the walls as she walked around my kitchen. Then, decisively, she strode toward the living room. I followed. She plopped down on our couch and motioned to me.
“Come sit down, Jesse.”
I did what she said.
“So, how old are you?” Tracy asked. She appeared to be poring over me in a way I couldn’t quite interpret.
“Fifteen.”
“Wow.” She laughed. “You look way older than that.” She reached over and stroked my arm