Ch-chinng.
It was like a register swinging open every time she passed his desk. There'd be a copy of Bret Easton Ellis waiting with a CD inside, or a fatty slyly tucked into the book jacket of Iain Banks. This was cash to Flaca. He knew what she wanted and he always delivered.
Now the crab grass was crunching underneath her Frankenstein boots as she marched across the football field to the bleachers. He'd be waiting there for her, to listen to Morrissey, talk nonsense and smoke. But especially smoke.
Sooner or later she'd find herself sneaking out to meet him in the wee hours.
"What's your real name?"
"Everybody called me Flaca since I was little."
"That's not a name, that's an insult."
"What do you know about it, guero?"
"Medio Dominicano," he pounded his chest. "Tell me. You know I can find it in your records."
If Flaca had been thinking clearly, she might have looked him in the eye to see if he could be trusted. Instead she shut her eyes tight and held her breath until her brain felt toasted. Then she blew a smoke ring.
"My mother named me Marisol."
"'Sea and sun.' I like that."
He watched the black silhouette of her lips as she blew more smoke rings into the air. Then he pulled her close and kissed her, like a grown man kissing the love of his life. Instantly this was more serious than anything Flaca had ever gotten into.
As he pushed his tongue against hers, a wave of euphoria seemed to hit. All at once, she was giddy and sweating and overcome with the urge to climb inside him and make herself at home. This isn't how she thought love would be. This was faster and brighter and much, much better. This was sex on steroids. It was cloud nine. It was also the molly that Ian had put on his tongue.
"You like?" he asked, wiping her sweat-soaked bangs from her face with his fingers.
"Yeah," she answered, dizzy. "I love."
YOU ARE READING
How Soon Is Now?
Fanfiction"Freak" was the one word that always set Flaca off, and the other kids knew it. Ever since she fell in love with goth and black became her signature color, there had been fights every day. She was a black sheep in a flock of, well, sheep.
