Forbidden Fruit Read Online Free PDF Page B

the sandwiches, shot the breeze with the counter girl while he waited, and ten minutes later was back on the street, the po’boys and a couple bottles of Barq’s in a brown take-out sack.
    He and his mother lived on Ursuline, in a small, second-floor apartment. The place was clean, cheap and unair-conditioned. They endured the summer months with two small window-units, one for each bedroom. Sometimes it was so hot in the kitchen and living room, they ate on their beds.
    Santos reached their building, jogged up the one flight of stairs, then let himself into their apartment. “Mom,” he called. “I’m home.”
    His mother stepped out of her bedroom, a brush in her hand, her features masked by the thick layer of makeup she wore to work. She had told him once that she liked wearing the makeup when she danced, because it made her feel as if it was somebody else up on the stage, as if it wasn’t really her the men were staring at. She had told him, too, that those guys, the ones that came to the club, liked her to look cheap. Like a whore, or something. It was part of their thrill. Santos thought it was really fucked-up. He wished his mother didn’t have to put up with it.
    She shut the bedroom door behind her, careful not to let the cool air escape. “Hi, darlin’. How was your day?”
    â€œOkay.” He fastened the safety chain. “I have the sandwiches.”
    â€œGreat. I’m starving.” She motioned toward her bedroom. “Let’s eat in here. It’s hot as hellfire today.”
    He followed her and they sat down on the floor, then dug into the sandwiches. While they ate, Victor studied his mother. Lucia Santos was a beautiful woman. Half American Indian—Cherokee, she thought—and half Mexican, she had dark hair and eyes, and an exotic-looking, high-cheekboned face. He had seen men look at her, when they’d been out together, just the two of them, her in her blue jeans, her hair pulled back into a girlish ponytail, her face free of the makeup that exaggerated and hardened her features.
    He took after her; everybody said so. And every time he looked in a mirror, he said a silent thank-you for it. He didn’t think he could have faced getting up every day, looking in the mirror and being reminded of Willy Smith.
    â€œMrs. Rosewood called today.”
    One of those know-it-all do-gooder counselors. “Great,” Santos uttered. “Just what we need.”
    She put down her po’boy and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “You start school next week. You need some things.”
    His gut tightened. He knew what that meant. Tonight, tomorrow night or the next, she would come home with a “friend.” Suddenly, there would be plenty of money for clothes and doctor’s visits and book bags. He hated it. “I don’t need anything.”
    â€œNo?” She took another bite of her po’boy, chewed slowly, then washed it down with a long swallow of the root beer. “What about the two inches you’ve grown over the summer? Don’t you think your pants are going to be a little short?”
    â€œDon’t worry about it.” He crushed the paper his po’boy had come wrapped in and shoved it into the empty take-out bag. “I’ve got some money saved from my job, I’ll get new clothes myself.”
    â€œYou also need to visit the dentist. And Mrs. Rosewood said your records show that you’re due for—”
    â€œWhat does she know?” he interrupted, angry suddenly. He jumped to his feet and glared at his mother. “Why can’t she just leave us alone? She’s just an old busybody.”
    Lucia frowned and followed him to his feet. She met his gaze evenly. “What’s the problem, Victor?”
    â€œSchool’s a waste of time. I don’t see why I can’t just quit.”
    â€œBecause you can’t. And you won’t, not while I’m