Twilight Girl. Della Martin

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      THE IN-BETWEEN SEX

      “You remember that girl, right here at this bar?”

      “Oh, yes.”

      “You bet me a quarter I couldn’t make her.”

      “You didn’t.”

      “Oh, didn’t I?”

      “I’ll be damned.”

      “I’ve got a witness.” The first of them turned to the silent one. “Did I make her, Chuck?”

      “If you don’t know, I’m not gonna tell you,”

      They roared at this and then the loser paid her bill. “Here’s your goddam quarter. Just tell me one thing. Was she butch or fern?”

      “Smorgasbord. By the time she went home I wasn’t sure which I was!” Eyebrows wriggled up and down, implying secrets that could not be unveiled. Regular guys, remembering a girl and laughing it up. Regular guys, flicking kitchen matches with their thumbnails for a light, burrowing hands in the front-zipped pants for a crushed cigarette pack and belting each other in the back to punctuate a bellylaugh. Regular guys, and less than twenty years before, unknowing nurses had checked the wrong box on the hospital form that offered only Male and Female. For perhaps the choice was incomplete …

       Twilight Girl

       Della Martin

       www.spice-books.co.uk

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      Table of Contents

       Cover

       The In-Between Sex

       Title Page

Part One

1

2

       3

       4

       5

       6

       7

       Part Two

       8

       9

       10

       Part Three

       11

       12

       13

       14

       15

       Endpages

       Copyright

       Part One

       Kid Stuff

       1

      IT WAS on the day Lon Harris decided to spare the mutt that she met the girl with the violet hair. In the psychiatrically charted years to come, Lon might occasionally pause to reflect upon this fact, searching the seemingly fortuitous occurences for some suggestion of ironic pattern—speculating, perhaps, on the alternate courses her life might have taken if:

      (1) Miss Chamberlin’s dog had eaten the greasy mound of hamburger, liberally loaded with the pulverized remains of a 7-Up bottle, and

      (2) If Lon had not made the acquaintance of a shapely car-hop whose name, translated from Czech, meant Violet Soup.

      But throughout that day in mid-June—the last day of school—Lon Harris lacked the composure for musing on the vagaries of fate. She did, as she had always done, the things it occurred to her to do.

      English III was Lon’s final period. Today it amounted to no more than a tension-charged СКАЧАТЬ