Girls on Fire(43)

He shrugged. “I like ’em that way.” He stepped out of the doorway, opening a space for me. “Want to come in? Have something to drink?”

We had hot chocolate. No whiskey in it, not that time.

The mugs steamed. We watched each other. He smiled. Dad smile.

“So, what’s the verdict, Blondie?”

If you’d ever heard him call me that, you would have looked cluelessly at me, at my black hair, and I would have had to explain about Debbie Harry at the microphone and “Heart of Glass” and how I was really more of a Runaways girl, but what kind of nickname is Joan, and anyway, that didn’t matter as much as the fact that he could see the kind of girl I was, the kind who should have a mic to tongue and a guitar to smash and a stage to light on fire, that he looked at me and understood. But I didn’t have to explain, because we both knew, without saying, that this wasn’t for you.

The nickname: That was our first secret, and another thing we had in common. We liked to give things their secret names. We knew there was power in that.

“How are you liking our little town?”

“It sucks,” I said.

“Ha.” It wasn’t a laugh, more like an acknowledgment that a laugh might be called for.

“I like Dex, though,” I said.

“Smart girl. Beauty and brains. I approve.”

If he’d been someone else, just a guy rather than a dad, or even if he’d been most dads, I would have taken that as my cue, offered up my serpent smile, sipped my drink, and wiped away the chocolate mustache with one slow lick.

“Thanks, Mr. Dexter,” I said.

“You should know you’ve broken my heart.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Dex finally discovers music, thanks to you, and—”

“And you’re welcome.”

“And, thanks to you, she’s developing some seriously shitty taste.”

“Better watch out, old man, you’re starting to sound your age.”

He jerked to his feet, the chair screeched, and I thought that was it. Too far. Especially when he stalked out of the room and left me there alone to wonder whether I was supposed to see myself out, thinking at least he trusted me to do so without stealing the silver.

Then he came back, record in hand. He’d also changed his shirt. “I don’t do tapes,” he said. “No tonal fidelity.” He handed me the album. “Call me old again and you’re out on your ass.” He looked so proud of himself for cursing, like a toddler showing off a turd.

“The Dead Kennedys?”

“You know them?”

I shrugged. I learned that much from Shay. Never admit you don’t know.

“Take it home. Listen to it—at least twice. That’s an order.”

“Really?” I know music guys and their record collections, Dex. They don’t hand their precious goods off to just anyone.

“Really,” he said. “Bring me one of yours next time. We’ll pretend it’s an even trade.”

Next time.

That’s how it went, Dex, and it kept going. We talked about music. We talked about him.

Did you know that when he was sixteen, he ditched the guitar for a year and taught himself to play the drums? He wanted to be Ringo Starr. Not because he thought Ringo was the best Beatle or anything, but because you couldn’t wish or will yourself into being a genius—Lennons and McCartneys are born. Ringos, according to your dad, are made, by luck and circumstance and practice in their parents’ garage. I thought that was sweet, that he’d dream of being fourth best.

I stayed until there was nothing left in my mug but cold milk and soggy chunks of Swiss Miss, then shook his hand. “Thanks for the hot chocolate, Mr. Dexter.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing for our Dex.” Our Dex, like you were a secret we shared. He walked me to the door. “And you better listen to that album, young lady. I’m waiting on your report.”

I saluted. “Yes, sir, Mr. Dexter.”

“My friends call me Jimmy.” Not Jim but Jimmy, which he probably thought lent him boyish charm but actually made him sound like he needed to live under adult supervision.

“Are we friends now?”

“Any friend of Dex’s,” he said. “You know the rest.”


IT WAS JUST TALK. THERE’S nothing wrong with that.

Sometimes I cut school without you. Your dad was home a lot during the day. More than he should have been, you and your mom would probably say. Even the first time, he didn’t ask what I was doing there. Neither of us bothered to pretend I was looking for you.

“Hot chocolate?” he said.

“How about a smoke?” I tossed him a pack of Winston Lights.

We took them into the backyard. I liked puffing the smoke into the cold, watching it fog the air. It was like breathing, only better.

I’d spotted the stains on his fingers, the way he kept tapping his spoon against his mouth. The tiny hole at his knee where the denim had burned away. Secret smokers recognize each other. There’s a whiff of unfulfilled need about us, of unspoken desire. You want my opinion, I don’t even think he likes smoking. I think he just does it because he’s not allowed to.

“God,” he sighed, blowing it out. “God, that’s good.”

The first draw is always the best.