Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [8]
For the rest of the run, she recounted the milestones of her days with Hart. She often did so when she started questioning her move back into her childhood home. First was “I failed Botany 1A at Las Piedras Community College,” which had felt like the bottom at the time. Then it was “I lived in an actual trailer park.” Finally, for the last few months of the relationship, it was “my perfect boyfriend Hart cooks meth.” Yep, her current living situation was still better. But the past was narrowing the gap all the time.
When she came through the screen door, Paul perked up, just barely.
“Melons and Caruso?” he mumbled into his coffee.
“Just melons.”
Then they both heard gravel spitting into mud flaps. Someone was coming up the hill.
NOTES:
Lisa,
You want backstory, you got it. I can already see how we’re going to complement each other, what with your plotting expertise and my eye and ear for detail. I can’t believe how easy this is. Although beginnings were never the problem, if I remember correctly.
Dave
Dave,
Thanks for all the backstory. Since it gives us a solid foundation, feel free to ease up on it a bit next chapter. Also, since I’m on the subject of cutting back, can we maybe keep the made-up TV show references to a minimum? A little goes a long way.
I also want to follow up on my request about Lacey’s botany studies, given her sudden failure of Botany 1A. It’s fine that you didn’t go with my suggestion, as long as there was nothing passive-aggressive in your decision. We’re in this together.
Terry Jakes is going to make an appearance, right? Let’s not make him like Professor Solemni from The Fop—quoted but never seen.
Still, I’m feeling positive. We’re off to a good start!
Lisa
P.S. I’m curious where you learned all this stuff about growing marijuana plants. It would explain some things in our history.
CHAPTER 3
Lacey ran to the window and peered through the blinds. Her heart was racing until she saw the mud-whipped truck. An old Ford, green beneath the dirt, but you’d never know that. From now on, every time an engine stirred in their driveway Lacey would assume it was the cops.
“It’s just Rafael,” Lacey said.
She returned to the kitchen, finished her toast, washed her plate, and topped off Paul’s coffee. Paul had never been a fan of stimulants of any kind, but Lacey had discovered that caffeine had a slight impact on Paul’s work ethic and so she pushed it like a regular old drug dealer. In fact, sometimes when she was feeling particularly hostile, she’d crush up NoDoz into his beer.
Approximately three and a half minutes after they heard Rafael’s car in the driveway, the doorbell rang. The delay wasn’t unusual for Rafael. Once Lacey timed him at four minutes and thirty-five seconds. Rafael could never leave his truck until the song on the radio was over—an isolated OCD tic. Lacey once wondered aloud whether Rafael maintained that policy even if he didn’t like the song. Paul said he did.
Rafael Dupree handled half of the college circuit for Paul and Lacey, selling their product along the string of small schools to the south, as well as to other clients scattered around the area. He was a student at Sequoia State who didn’t attend class much until he dropped out. Now that he was dealing, he audited lectures regularly. In fact, he’d even started supplementing his income by selling his notes.
The doorbell rang for a second time. Paul was sitting and Lacey was standing, so Paul assumed door-answering responsibilities fell to his sister, but he always assumed that. After their parents died, Paul fell into the habit of playing the adult in the family. Despite their mere thirteenmonth age difference, Paul had always played the big brother. But now that Lacey had moved back in, protective had become bossy. Lacey had started to take a stand. Not answering the door was one way she asserted herself.
“I have to get ready for work,” Lacey said. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
With that, Lacey walked right past the front door and into her bedroom. She put on her shoes and grabbed her purse.