forget her, tried to focus only on the sweet juice in his mouth, but it was impossible. He swallowed, and exactly what he had feared would happen did. The track all the way down to his stomach, and he felt the weight of his stomach, the caustic need, all of his awareness pulled downward, the top of his head no longer open. A stone sinking down, hitting bottom, stuck there now.
Thanks, he said. Thanks for fucking that up.
And what was that exactly? his aunt asked.
Nothing, he said.
Exactly, she said.
Galen opened his eyes, chugged the rest of the glass, then set it down on the table.
Welcome back, his aunt said. We are the humans.
You are empty shells, he said. Husks and nothing more. He got up and walked into the house, had to use a hand on the banister rail to get up the stairs.
He sat on the edge of his bed and bent over carefully to remove the sweater, drenched in sweat. Ow, he said. That really hurts. He could hardly breathe. He took off the boots, dropped his underwear, and stepped carefully into the shower. Took a cold one, for his legs, and even the cold water hurt. He dabbed himself carefully with a towel, then put aloe on his legs and face and neck. In the mirror, he looked unnaturally bright. The dark skin of his face had become bright pink beneath, a kind of secondary glow.
Galen, his mother yelled. Weâre waiting.
Iâm coming, he yelled back. He put on clean underwear, a T-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes, walked carefully down the stairs.
Damn it, his mother said. Put on some pants. She was standing in the foyer with a hand on the doorknob. His aunt and cousin lounging in the sitting room.
My legs are burned.
Well of course theyâre burned. Put on some pants.
Fine, he said. He went back upstairs and found some old swim shorts that were too small and wouldnât cover more than a few inches of his thighs.
Cute, Jennifer said. I like that look. It would be even better if you pulled the white socks higher, up to your knees.
Shut up, Jennifer, his mother said.
Iâm warning you, his aunt said.
Then his mother was out the door, and they all followed. He got in the backseat, and Jennifer slid in beside him, his aunt up front. He had a boner by the time they pulled out of the lane. Suburbia all around them, housing developments. Theirs was the only undeveloped farmland for miles. Ten acres of walnuts, a few acres for the house and lawn, a couple acres for the driveway. Everyone else bunched up in quarter-acre lots or smaller.
Newly paved streets, winding, with thin saplings planted all along. But soon enough they were in the old section, houses from the fifties. And the old shopping center.
They have wonderful pumpkin pies at Bel-Air, he said.
Stop, his mother said.
They really do make wonderful pies.
How about you give it a rest, Galen, his aunt said.
Itâs been so long since Iâve tasted pumpkin pie.
Only the sounds of the car after that. A throaty engine, a big 350 or something, his mother had told him once. She was trying to get him excited, perhaps thinking he would start changing the oil and such, saving her some money. But he didnât give a shit about cars. He didnât care about anything that other people cared about. He was not here to be a slave to houses and cars and jobs and marriage and kids and TV and all that crap.
He put his hand on his boner, squeezed it a bit, tight in the shorts. Jennifer staring out her side window. And then they were piling out of the car and he was trying to hide the boner by tucking it into his waistband and holding out the front of his T-shirt. Looked obvious, probably, and he couldnât think of a way to make his hands look natural, but he couldnât think of anything else to do, and his aunt and mother werenât looking at him anyway.
Suzie-Q, his grandmother said when they shuffled in. She just didnât look that old. It didnât make any sense that she was here. They were all waiting for her to die, but it
Thanks, he said. Thanks for fucking that up.
And what was that exactly? his aunt asked.
Nothing, he said.
Exactly, she said.
Galen opened his eyes, chugged the rest of the glass, then set it down on the table.
Welcome back, his aunt said. We are the humans.
You are empty shells, he said. Husks and nothing more. He got up and walked into the house, had to use a hand on the banister rail to get up the stairs.
He sat on the edge of his bed and bent over carefully to remove the sweater, drenched in sweat. Ow, he said. That really hurts. He could hardly breathe. He took off the boots, dropped his underwear, and stepped carefully into the shower. Took a cold one, for his legs, and even the cold water hurt. He dabbed himself carefully with a towel, then put aloe on his legs and face and neck. In the mirror, he looked unnaturally bright. The dark skin of his face had become bright pink beneath, a kind of secondary glow.
Galen, his mother yelled. Weâre waiting.
Iâm coming, he yelled back. He put on clean underwear, a T-shirt, socks, and tennis shoes, walked carefully down the stairs.
Damn it, his mother said. Put on some pants. She was standing in the foyer with a hand on the doorknob. His aunt and cousin lounging in the sitting room.
My legs are burned.
Well of course theyâre burned. Put on some pants.
Fine, he said. He went back upstairs and found some old swim shorts that were too small and wouldnât cover more than a few inches of his thighs.
Cute, Jennifer said. I like that look. It would be even better if you pulled the white socks higher, up to your knees.
Shut up, Jennifer, his mother said.
Iâm warning you, his aunt said.
Then his mother was out the door, and they all followed. He got in the backseat, and Jennifer slid in beside him, his aunt up front. He had a boner by the time they pulled out of the lane. Suburbia all around them, housing developments. Theirs was the only undeveloped farmland for miles. Ten acres of walnuts, a few acres for the house and lawn, a couple acres for the driveway. Everyone else bunched up in quarter-acre lots or smaller.
Newly paved streets, winding, with thin saplings planted all along. But soon enough they were in the old section, houses from the fifties. And the old shopping center.
They have wonderful pumpkin pies at Bel-Air, he said.
Stop, his mother said.
They really do make wonderful pies.
How about you give it a rest, Galen, his aunt said.
Itâs been so long since Iâve tasted pumpkin pie.
Only the sounds of the car after that. A throaty engine, a big 350 or something, his mother had told him once. She was trying to get him excited, perhaps thinking he would start changing the oil and such, saving her some money. But he didnât give a shit about cars. He didnât care about anything that other people cared about. He was not here to be a slave to houses and cars and jobs and marriage and kids and TV and all that crap.
He put his hand on his boner, squeezed it a bit, tight in the shorts. Jennifer staring out her side window. And then they were piling out of the car and he was trying to hide the boner by tucking it into his waistband and holding out the front of his T-shirt. Looked obvious, probably, and he couldnât think of a way to make his hands look natural, but he couldnât think of anything else to do, and his aunt and mother werenât looking at him anyway.
Suzie-Q, his grandmother said when they shuffled in. She just didnât look that old. It didnât make any sense that she was here. They were all waiting for her to die, but it
Similar Books
The Virgin's Secret
Abby Green
Sleeping Arrangements (Silhouette Desire)
Amy Jo Cousins
Darkmoor
Victoria Barry
The Year Without Summer
William K. Klingaman, Nicholas P. Klingaman
You Cannot Be Serious
John McEnroe;James Kaplan
Dead Americans
Ben Peek
Running Home
T.A. Hardenbrook
Wolves
D. J. Molles
Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh
Simon Brett