Clown Girl - Monica Drake [95]
He was earnest and generous, and now, with literature, he was in the world of ideas—my favorite world. He held the door. Outside, morning had moved in, bright and hot. Chance blinked into the glare. I pushed the mower over the bump in the floor at the doorway and stepped gingerly forward. Under my bare feet the asphalt was soft, already ripe, rich with the smell of a hot city summer.
“Sure they won’t miss the lawn mower?”
Jerrod said, “If a case comes up, Raskolnikov, I’ll know where to find you. Otherwise, forget about it.” He shrugged. His thigh muscles were tight against the blue of his uniform pants. Golden hair along his arm glimmered in the morning sun.
I leaned over, let go of the lawn mower handle, and I kissed him. A quick kiss. His lips were open. His mouth was the taste of a stranger. I closed my eyes. I liked it. I liked his warmth and breath and mouth. His hand slid over the burnt polyester of my shirt, he held me by my arms. I half-opened my eyes, pulled away.
“Was that you, or society?” He grinned.
It was biology! Yikes. I moved out of his grip. “That,” I said, “was a thank-you. And it was nothing.” I walked ahead. But with my face turned, in the moment, tired and happy, I smiled. I couldn’t help but smile, any more than I could help the flush of heat that crept up my neck.
18.
Death Throes of a Chicken Flock
FLOATING ALONG IN JERROD’S COPMOBILE, IT WAS THE first time I rode in front, like a cop’s sidekick, like his girlfriend, like his wife. Chance climbed in back. Grit between my teeth was from soot on my lips. The seats of Jerrod’s cruiser were red and soft as a new couch, an expensive bed, a boat on calm water. I tipped my head back, looked out over the long stretch of hood, and breathed coconut air freshener. Through narrowed eyes the world was a dream that tasted of soot. My hands were hot, especially under the gauze. Chance panted, her damp nose pressed to the metal divide.
Jerrod said, “Maybe I’m a cop because I’ve always wanted to save a damsel in distress. That’s a cop’s job. And Sniff, you look pretty deep in distress to me.”
I opened my eyes, ran one soot-covered hand across my face. “If you’re charmed by incompetence, that’s just another kind of coulrophilia. Love of the buffoon.”
He said, “Coulro-what-ia?”
I looked out the window. Exhausted.
When I didn’t answer, he said, “One of these days, Sniff, it’ll be time to run away from the circus and find a home.”
“I have a home.” My home was wherever Rex lived. Our own clown alley. My skin ached, the burns throbbed. But the cop car was so steady, smooth and dreamy. That cop car was like Jerrod, far as I could tell. I held Plucky on my lap. Jerrod steered with one hand. “Speaking of…” Herman’s house came into view, complete with a party in full swing in the blackened pit of a yard. Herman was a mad conductor in a wild orchestration, while a swarm of people dodged his flailing arms. William was on his porch. One-Night Stan the Ice- Cream Man had his rig in the street.
In the air-conditioned cop car, the calm broke. I sat up fast. The seat belt snapped and jerked against my shoulder as though to keep me away from an accident. Danger.
And that seat belt was right, there was danger up ahead: I’d lose everything if I showed up in a copmobile. A seat belt couldn’t save me now.
“Stop here.” We moved closer. I tugged at the belt. “Stop!”
Jerrod put his foot on the brakes. The car skidded like a spooked horse on rough gravel. “We’re not there yet.” He let up on the brake, and the car lurched forward.
I took the seat belt off. “Stop, just stop. I’ll walk.”
Too late! William, Herman, and One-Night all watched the cop car from down the block, their faces round and shadowed as apple pies.
Jerrod said, “Those guys keep an eye out for police the way kids eyeball clowns.”
He was right.
“A cop car couldn’t get within miles, and they’d know. If you’re trying to hide, I should’ve let you out across town.”
I worked fast to put on my big clown shoes, now with the melted rubber toes. I opened the car door, climbed out, and