Leaving L.a.. Rexanne Becnel

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СКАЧАТЬ I drove you,” I pointed out as we climbed into Jenny.

      “I’m fourteen, not four,” he muttered. “Almost fifteen. I can take care of myself.”

      “Okay then.” I started up Jenny’s cranky engine. “Which way?”

      Driving down the old roads of my childhood was like negotiating a foreign country. Like a Twilight Zone episode where everything was so strange and yet somehow familiar. The town square and St. Brunhilde’s church, and the Landry mansion were familiar. The P.J.’s Coffeehouse in the old Union Bank building, the Wendy’s on the corner of Barcelona Avenue and the Walgreens opposite it were all new. The park that meandered along the river was the same. Bigger trees and bigger parking lot but otherwise the same. That’s where that stupid Toups kid and his friends had chased me once, wanting to know if it was true that hippie kids didn’t wear underwear. I’d jumped into the river to escape them and nearly drowned.

      Mother had laughed when I’d finally got home, shivering in my wet clothes. I’d shown them, she’d chortled.

      Her boyfriend at the time, Snakie somebody or other, had stared at my fourteen-year-old breasts beneath my clinging knit top and promised to get even for me. And he had. The old sugar-in-the-gas-tank trick. I heard Bonehead Toups had to go back to his bicycle. Sweet justice, literally.

      But of course, it had a downside. Snakie had wanted a sweet little reward for being so heroic. A reward from me, not my mom.

      Unfortunately for him, after the river incident I’d checked out a library book on self-defense for women. That knee-to-the-groin business really works. He moved out the next week.

      “Turn left up there, by the gas station,” Daniel said, bringing me back to the present. We went down an old blacktop to just past where it turned to gravel. “There.” He pointed to a pair of shotgun houses with a rusty trailer parked farther behind them.

      “Do you need me to pick you up later?” I might as well ingratiate myself with him before his mother turned him completely against me.

      “No. Josh’ll give me a ride home.”

      “This Josh is old enough to drive?”

      He grinned. “He has a four-wheeler. We’ll take the back route through the woods.”

      I grinned back. “Sounds like fun.”

      “Yeah. But don’t tell my mom that part.” His grin faded. “She says it’s too dangerous.”

      “It is too dangerous. But that’s what makes it so fun.”

      “Yeah.” He slammed the door, then gave me a head bobble that I guessed passed for “thanks.” “See ya.”

      Then it was just me and Jenny Jeep and my old hometown.

      On the surface, Oracle, Louisiana, is just like every other small town I’ve ever been in: an Andy of Mayberry downtown, a big, brick elementary school, a couple of churches. It had more trees than most. And more humidity. I’d been in a lot of little towns, especially when I toured with Dirk and his Dirt Bag Band. I’d done everything on those tours: arranged the shows, driven the bus, collected the money. Collected the band too when they were too stoned to find their way back to the bus.

      I hadn’t collected very much money for myself, though. I was Dirk’s girlfriend. What did I need with money?

      His words, not mine.

      That’s when I’d started my T-shirt and jewelry sideline. Small-town wannabe rockers and wannabe groupies had snapped them up. Too bad I hadn’t saved more of that money. But Dirk had thought what was mine was his, and he would have blown my profits on booze and drugs and music equipment. So instead I blew them on becoming the best-dressed rock band manager you ever saw.

      Anyway, you see one small town, you’ve seen them all.

      I turned onto Main Street. Creative street name isn’t it? That’s when I saw the library. Except for the white crepe myrtles flanking the front doors, it hadn’t changed a bit. There weren’t many places in this town I had good associations with; the library was one of them.

      I parked in front of the newspaper office next door to the library. Through the paper’s front window I saw an old woman staring at a computer screen. So the Northshore News had gone high tech. With only a few keystrokes they could more easily report on this weekend’s softball tournament or the Jones’s fiftieth anniversary celebration. Woo hoo. Big news.

      At least there weren’t any parking meters to feed. I jumped down from Jenny, locked the door and slammed it.

      “You must be from out of town.”

      Startled, I looked up. “Why do you say that?” I replied to this guy who had stopped in front of the newspaper office, his hand on the doorknob.

      “You locked your car. People around here don’t do that.”

      His comment shouldn’t have made me feel so defensive, but I guess I was feeling extra touchy today. Added to that I wasn’t in the mood to be hit on, especially by a guy who had to know how good-looking he was. “They don’t? Well, I’ve been mugged in a small town like this.” A drunk coming out of one of the Dirt Bags’ concerts, who got frustrated when I wouldn’t go home with him. “And had my car broken into.” Amps stolen out of the band’s bus.

      I hiked my purse onto my shoulder and tossed my hair back. “So you see, I’ve learned not to be too trusting. Even in a nice little town like this.”

      He tilted his head to one side. “Sorry to hear that.” He stared at me. At me, not my chest, for one long, steady moment, the kind of look that forced me to really look at him in return. If I were looking for a guy, he would have fit the bill just fine. If I were looking. Several inches taller than me, even in my heels. Wide shoulders, trim build. Not cocaine skinny like too many of the men I’ve known. Not self-indulgent fat like too many others. Which left the equally unappealing other third of men: probably a narcissistic health nut trying to stave off middle age.

      “I’m Joe Reeves.” He stuck out his hand.

      I didn’t want to know his name or to know him. But I had no real reason to blow him off. So I took his hand—big, strong and warm—and shook it. “Zoe Vidrine.”

      “You visiting here, Zoe? A tourist?” he asked, once I’d pulled my hand free of his.

      “Oracle gets tourists?”

      “You’d be surprised. Oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Natural spring waters. We have our own winery now and a railroad museum. Not to mention all the water sports on Lake Pontchartain.”

      “That cesspool?”

      “It’s clean now. Regularly passes all state requirements for swimming.”

      “Gee, it all sounds so exciting.” But I softened my sarcasm by laughing.

      He grinned. “That’s the point. It’s quiet and relaxing here. The perfect escape from the rat race.”

      “Yeah? Well, we’ll see.”

      “So you’re not a tourist. That means you’re СКАЧАТЬ