Jane shares a coffee with Lucien. Lucien taught the best English class Jake ever took, and Jake used to draw with colored pencils with his father. Jake’s father works in purchasing at the prison where Schultz is serving six years.
Schultz sexually abused Rhiannon when she was eight. Rhiannon shares a cheap basement apartment with Ruth. Ruth sometimes sleeps with Topaz. Topaz never got back the ten dollars she lent Theo, who picked a fight after school one day with Corey, and as we speak Corey is standing alone on a stage, telling a story to
(Okay. Ready?)
(Tag. You’re in.)
“We’ll tow your swivel chair,” they threaten, and Jake can’t make himself write at the moment so he gives up and agrees.
The party’s at least got a dance floor, and it’s mercifully dark; Deek and Gigi follow him into the thick of it and then out, arms up in crowd-maneuver stance. Jake’s smiling now, sweating a little. He lets himself people-watch: it’s not a bad crowd, Allie looks hot tonight, there’s a
small laugh
her wrist
Things blur. He finds himself upstairs, somebody’s office, page after page of Amy on yellow legal in a hand that’s just beginning to tremble.
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
Amy’s either shorter or taller than she’d really like to be. She likes old-school hip-hop but she sings loud bad Aerosmith. She’s embarrassed about wearing sweatpants so much. She doesn’t know she’s extraordinary for using words like “aegis” and “anacrusis” in everyday conversation.
Brown hair, B cup, freckles when she runs. Her only poster is of Jon Stewart. She used to drive fast, but she had to quit.
Writing Amy, Jake’s astounded by how easily she comes into his fingers. She’s like cheating. All that time inventing genius space-spies with the French Pox, and for what? Amy was here all along.
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
All roadies are assholes. Jake knows this, so he’s armed with lines for when he needs them, as when Squat catches him coiling cable the wrong way. Halfway through the instant tirade, another roadie cheerfully shouts over “You just made his anus clench!”
“You mean there’s room?” asks Jake. “Around the stick?”
Squat is still mad later, hauling himself recklessly up the light tower. It jangles and chatters under his rough hands, and Jake watches his tight red face. His own arms are twitchy and scared just thinking about climbing like that, and he wonders what Squat’s still trying to prove.